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THE WORKS 



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WILLIAM COWPER 



HIS LIFE, LETTERS, AND POEMS 



NOW FIRST COMPLETED BY THE INTRODUCTION OF 



COWPER'S PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 



EDITED BY THE 



KEV. T. S. GRIMSHAWE, A.M., F.S.A., M.R.S.L,, 

VICAR OF BIDDENHAM, BEDFORDSHIRE ; 
HD AUTHOR OF "THE IIFE OF THE REV. LKGH RICHMOND.' 



ELEttANTLY ILLUSTRATED 



BOSTON: 

CROSBY AND NICHOLS. 

1864. 



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PREFATORY REMARKS. 



The very extensive sale of the former editions of the Works of Cowper, in 
eight volumes, now comprising an issue of no less than seventy thousand volumes, 
has led the publishers to contemplate the present edition in one volume 8vo. This 
form is intended to meet the demands of a numerous class of readers, daily be- 
coming more literary in taste, and more influential in their character on the great 
mass of our population. At a period like the present, when the great framework 
of society is agitated by convulsions pervading nearly the whole of continental 
Europe, and when so many elements of evil are in active* operation, it becomes a 
duty of the highest importance to imbue the public niind with whatever is calcu- 
lated to uphold national peace and order, and to maintain among us a due reverence 
for laws, both human and divide. The faculty also and taste for reading now ex- 
ists to so great an extent, that it assumes a question of no small moment how this 
faculty is to be directed ; whether it shall be the giant's power to wound and to 
destroy, or like the Archangel's presence to heal and to save ? Many readers re- 
quire to be amused, but it is no less necessary that they should be instructed. To 
seek amusement and nothing further, denotes a head without wit, and a heart and 
a conscience without feeling. An author, if he be a Christian and a patriot, will 
never forget to edify as well as to amuse. There are few writers who possess and 
employ this happy art with more skill than Cowper. His aim is evidently to in- 
terest his reader, but he never forgets the appeal to his heart and conscience. It 
is strange if amidst the flowers of his poetic fancy, and the sallies of his epistolary 
humor, the Rose of Sharon does not insinuate its form, and breathe forth its sweet 
fragrance. No one knows better than Cowper how to interweave the sportiveness 
of his wit with the gravity of his moral, and yet always to be gay without levity, 
and grave without dulness. He is also thoroughly English, in the structure cf his 
mind, in the honest expression of his feelings, in his hatred of oppression, his ardor 
for true liberty, his love for his country, and for whatever concerns the weal and 
woe of man. Nor does he ever fail to exhibit National Religion as the only sure 
foundation for national happiness and virtue. The works of such a writer can never 



PREFATORY REMARKS 



perish. Cowper. has earned for himself a name which will always rank him among 
the household poets of England ; while his prose has been admitted by the highest 
authority to be as immortal as his verse.* 

In presenting therefore to the class of readers above specified, as well as to the 
Dublic generally, this edition of the Works of Cowper, in -a form accessible to all, 
he Publishers trust that the undertaking will be deemed to be both seasonable 
and useful. In this confidence they offer it with the fullest anticipations of its 
success. It remains only to state that it is a reprint of the former editions without 
any mutilation or curtailment. 



It is gratifying to add that the Portrait, drawn from life by Romney in 1792. 
and now engraved by W. Greatbach in the first style of art, is esteemed by the 
few persons living who have a vivid recollection of the person and appearance of 
the Poet, as the most correct and happy likeness ever given to the public. The 
Illustrations, too, presented with this edition, are procured without regard to cost, 
so as to render the entire work, it is hoped, the most complete ever published. 

December 3, 1848. 

* Such is the recorded testimony of ChsrHw J^a^ee Fox, and the late Robert Hall. The 
latter observes as follows : — " The letters of Mr. Cowper are the finest specimens of the episto- 
lary style in our language. To an air of inimitable ease they unite a high degree of correct- 
ness, such as could rcsa't only from the clearest intellect, combined with the most finished taste. 
There is scarcely a Single word capable of being exchanged for a better, and of Lteraiy erne*. 
there are none. I have perused them with ?reat admiration and delight." 



DEDICATION. 



DOWAGER LADY THROCKMORTON. 

Yotjr Ladyship's peculiar intimacy with 
the poet Cowper, and your former residence 
at Weston, where every object is embellished 
oy his muse, and clothed with a species of 
poetical verdure, give you a just title to 
have your name associated with his endeared 
memory. 

But, independently of these considerations, 
you are recorded both in his poetry and 
prose, and have thus acquired a kind of 
double immortality. These reasons are suf- 
ficiently valid to authorize the present dedi- 



cation. But there are additional motives,-* 
the recollection of the happy hours, formerlj 
spent at Weston, in your society and in that 
of Sir George Throckmorton, enhanced b$ 
the presence of bur common lamented friend, 
Dr. Johnson. A dispensation which sparea 
neither rank, accomplishments, nor virtues/ 
has unhappily terminated this enjoyment, but 
it has not extinguished those sentiments of 
esteem and regard, with which 
I have the honor to be, 

My dear Lady Throckmorton, 
Your very sincere and obliged friend, 
T. S. GRIMSHAWE 

Biddenham, Feb. 28, 1835. 



PREFACE 



in presenting to the public this new and 
complete edition of the Life, Correspondence, 
and Poems of Cowper, it may be proper for 
me to state the grounds on which it claims 
to be the only complete edition that has been, 
or can be published. 

After the decease of this justly admired 
author, Hayley received from my lamented 
brother-in-law, Dr. Johnson, (so endeared by 
his exemplary attention to his afflicted rela- 
tive,) every facility for his intended biography. 
Aided also by valuable contributions from 
other quarters, he was thus furnished with 
rich materials for the execution of his inter- 
esting work. The reception with which his 
Life of Cowper was honored, and the suc- 
cessive editions through which it passed, 
afforded unequivocal testimony to the indus- 
try and talents of the biographer and to the 
epistolary merits of the Poet. Still there 
were many, intimately acquainted with the 
character and principles of Cowper, who con- 
sidered that, on the whole, a very erroneous 
impression was conveyed to the public. On 
this subject no one was perhaps more com- 
petent to form a just estimate than the late 
Dr. Johnson. A long and familiar inter- 
course with his endeared relative had af- 
forded him all the advantages of a daily and 
minute observation. His possession of docu- 
ments, and intimate knowledge of facts, en- 
abled him to discover the partial suppression 



of some letters, and the total omission of 
others, that, in his judgment, were essential 
to the development of Cowper's real char- 
acter. The cause of this procedure may be 
explained so as fully to exonerate Hayley 
from any charge injurious to his honor. His 
mind, however literary and elegant, was not 
precisely qualified to present a religious char- 
acter to the view of the British public, 
without committing some important errors. 
Hence, in occasional parts of his work, his 
reflections are misplaced, sometimes injurious, 
and often injudicious ; and in no portion of it 
is this defect more visible than where he at- 
tributes the malady of Cowper to the oper- 
ation of religious causes. 

It would be difficult to express the painful 
feeling produced by these facts on the minds 
of Dr. Johnson and of his friends. Hayley in- 
deed seems to be afraid of exhibiting Cowpei 
too much in a religious garb, lest he should 
either lessen his estimation, alarm the reader, 
or compromise himself. To these circum- 
stances may be attributed the defects that we 
have noticed, and which have rendered his 
otherwise excellent production an imperfect 
work. The consequence, as regards Cowper, 
has been unfortunate. "People," observes 
Dr. Johnson, "read the Letters with 'the 
Task' in their recollection, (and vice versa,) 
and are perplexed. They look for the Cowpei 
of each in the other, and find him not; the 



A 



PREFACE. 



correspondency is destroyed. The character 
of Cowper is thus undetermined; mystery 
hangs over it, and the opinions formed of 
him are as various as the minds of the in- 
quirers." It was to dissipate this illusion, 
that my lamented friend collected the " Pri- 
vate Correspondence," containing letters that 
had been previously suppressed, with the 
addition of others, then brought to light for 
the first time. Still there remains one more 
important object to be accomplished : viz., to 
present to the British public the whole Cor- 
respondence in its entire and unbroken form, 
and in its chronological order. Then, and not 
till then, will the real character of Cowper be 
fully understood and comprehended ; and the 
consistency of his Christian character be 
found to harmonize with the Christian spirit 
of his pure and exalted productions. 

Supplemental to such an undertaking is 
the task of revising Hayley's life of the Poet, 
purifying it from the errors that detract from 
its acknowledged value and adapting it to 
the demands and expectations of the religious 
public. That this desideratum has been long 
felt, to an extent far beyond what is com- 
monly supposed, the Editor has had ample 
means of knowing, from his own personal 
observation, and from repeated assurances 
of the same import from his lamented friend, 
the Rev. Legh Richmond* 

The time for carrying this object into effect 
is now arrived. The termination of the copy- 
right of Hayley's Life of Cowper, and access 
to the Private Correspondence collected by 
Dr. Johnson, enable the Editor to combine 
all these objects, and to present, for the first 
time, a Complete Edition of the Works of 
Coivper, which it is not in the power of any 
individual besides himself to accomplish, be- 
cause all others are debarred access to the 
Private Correspondence. Upwards of two 
hundred letters will be thus incorporated 
with the former work of Hayley, in their due 
and chronological order. 

The merits of " The Private Correspond- 
ence" are thus attested in a letter addressed 
to Dr. Johnson, by a no less distinguished 
udge than the late Rev. Robert Hall. — "It is 
quite unnecessary to say that I perused the 
letters with great admiration and delight. I 
have always considered the letters of Mr. 
Cowper as the finest specimen of the epis- 
tolary style in our language ; and these ap- 
pear to me of a superior description to the 
former, possessing as much beauty, with 
more piety and pathos. To an air of inimi- 
table ease and carelessness they unite a high 
degree of correctness, such as could result 
only from the clearest intellect, combimed 

* Of the letters contained in the " Private Corre- 
spondence" he emphatically remarked, " Cowper will 
never be clearly and satisfactorily understood without 
them." 



with the most finished taste. I have scarcely 
found a single word which is capable of be- 
ing exchanged for a better. Literary errors 
I can discern none. The selection of words, 
and the construction of periods, are inimita- 
ble ; they present as striking a contrast as 
can well be conceived to the turgid verbos- 
ity which passes at present for fine writing 
and which bears a great resemblance to the 
degeneracy which marks the style of Ammi- 
anus Marcellinus, as compared to that of 
Cicero or of Livy. In my humble opinion, 
the study of Cowper's prose may on this ac- 
count be as useful in forming the taste ot 
young people as his poetry. That the Let 
ters will afford great delight to all persons 
of true taste, and that you will confer a most 
acceptable present on the reading world by 
publishing them, will not admit of a doubt." 
All that now remains is for the Editor to 
say one word respecting himself. He has 
been called upon to engage in this undertak- 
ing both on public and private grounds. He 
is not insensible to the honor of such a com- 
mission, and yet feels that he is undertaking 
a delicate and responsible office. May he 
execute it in humble dependence on the 
Divine blessing, and in a spirit that accords 
with the venerated name of Cowper ! Had 
the life of his endeared friend, Dr. Johnson, 
been prolonged, no man would have been 
better qualified for such an office. His am- 
ple sources of information, his name, and his 
profound veneration for the memory of Cow- 
per, (whom he tenderly watched while living, 
and whose eyes he closed in death,) would 
have awakened an interest to which no other 
writer could presume to lay claim. It is un- 
der the failure of this expectation, w 7 hich is ex- 
tinguished by the grave, that the editor feels 
himself called upon to endeavor to supply the 
void ; and thus to fulfil what is due to the 
character of Cowper, and to the known wishes 
of his departed friend. Peace be to his ashes ! 
They now rest near those of his beloved 
Bard, while their happy spirits are reunited in 
a world where no cloud "obscures the mind, 
and no sorrow depresses the heart : and 
where the mysterious dispensations of Prov- 
idence will be found to have been ir. accord- 
ance with his unerring wisdom and mercy. 



It is impossible for the Editor to specif) 
the various instances of revision in the nar- 
rative of Hayley, because they are sometimes 
minute or verbal, at other times more en- 
larged. The object has been to retain the 
basis of his work, as far as possible. The 
introduction of new matter is principally 
where the interests of religion, or a regard 
to Cowper's character seemed to require it ; 
and for such remarks the Editor is solely 
responsible. 



CONTENTS. 



PART THE FIRST. 

Page 

the family, birth, and first residence of Cowper 23 

His verses on the portrait of his mother 23 

Epitaph on his mother by her niece 24 

The schools that Cowper attended 24 

His sufferings during childhood 24 

His removal from Westminster to an attorney's office 25 

Verses on his early afflictions 26 

His settlement in the Inner Temple 26 

His acquaintance with eminent authors 26 

His translations in Duncombe's Horace 26 

His own account of his early life 26 

Stanzas on reading Sir Charles Grandison 26 

His verses on finding the heel of a shoe 27 

His nomination to the Office of Reading Clerk in the 

House of Lords 27 

His nomination to be Clerk of the Journals in the 

House of Lords 27 

To Lady Hesketh. Journals of the House of Lords. 
Reflection on the singular temper of his mind. 

Aug. 9, 1763 27 

His extreme dread of appearing in public #8 

His illness and removal to St. Albans 28 

Change in his ideas of religion 29 

His recovery 29 

His .' eitlement at Huntingdon to be near his brother 29 
The translation of Voltaire's Henriade by the two 

brothers 29 

The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with the Unwins 29 

His adoption into the family 30 

His earlv friendship with Lord Thurlow, and J. Hill, 

Esq 30 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Account of his situation at 

Huntingdon. June 24, 1765 31 

To Lady Hesketh. On his illness and subsequent 

recovery. July 1, 1765 31 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Huntingdon and its amuse- 
ments. July 3, 1765 32 

To Lady Hesketh. Salutary effects of affliction on 

the human mind. July 4, 1765 32 

To the same. Account of Himtingdon; distance 

from his Brother, &c. July 5, 1765 33 

To the same. Newton's Treatise on Prophecy ; Re- 
flections of Dr. Young on the Truth of Christianity. 

July 12, 1765 34 

To the same. On the Beauty and Sublimity of Scrip- 
tural Language. Aug. 1, 1765 34 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Expected excursion. Aug. 14, 

1765 35 

Tq Lady Hesketh. Pearsall's Meditations ; definition 

of faith. Aug. 17, 1765 36 

To the same. On a particular Providence ; experi- 
ence of mercy, &c. Sept. 4, 1765 36 

To the same. First introduction to the Unwin fam- 
ily ; their characters. Sept. 14, 1705 37 

To the same. On the thankfulness of the heart, its 

inequalities, &c. Oct. 10, 1765 38 

To the same. Miss Unwin, her character and piety. 

Oct. 18, 1765 7. 38 

To Major Cowper. Situation at Huntingdon; his 

perfect satisfaction, &c. Oct. 18, 1765 39 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On those who confine all mer- 
its to their own acquaintance. Oct. 25, 1765 39 

To the same. Agreement with the Rev. W. Unwin. 

Nov. 5, 1765 40 

To the same. Declining to read lectures at Lincoln's 

Inn. Nov. 8, 1765 40 

To Lady Hesketh. On so.itude ; on the desertion of 

his friends. March 6, 1766 41 

To Mrs. Cowper. Mrs. Unwin, and her son; his 

cousin Martin. March 11, 1766 41 

to the same. Letters the fruit of friendship ; his 
conversion. April 4, 1766 42 



To the same. The probability of knowing each other 
inHeaven. Aprill7,1766 43 

To the same. On the recollection of earthly affaire 
by departed spirits. April 18, 1766 43 

To the same. On the same subject ; on his own state 
of body and mind. Sept. 3, 1766 44 

To the same. His manner of living ; reasons for his 
not taking orders. Oct. 20, 1766 45 

To the same. Reflections on reading Marshall. Mar. 
11, 1767 46 

To the same. Introduction of Mr. Unwin's son ; his 
gardening ; on Marshall. March 14, 1767 46 

To the same. On the motive of his introducing Mr. 
Unwin's son to her. April 3, 1767 47 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. General election. June 16, 
1762 47 

To Mrs. Cowper. Mr. Unwin's death ; doubts con- 
cerning Cowper's future abode. July 13, 1767 47 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Reflections arising from Mr. 
Unwin's death. July 16, 1767 48 

The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Mr. New- 
ton 48 

Cowper's removal with Mrs. Unwin to Olney 49 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Invitation to Olney. Oct. 20, 
1767 , 49 

His devotion and charity in his new residence 49 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the occurrences during his 
visit at St. Albans. June 16, 1768 49 

To the same. On the difference of dispositions ; his 
love of retirement. Jan. 21, 1769 49 

To the same. On Mrs. Hill's late illness. Jan. 29, 1769 50 

To the same. Declining an invitation. Fondness 
for retirement. July 3.1, 1769 50 

His poem in memory of John Thornton, Esq 50 

His beneficence to a necessitous child 51 

To Mrs. Cowper. His new situation ; reasens for 
mixture of evil in the world. 1769 51 

To the same. The consolations of religion on the 
death of her husband. Aug. 31, 1769 51 

Cowper's journey to Cambridge on his brother's ill- 
ness 52 

To Mrs. Cowper. Daugerous illness of his brother. 
March 5, 1770 52 

The death and character of Cowper's brother 53 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Religious sentiments of his 
brother. May 8, 1770 53 

To Mrs. Cowper. The same subject. June 7, 1770. 53 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Expression of his gratitude for 
instances of friendship. Sept. 25, 1770 54 

To the same. Congratulations on his marriage. 
Aug. 27, 1771 55 

To the same. Declining offers of service. June 27, 
1772 55 

To the same. Acknowledging obligations. July 2, 1772 55 

To the same. Declining an invitation to London. 
Nov. 5, 1772 55 

The composition of the Olney Hymns by Mr. Newton 
and Cowper 56 

The interruption of the Olney Hymns by the illness 
of Cowper 5fl 

His long and severe depression 57 

His tame hares, one of his first amusements on his 
recovery 57 

The origin of his friendship with Mr. Bull 57 

His translations from Madame de la Mothe Guion.. . 57 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On Mr. Ashley Cooper's recov- 
ery from a nervous fever. Nov. 12, 1776 57 

To the same. On Gray's Works. April 20, 1777 .... 58 

To the same. On Gray's later epistles. West's Let- 
ters. May 25, 1777 58 

To the same. Selection of books. July 13, 1777 .. . 58 

To the same. Supposed diminution of Cowper's in- 
come. Jan. 1, 1778. 38 




To the same. Death of Sir Thomas Hesketh, Bart. 
April 11,1778 59 

To the same. RaynaPs works. May 7, 1778 59 

To the same. Congratulations on preferment. June 
18,1778 59 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Disapproving a proposed 
application to Chancellor Thurlow. June 18, 1778 59 

To the same. Johnson's Lives of the Poets. May 
26,1779 60 

To the same. Remarks on the Isle of Thanet. July, 
1779 60 

To the same. Advice on sea-bathing. July 17, 1779 60 

To the same. His hot-house ; tame pigeons ; visit 
toGayhurst. Sept. 21, 1779 60 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. With the fable of the Pine-ap- 
ple and the Bee. Oct. 2, 1779 61 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Johnson's Biography ; his 
treatment of Milton. Oct. 31, 1779 61 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. With a poem on the promo- 
tion of Edward Thurlow. Nov. 14, 1779 62 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Quick succession of human 
events ; modern patriotism. Dec. 2, 1779 62 

To the same. Burke's speech on reform ; Nightin- 
gale and Glow-worm. Feb. 27, 1780 62 

To Mrs. Newton. On Mr. Newton's removal from 
Olney. March 4, 1780 63 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Congratulations on his profes- 
sional success. March 16, 1780 : 64 

To the Rev. J. Newton. On the danger of innova- 
tion. March 18, 1780 - 64 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. On keeping the Sabbath. 
March 28, 1780 64 

To the same. Pluralities in the church. April 6, 1780 65 

To the Rev. J. Newton. Distinction between a trav- 
elled man, and a travelled gentleman. April 16, 
1780 66 

To the same. Serious reflections on rural scenery. 
May 3,1780 66 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. The Chancellor's illness. May 
6,1780 66 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. His passion for landscape, 
drawing ; modern politics. May 8, 1780 67 

To Mrs. Cowper. On her brother's death. May 10, 
1780 68 

To the Rev. J. Newton. Pedantry of commentators ; 
Dr. Bentley, &c. May 10, 1780 68 

To Mrs. Newton. Mishap of the gingerbread baker 
and his wife. The Doves. June 2, 1780 68 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Cowper's fondness of 
praise — Can a parson be obliged to take an ap- 
prentice ? — Latin translation of a passage in Para- 
dise Lost ; versification of a thought. June 8, 1780 69 

To the Rev. J. Newton. On the riots in 1780 ; dan- 
ger of associations. June 12, 1780 70 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Latin verses on ditto. June 
18,1780 70 

To the same. Robertson's History ; Biographia Bri- 
tannica. June 22, 1780 71 

To the Rev. J. Newton. Ingenuity of slander ; lace- 
makers' petition. June 23, 1780 72 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. To touch and retouch, the 
secret of good writing ; an epitaph. July 2, 1780. 72 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the riots in London. July 
3,1780 72 

To the same. Recommendation of lace-makers' pe- 
tition. July8,1780 73 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Translation of the Latin 
verses on the riots. July 11, 1780 74 

To the Rev. J. Newton. With an enigma. July 12, 
1780 74 

To Mrs. Cowper. On the insensible progress of age. 
July 29,1780 75 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Olney bridge. July 27, 1780 76 

To the Rev. J. Newton. A riddle. July 30, 1780. . . 76 

to the Rev. W. Unwin. Human nature not changed ; 
a modern, only an ancient in a different dress. 

August 6, 1780 76 

o Joseph Hill, Esq. On his recreations. Aug. 10, 
1780.. 77 

To the Rev. J. Newton. Escape of one of his hares. 
Aug. 21, 17ri0 77 

To Mrs. Cowper. Lady Cowper's death. Age a 
friend to the mind. Aug. 31, 1780 78 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Biographia ; verses, parson 
and clerk. Sept. 3, 1780 78 

To the same. On education. Sept. 7, 1780 79 

To the same. Public schools. Sept. 17, 1780 80 

To the same. On the same subject. Oct. 5, 1780. . . 80 

To Mrs. Newton. On Mr. Newton's arrival at Rams- 
gate. Oct. 5, 1780 81 



Pag* 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Verses on a goldfinch 
starved to death in his cage. Nov. 9, 1780 89 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On a point of law. Dec. 10, 
1780 82 

To the Rev. John Newton. On his commendations 
of Cowper's poems. Dec. 21, 1780 82 

To J. Hill, Esq. With the memorable law-case be- 
tween nose and eyes. Dec. 25, 1780 S3 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. With the same. Dec., 1780 83 

To the Rev. John Newton. Progress of Error. Mr. 
Newton's works. Jan. 21, 1781 ... 84 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. On visiting prisoners. 
Feb. 6,1781 8.5 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Hurricane in West Indies. 
Feb. 8,1781 85 

To the same. On metrical law-cases ; old age. Feb. 
15,1781 85 

To the Rev. John Newton. With Table Talk. On 
classical literature. Feb. 18, 1781 86 

To Mr. Hill. Acknowledging a present received. 
Feb. 19, 1781 86 

To the Rev. John Newton. Mr. Scott's curacies. 
Feb. 25, 1781 8? 

To the same. Care of myrtles. Sham fight at Olney. 
March 5,1781 87 

To the same. On the poems, " Expostulation," &c. 
March 18, 1781 88 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Consolations on the asper- 
ity of a critic. April 2, 1781 89 

To the Rev. John Newton. Requesting a preface to 
"Truth." Enigma on a cucumber. April 8, 1781 90 

To the same. Solution of the enigma. April 23, 1781 90 

Cowper's first appearance as an author 91 

The subjects of his first poems suggested by Mrs. 
Unwin 9 . 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Intended publication of his 
first volume. May 1, 1781 91 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the composition and pub- 
lication of his first volume. May 9, 1781 91 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Reasons for not showing 
his preface to Mr. Unwin. May 10, 1781 92 

To the same. Delay of his publication ; Vincent 
Bourne, and his poems. May 23, 1781 92 

To the Rev. John Newton. On the heat ; on disem- 
bodied spirits. May22, 1781 93 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Corrections of his proofs ; 
on his horsemanship. May 28, 1781 93 

To the same. Mrs. Unwin's criticisms ; a distinguish- 
ing Providence. June 5, 1781 93 

To the same. On the design of his poems; Mr. 
Unwin's bashfulness. June 24, 1781 95 

Origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Lady Austen 96 

Poetical epistle addressed to that lady by him 96 

Diffidence of the poet's genius 9-j 

To the Rev. John Newton. His late visit to Olney. 
Lady Austen's first visit. Correction in "Progress 
of Error." Intended Portrait of Cowper. July 7, 
1781 : 97 

To the same. Humorous letter in rhyme, on his 
poetry. July 12, 1781 98 

To the same. Progress of the poem, " Conversation." 
July 22,1781.... 99 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Though revenge and a 
spirit of litigation are contrary to the Gospel, still 
it is the duty of a Christian to vindicate his right. 
Anecdote of a French Abbe. A fete champetre. 
July 29, 1781 99 

To Mrs. Newton. Changes of fashion. Remarks on 
his poem, " Conversation." Aug., 1781 100 

To the Rev. John Newton. Conversion of the green- 
house into a summer parlor. Progress of his 
work. Aug. 16,1781 101 

To the same. State of Cowper's mind. Lady Aus- 
ten's intended settlement at Olney. Lines on co- 
coa-nuts and fish. Aug. 21, 1781 102- 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Congratulations on the birth 
of a son. Remarks on his poem, " Retirement." 
Lady Austen's proposed settlement at Olney. Her 
character. Aug. 25, 1781 102 

To the itev. John Newton. Progress of the print- 
ing of his pofim, " Retirement." Mr. Johnson's 
corrections. Aug. 25, 1781 103 

To the same. Heat of the weather. Remarks on 
the opinion of a clerical acquaintance concerning 
certain amusements and music. Sept. 9, 1781 104 

To Mrs. Newton. A poetical epistle on a barrel of 
oysters. Sept. 16, 1781 104 

To the Rev. John Newton. Dr. -Johnson's criticism 
on Watts and tJlackmore, Smoking. Sept. 18, 
1781 IU& 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Thoughts on the sea. Char- 
acter of Lady Austen. Sept. 26, 1781 105 

To the Rev. John Newton. Religious poetry. Oct. 
4,1781 106 

To the same. Brighton Amusements. His project- 
ed Authorship. Oct. 6, 1781 107 

To the Rev. John Newton. Disputes between the 
Rev. Mr. Scott and the Rev. Mr. R. Oct. 14, 1781 107 

To Mrs. Cow per. His first volume. Death of a 
friend. Oct. 19, 1781 108 

Reasons why the Rev. Mr. Newton wrote the Preface 
to Cowper's Poems 109 

To the Rev. John Newton. Remarks on the pro- 

' posed Preface to the Poems. Mr. Scott and Mr. R. 
Oct. 22, 1781 109 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Brighton dissipation. Ed- 
ucation of young Unwin. Nov. 5, 1781 110 

To the Rev. John Newton. Cowper'slndifference to 
Fame. Anecdote of the Rev. Mr. Bull. Nov. 7, 1781 110 

To the Rev. Win. Unwin. Apparition of Paul White- 
head, at West Wycombe. Nov. 24, 1781 Ill 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. In answer to his account of 
his landlady and her cottage. Nov. 26, 1781 112 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin. Origin and causes of so- 
cial feeling. Nov. 26, 1781 112 

To the Rev. John Newton. Unfavorable prospect 
of the American war. Nov. 27, 1781 113 

To the same. With lines on Mary and John. Same 
date 114 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Advantage of having a tenant 
who is irregular in his payments. Sale of cham- 
bers. State of affairs in America. Dec. 2, 1781. . . 114 

To the Rev. John Newton. With lines to Sir Joshua 
Reynolds. Political and patriotic poetry. Dec. 4, 
1781 115 

Circumstances under which Cowper commenced his 
career as an author 116 

Letter to the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 17, 1781. Re- 
marks on his poems on Friendship, Retirement, 
Heroism, and ^Etna ; Nineveh and Britain 116 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 19, 1781. Idea of 
a theocracy ; the American war 117 

To the Rev. John Newton ; shortest day, 1781. On 
a national miscarriage ; with lines on a flatting- 
mill 117 

To the same, last day of 1781. Concerning the print- 
ing of his Poems ; the American contest- 118 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 5, 1782. Dr. John- 
son's critique on Prior and Pope 119 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 13, 1782. The Amer- 
ican contest 120 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 17, 1782. Conduct 
of critics ; Dr. Johnson's remarks on Prior's Poems ; 
remarks on Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets ; po- 
etry suitable for the reading of a boy 120 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 31, 1782. Political reflec- 
tions 122 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 2, 1782. On his 
Poems then printing; Dr. Johnson's character as 
a critic ; severity of the winter 123 • 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Feb. 9, 1782. Bishop 
Lowth's juvenile verses; acquaintance with Lady 
Austen 124 

Attentions of Lady Austen to Cowper 124 

Letter from him to Lady Austen 124 

She becomes his next door neighbor 125 

To the Rev. William Unwin. On Lady Austen's 
opinion of him ; attempts at robbery ; observations 
on religious characters ; genuine benevolence 125 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 16, 1782. Charms of 
authorship 126 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 24, 1782. On the 

Eublication of his poems; his letter to the Lord 
hancellor 126 

To Lord Thurlow, Feb. 25, 1782, enclosed to Mr. 
Unwin 127 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb., 1782. On Mr. N.'s 
Preface to his Poems. Remarks on a Fast Sermon 127 

To the same, March 6, 1782. Political ■ remarks ; 
character of Oliver Cromwell 128 

Decision and boldness of Cromwell 128 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, March 7, 1782. Remon- 
strance again 6 ''. Sunday routs 128 

Remarks on the reason's for rejecting the Rev. Mr. 
Newton's Preface to Cowper's Poems 129 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 14, 1782. On the 
intended Preface to his Poems; critical tact of 
Johnson the bookseller 129 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 14, 1782. < )n the publi- 
cation of his Poems 130 



Pagf 
To the Rev. William Unwin, March 18, 1782. On 

his and Mrs. Unwin's opinion of his Poems 13* 

Improvements in prison discipline 13 1 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 24, 1782. Case of 

Mr. B. compared with Cowper's 131 

To the Rev. William Unwin, April 1, 1782. On his 

commendations of his Poems 131 

To the same, April 27, 1782. Military music ; Mr. 
Unwin's expected visit ; dignity of the Latin lan- 
guage ; 'use of parentheses 132 

To the same, May 27, 1782. Dr. Franklin's opinion 
of his poems ; remarkable instance of providential 
deliverance from dangers; effects of the weather; 

Rodney's victory in the West Indies 133 

To the same, June 12, 1782. Anxiety of Authors 

respecting the opinion of others on their works. . . 134 
Reception of the first volume of Cowper's Poems... 134 

Portrait of the true poet 134 

Picture of a person of fretful temper 135 



PART THE SECOND. 

To the Rev. Wm. Bull, June 22, 1782. Poetical epis- 
tle on Tobacco 135 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, July 16, 1782. Remarks 
on political affairs ; Lady Austen and her project 136 

To the same, August 3, 1782. On Dr. Johnson's ex- 
pected opinion of his Poems ; encounter with a 
viper ; Lady Austen ; Mr. Bull ; Madame Guion's 
Poems 137 

The Colubriad, a poem 138 

Lady Austen comes to reside at the parsonage at 
Olney 138 

Songs written for her by Cowper 138 

His song on the loss of the Royal George 139 

The same in Latin • 139 

Origin of his ballad of John Gilpin 140 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 6, 1782. Visit of Mr. 
Small 140 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Nov. 4, 1782. On the bal- 
lad of John Gilpin ; on Mr. Unwin's exertions in 
behalf of the prisoners at Chelmsford ; subscrip- 
tion for the widows of seamen lost in the Royal 
George 140 

To the Rev. William Bull, Nov. 5, 1782. On his ex- 
pected visit 141 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 11, 1782. On the state 
of his health; encouragement of planting; Mr. 
P , of Hastings 141 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov., 1782. Thanks for a pres- 
ent offish ; on Mr. Small's report of Mr. Hill and his 
improvements 14S 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 18, 1782. Ac- 
knowledgments to a beneficent friend to the poor 
of Olney ; on the appearance of John Gilpin in print 142 

To the Rev. William Unwin. No date. Character 
of Dr. Beattie and his poems; Cowper's transla- 
tion of Madame Guion's pcems 143 

To Mrs. Newton, Nov. 23, 1782. On his poems; se- 
verity of the winter ; contrast between a spendthrift 
and an Olney cottager ; method recommei.o 1 for 
settling disputes 143 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 7, 1782. Recollections . I 
the coffee-house ; Cowper's mode of spending his 
evenings ; political contradictions 144 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 19, 1783. His oc- 
cupations ; beneficence of Mr. Thornton to the poor 
of Olney 145 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 26, 1783. On the an- 
ticipations of peace; conduct of the belligerent 
powers 145 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Feb. 2, 1783. Ironical con- 
gratulations on the peace ; generosity of England 
to France 146 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. b, 17SJ Remarks 
on the peace 146 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Feb. 13, 1783. Remarks on 
his poems 14? 

To the same. Feb. 20, 1783. With Dr. Franklin's 
letter on his poems 147 

To the same. No date. On the coalition ministry 
Lord Chancellor Thurlow 148 

Neglect of Cowper by Lord Thurlow 148 

Lord Thurlow's generosity in the case of Dr. John- 
son, and Crabbe, the poet 148 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 24, 1783. On the 
peace. 148 

To the Rev. William Bull, March 7, 1783. On the 
peace ; Scotch Highlanders at N wport Pagnel.. . 148 



CONTENTS, 



To tho Rev. John Newton, March 7, 1783. Compar- 
ison of his and Mr. Newton's letters ; march of 
Highlanders belonging to a mutinous regiment. . . 149 

To the same, April 5, 1783. Illness of Mrs. C. ; new 
method of treating consumptive cases 150 

To the same, April 21, 1783. His occupations and 

studies : writings of Mr. ; probability of his 

conversion in his last moments 150 

To the Rev. John Newton, May 5, 1783. Vulgarity 
in a minister particularly offensive 151 

To the Rev. William Unwin, May 12, 1783. Re- 
marks on a sermon preached by Paley at the con- 
secration of Bishop L 151 

Severity of Cowper's strictures on Paley 152 

Important question of a church establishment 152 

Increase of true piety in the Church of England 152 

Language of Beza respecting the established church 152 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 26, 1783. On the death 
of his uncle's wife 153 

To the Rev. John Newton, May 31, 1783. On Mrs. 
C.'sdeath 153 

To the Rev. William Bull, June 3, 1783. With stan- . 
zas on peace 153 

To the Rev. William Unwin, June 8, 1783. Beau- 
ties of the greenhouse ; character of the Rev. Mr. 
Bull 153 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 13, 1783. On his 
Review of Ecclesiastical History; the day of judg- 
ment ; observations of natural phenomena 154 

Extraordinary natural phenomena in the summer of 
1783 155 

De la Lande's explanation of them 155 

Earthquakes in Calabria and Sicily 155 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 17, 1783. Ministers 
must not expect to scold men out of their sins — 156 

Tenderness an important qualification in a minister 156 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 19, 1783. On the 
Dutch translation of his " Cardiphonia" 156 

To the same, July 27, 1783. A country life barren of 
incident ; Cowper's attachment to his solitude ; 
praise of Mr. Newton's style as an historian 156 

Remarks on the influence of local associations 157 

Dr. Johnson's allusion to that subject 157 

To the Rev William Unwin, August 4, 1783. Pro- 
posed inquiry concerning the sale of his Poems ; 
remarks on English ballads ; anecdote of Cowper's 
goldfinches 158 

To the same, Sept. 7, 1783. Fault of Madame Guion's - 
writings, too great familiarity in addressing the 
Deity 159 

Vo the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 8, 1783. On Mr. 
Newtori's and his own recovery from illness ; anec- 
dote of a clerk in a public office ; ill health of Mr. 
Scott ; message to Mr. Bacon 159 

To the same, Sept. 15, 1783. Cowper's mental suf- 
ferings 160 

To the same, Sept. 23, 1783. On Mr. Newton's re- 
covery from a fever ; dining with an absent man ; 
his niche for meditation 160 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Sept. 29, 1783. Effect 
of the weather on health ; comparative happiness 
of the natural philosopher ; reflections on air-bal- 
loons 161 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 6, 1783. Religious 
animosities deplored; more dangerous to the in- 
terests of religion than the attacks of its adversa- 
ries ; Cowper's fondness for narratives of vuvages 162 

To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Oct. 10, 1783. Cowper declines 
the discussion of political subjects ; epitaph on sail- 
ors of the Roval George 163 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 13, 1783. Neglect of 
American loyalists ; extraordinary donation sent to 
Lisbon at the time of the great earthquake ; pros- 
pects of the Americans 163 

To the same, Oct. 20, 1783. Remarks on Bacon's 
monument of Lord Chatham 164 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Oct. 20, 1783. Anticipations 
of winter 164 

Cowper's winter evenings 165 

The subject of his poem, "The Sofa," suggested. . . 165 

Circumstances illustrative of the origin and progress 
of "The Task" 165 

Extracts from letters to Mr. Bull on that subject 165 

Particulars of the time in which "The Task" was 
composed 165 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 3, 1783. Fire at Ol- 
ney described 166 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 10, 1783. On the 
neglect of old acquaintance ; invitation to Olney ; 
exercise recommended ; fire at Olney 166 



Paf i 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 17, 1783. Humor- 
ous description of the punishment of a thief at 
Olney ; dream of an air-balloon 16*. 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 23, 1783. On his opinion 
of voyages and travels ; Cowper's reading 168 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 24, 1783. Com- 
plaint of the neglect of Lord Thurlow ; character 
of Josephus's History 168 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 30, 1783. Specula- 
tions on the employment of the antediluvians; 
the Theological Review 16£ 

To the same, Dec. 15, 1783. Speculations on the in- 
vention of balloons ; the East India Bill 170 , 

To the same, Dec. 27, 1783. Ambition of public men ; 
dismissal of ministers ; Cowper's sentiments con- 
cerning Mr. Bacon ; anecdote of Mr. Scott 179 

To the Rev. William Unwin, no date. Account of 
Mr. Throckmorton's invitation to see a balloon 
filled ; attentions of the Throckmorton family to 
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin 173 

Circumstances which obliged Cowper to relinquish 
his friendship with Lady Austen . . 174 

Hayley's account of this event 174 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 3, 1784. Dearth of 
subjects for writing upon at Olney; reflections on 
the monopoly of the East India Company 175 

To Mrs. Hiil, Jan. 5, 1784. Requesting her to send 
some books • 176 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 8, 1784. On his political 
letters ; low state of the public funds 17f 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 18, 1784. Cowper's 
religious despondency; remark on Mr. Newton's 
predecessor 176 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan., 1784. Proposed 
alteration in a Latin poem of Mr. Unwin's ; re- 
marks on the bequest of a cousin; commenda- 
tions on Mr. Unwin's conduct ; on newspaper 
praise 177 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 25, 1784. Cowper's 
sentiments on East India patronage and East India 
dominion 178 

State of our Indian possessions at that time 178 

Moral revolution effected there 171 

Latin lines by Dr. Jortin, on the shortness of human 
life 17 

Cowper's translation of them 17. 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb., 1784. On Mr. New- 
ton's •' Review of Ecclesiastical History ;" proposed 
title and motto ; Cowper declines contributing to a 
Review 179 

To the same, Feb. 10, 1784. Cowper's nervous state ; 
comparison of himself with the ancient poets; his 
hypothesis of a gradual declension in vigor from 
Adam downwards 179 

To the same, Feb., 1784. The thaw ; kindness of a 
benefactor to the poor of Olney ; Cowper's politics, 
and those of a reverend neighbor ; projected trans- 
lation of Caraccioli on self-acqUaintance 180 

To the Rev. William Bull, Feb. 22, 1784. Unknown 
benefactor to the poor of Qlney ; political profes- 
sion 180 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 29, 1784. On Mr. 
Unwin's acquaintance with Lord Petre ; unknown 
benefactor to the poor of Olney ; diffidence of a 
modest man on extraordinary occasions 181 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 8, 1784. The The- 
ological Miscellany ; abandonment of the intended 
translation of Caraccioli 182 

To the same, March 11, 1784. Remarks on Mr. New- 
ton's " Apology ;" East India patronage and do- 
minion 182 

To the same, March 15, 1784. Cowper's habitual 
despoudence ; verse his favorite occupation, and 
why ; Johnson's " laves of ihe Poets" 183 

To the same, March 19, 1784. Works of the Mar- 
quis Caraccioli ; evening occupations 184 

To the Rev. William Unwin, March 21, 1784. Cow- 
per's sentiments on Johnson's "Lives of the Po- 
ets ;" characters of the poets 184 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 29, 1784. Visit 
of a candidate and his train to Cowper ; angry 
preaching of Mr. S 185 

To the same, April, 1784. Remarks on divine wrath ; 
destruction in Calabria 186 

Effects of the earthquakes, and total loss of human 
lives 186 

To the Rev. William Unwin, April 5, 1784. Charac- 
ter of Beattie and Blair ; speculation on the origin 
of speech 181 

To the same, April 15, 1784. Further remarks on 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Clair's u Lectures ;" censure of a particular obser- 
vation in that book 187 

Vo the same, April S3, 1784. Lines to the memory 
of a halvbutt 188 

?0 the Rev. John Newton, April 26, 1784. Re- 
marks on Beattie and on Blair's " Lectures ;" 
economy of the county candidates, and its conse- 
quences 188 

I'o the Rev. William Unwin, May 3, 1784. Reflec- 
tions on face-painting ; innocent in French women, 
but immoral in English 189 

i'o the same, May b 1784. Cowper's reasons for not 
writing a sequel to John Gilpin, and not wishing 
that ballad to appear with his Poems; progress 
made in printing them 190 

Vo the Rev. John .Newton, May 10, 1784. Conver- 
sion of Dr. Johnson ; unsuccessful attempt with a 
balloon at Throckmorton's 191 

Circumstances attending Dr. Johnson's conversion. . 191 

To the Rev. John Xewton. May 22, 1784. On Dr. 
Joiinson's opinion of Cowper's u Poems ;" Mr. Bull 
and his refractory pupils 192 

To the same, June 5, 1784. On the opinion of Cow- 
per's u Poems" attributed to Dr. Johnson 192 

To the Rev. John Xewton, June 21, 1784. Commem- 
oration nf Handel : unpleasant summer ; character 
of Mr. and Mrs. Unwin 192 

To the Rev. William Unwin. July 3, 1784. Severity 
of the weather ; its effects on vegetation 193 

To the Rev. John Xewton, July 5, 1784. Reference 
to a passage in Homer ; could the wise men of an- 
tiquity have believed in the fables of the heathen 
mythology ? Cowper's neglect of politics ; his hos- 
tility to the tax on candles 193 

To the Rev. William Unwin, July 12, 1784. Remarks 
on a line in Vincent Bourne's Latin poems : draw- 
ing of Mr. Unwin's house ; Hume's " Essav on Sui- 
cide" ". 194 

To the same, July 13, 1784. Latin Dictionary ; an- 
imadversions on the tax on candles; musical ass.. 195 

To the Rev. John Xewton, July 14, 1784. Commem- 
oration of Handel 196 

Mr. Newton's sermon on that subject .' 196 

To the Rev. John Xewton. July 19, 1784. The world 
compared with Bedlam " 196 

To the same, July 28. 1784. On Mr. Xewton's in- 
tended visit to the Rev. Mr. Gilpin at Lymington ; 
his literary adversaries 197 

To the Rev.Wm. Unwin, Aug. 14, 1784. Reflections 
on travelling ; Cowper'a visits to Weston ; differ- 
ence of character in the inhabitants of the South 
Sea islands ; cork supplements ; franks 197 

Original mode of franking, and reasons for the adop- 
tion of the present method 198 

''o the Rev. John Xewton. August 16, 1784. Pleas- 
ures of Olney ; ascent of a balloon ; excellence of 
the Friendly islanders in dancing 198 

To the Rev. William Unwin. Sept. 11, 1784. Cow- 
per's progress in his new volume of poems ; opin- 
ions of a visitor on his first volume 199 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 11, 1784. Character of 
Dr. Cotton 199 

To the Rev. John Xewton. Sept. 18, 1784. Alteration 
of franks ; Cowper's greenhouse ; his enjoyment 
of natural sounds 200 

To the Rev. William Unwin. Oct. 2. 17>4. Punctua- 
tion of poetry ; visit to Mr. Throckmorton 200 

To the Rev. j'ohn Xewton. Oct. 9, 1784. Cowper 
maintains not only that his thoughts are uncon- 
nected, but that frequently he does not think at all; 
remarks on the character and death of Captain 
Cook 201 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Oct. 10, 1784. With 
the manuscript of the new volume of his Poems, 
and remarks on them 202 

To the same, Oct. 20, 1784. Instructions respecting 
a publisher, and corrections in his Poems 203 

To the Rev. John Xewton, Oct. 22, 1784. Remarks 
en Knox's Essays 204 

To the same, Oct. 30, 1784. Heroism of the Sand- 
wich islanders; Cowper informs Mr. Xewton of 
his intention to publish a new volume 204 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 1, 1784. Cow- 
per's reasons for not earlier acquainting Mr. New- 
ton with his intention of publishing again; he 
/esolves to include " John Gilpin" 205 

To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Nov.. 1784. On the death of 
Mr. Hill's mother ; Cowper's recollections of his 
own mother : departure of Lady Austen ; his new 
▼chime of Po«ras 206 



Pag« 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 27, 1784. Sketch 
of the contents and purpose of his new volume. . . 201 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Olney, 1784. On the 
transmission of his Poems ; effect of medicines on 
the composition of poetry 207 

To the same, Nov. 29, 1784. Substance of his last ' 
letter to Mr. Xewton 207 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 4, 1784. Aerial vovages. 208 

To the Rev. John Xewton, Dec*. 13, 1784. On the 
versification and titles of his new Poems ; propri- 
ety of using the word worm for serpent 20^ 

Passages in Milton and Shakespeare in which worm 
is so used 20| 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 18. 1784. Balloon 
travellers ; inscription to his new poem ; reasons 
for complimenting Bishop Bagot 208 

To the Rev. John N T ewton, Christmas-eve, 1784. 
Cowper declines giving a new title to his new vol- 
ume of Poems; remarks on a person lately de- 
• ceased 210 

General remarks on the particulars of Cowper's per- 
sonal history 219 

Remarks on the completion of the second volume of 
Cowper's Poems 211 

Gibbon's record of his feelings on the conclusion of 
bis History- 211 

Moral drawn from the evanescence of life 211 

To the Rev. John Xewton. Jan. 5, 1785. On the re- 
nouncement of the Christian character; epitaph 
on Dr. Johnson 21i 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Jan. 15, 1785. On delay 
in letter-writing ; sentiments of Rev. Mr. Xewton ; 
Coyvper's contributions to the Gentleman's Maga- 
zine ; Lunardi's narratiy e 212 

Explanations respecting Cowper's poem, entitled 
"The Poplar Field" 213 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 22, 1785. Breaking up of 
the frost : anticipations of proceedings in Parlia- 
ment 213 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 7, 1785. Pro- 
gress of Cowper's second volume of Poems; his 
pieces in the Gentleman's Magazine; sentiments 
of a neighboring nobleman and gentleman re- 
specting Coyvper 213 

To the Rev. John Xewton. Feb. 19, 1785. An inge- 
nious bookbinder ; poverty at Olney ; severity of 
the late winter ' 214 

To Joseph Hill. Esq., Feb. 27. 1785. Inquiry con- 
cerning his health, and account of bis own 215 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 19, 1785. Uses 
and description of an old card table ; want of ex- 
ercise dering the winter ; petition against conces- 
sions to Ireland 215 

To the Rev. William Unwin. March 20, 1785. Re- 
marks on a nobleman's eye ; progress of his new 
volume; political reflections: cefebritv of "John 
Gilpin''.. 216 

To the Rev. John Xewton, April 9, 1785. On the 
prediction of a destructive earthquake, by a Ger- 
man ecclesiastic ■ 211 

To the same, April 22, 1785. On the popularity of 
"John Gilpin" 217 

To the Rev. William Unwin, April 30, 1785. On the 
celebrity of "John Gilpin;" progress of Cowper's 
new volume ; Mr. Newton's sentiments in regard 
to him ; mention of some old acquaintances ; dis- 
covery of a bird's nest in a gate-post 21" 

To the Rev. John Xewton. May. 17>5. Sudden death 
of Mr. Ashburner ; remarks on the state of Cow- 
per's mind ; reference to his first acquaintance 
with Newton 218 

To the same, June 4, 1785. Character of the Rev. 
Mr. Greatheed ; completion of Cowper'a new vol- 
ume ; Bacon's monument to Lord Chatham 221 

To Joseph Hill, Esq.. June 25, 1785. Cowper's sum- 
mer-house ; dilatoriness of his bookseller 221 

To the Rev. John Xewton, June 25. 1785. Allusion 
to the mental depression under which Cowper la- 
bored ; Xathan's last moments ; complaint of 
Johnson's delay ; effects of drought ; tax on gloves 221 

To the s -ne, July 9, 1785. Mention of letters in 
praise oi his Poems : conduct of the Lord Chancel- 
lor and G. Colman ; reference to the commemora- 
tion of Handel ; cutting; down of the spinnev 222 

To the Rev. William Unwin. July 27, 1785. Violent 
thunder-storm; courage of a dog; on the love of 
Christ 223 

To the Rev. John Xewton. Aug. 6, 1785. Feelings on 
the subject of authorship ; reasons for introducing 
John Gilnin in his new volume 234 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 17, 1785. Reasons 
for not writing to Mr. Bacon; Dr. Johnson's Di- 
ary; illness of Mr. Perry 225 

Character of Dr. Johnson's Diary 226 

Extracts from it 227 

Arguments for the necessity of conversion 227 

Tohnson's neglect of the Sabbath 227 

Testimony of Sir'William Jones respecting the Holy 

Scriptures 228 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Aug. 27, 1785. Thanks 
for presents ; his second volume of Poems ; re- 
marks on Dr. Johnson's Journal ; claims of who 

and that 228 

To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 24, 1785. Recollec- 
tions of Southampton; recovery of Mr. Perry; pro- 
posed Sunday School 229 

Origin of Sunday Schools 230 

Their utility ......... 230 

Sentiments of the late Rev. Andrew F\dler on the 

Bible Society and on Sunday Schools 230 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Oct. 11, 1785. Cowper excuses " 
himself for not visiting Wargrave ; on his printed 

epistle to Mr. Hill 231 

Renewal of Cowper's intimacy with his cousin, Lady 

Hesketh • 231 

To Lady Hesketh, Oct. 12, 1785. Recollections re- 
vived by her letter ; account of his own situation ; 
allusion to his uncle's health ; necessity of mental 

employment for himself 231 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 16, 1785. On the 
death of Miss Cunningham ; expected removal of 
the Rev. Mr. Scott from Olney ; Mr. Jones, stew- 
ard of Lord Peterborough burned in effigy 232 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Oct. 22, 1785. Pro- 
gress of his translation of Homer ; course of read- 
ing recommended for Mr. Unwin's son 233 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 5, 1285. On his tar- 
diness in writing; remarks on Mr. N.'s narrative 
of his life ; strictures on Mr. Heron's critical opin- 
ions of Virgil and the Bible ; lines addressed by 

Cowper to Heron 234 

Remarks on Heron's " Letters on Literature" 235 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 7, 1785. On the interrup- 
tions experienced by men of business from the 

idle 235 

To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 9, 1785. Reference to his 
poems ; he signifies his acceptance of her offer of 
pecuniary aid ; his translation of Homer ; descrip- 
tion of his person 236 

To the same, without date. His feelings towards 

her ; allusion to his translation of Homer 237 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Nov. 9, 1785. On Bishop 

Bagot's charge 237 

To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 3, 1785. Causes 
which led him to undertake the translation of Ho- 
mer ; visit from Mr. Bagot ; renewal of his corre- 
spondence with Lady Hesketh ; complains of indi- 
gestion 238 

To the same, Dec. 10, 1785. On the favorable re- . 

?orts of his last volume of poems; censure of 
ope's Homer 239 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 24, 1785. On his 
translation of Homer 239 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 24, 1785. On his transla- 
tion of Homer 240 

To the Rev. William Unwin, 1 jc. 31, 1785. On his 
negotiation with Johnson respecting the Transla- 
tion of Homer ; want of bedding among the poor 
of Olney . v 240 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 10, 1786. His consciousness 
of defects in his poems ; on his Translation of 
Homer 241 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 14, 1786. On Mr. 
Unwin's introduction to Lady Hesketh ; specimen 
of Cowper's translation of Homer, sent to General 
Cowper ; James's powder ; what is a friend good 
for ? unreasonable censure 242 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 14, 1788. On his 
translation of Homer 242 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 15, 1786. Explana- 
tion of the delay in the publication of his propo- 
sals ; allusion to Bishop Bagot 242 

To the same, Jan. 23, 1786. Dr. Maty's intended re- 
view of " The Task ;" Dr. Cyril Jackson's opinion 
of Pope's Homer 243 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 31, 1786. Acknowledgment 
of presents from Anonymous ; state of his health ; 
progress of his translation of Homer; correspond- 
ence with General Cowper 243 

To the same, Feb. 9, 1786. Anticipations of a visit 



Page 

from her ; description of the vestibul ; of his resi- 
dence 244 

To the same, Feb. 11, 1786. He announces that he 
has sent off to her a portion of his translation of 
Homer; effect of,criticisms on his health ; promise 
of Thurlow to Cowper 245 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 18, 1786. On their 
correspondence ; his translation of Homer ; pro- 
posed mottoes 246 

To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 19, 1786. Preparations for 
her expected visit ; character of Homer ; criticism 
on Cowper's specimen 247 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 27, 1786. Condo- 
lence on the death of his wife , 148 

To Lady Hesketh, March 6, 1786. On elisions in his 
Homer ; progress of the work 248 

To the Rev: W. Unwin, March 13, 1786. Character 
of the critic to whom he had submitted his Homer 249 

To the Rev. John Newton, April 1, 1786. Expected 
visitors 249 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., April 5, 1786. Reasons for de- 
clining to make any apology for his translation of 
Homer 250 

Motives which induced Cowper to undertake a new 
version 250 

To Lady Hesketh, April 17, 1786. Description of 
the vicarage at Olney, where lodgings had been 
taken for her; Mrs. Unwin's sentiments towards 
her ; letter from Anonymous ; his early acquaint- 
ance with Lord Thurlow 250 

To Lady Hesketh, April 24, 1786. On her letters; 
' anticipations of her coming ; General Cowper 25] 

To the same, May 8, 1786. On Dr. Maty's censure 
of Cowper's translation of Homer ; Colman's opin- 
ion of it ; Cowper's stanzas on Lord Thurlow ; in- 
vitation to Olney ; specimen of Maty's animadver- 
sions ; recommendation of a house at Weston ; 
blunder of Mr. Throckmorton's bailiff; recovery 
of General Cowper 252 

To the same, May J 5, 1786. Anticipations of her ar- 
rival at Olney ; proposed arrangements for the oc- 
casion; presumed motive of Maty's censures; 
confession of ambition 254 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 20, 1786. His trans- 
lation of Homer ; reasons for not adopting Horace's 
maxim about publishing, to the letter 255 

Secret sorrows of Cowper 256 

To the Rev. John Newton, May 20, 1786. Cowper's 
unhappy state of mind ; his connexions 256 

Remarks oh Cowper's depression of spirit • 257 

Delusion of supposing himself excluded from the 
mercy of God 25' 

Religious consolation recommended in cases of dis- 
ordered intellect 258 

To Lady Hesketh, May 25, 1786. Delay of her com- 
ing ; visit to a house at Weston ; the Throckmor- 
tons; anecdote of a quotation from "The Task;" 
nervous affections - 25fi 

To the same, May 29, 178fi. Delay of her coming ; 
preparations for it ; allusion to his fits of dejec- 
tion 259 

To the same, June 4 and 5, 1786. Cowper rallies 
her on her fears of their expected meeting ; dinner 
at Mr. Throckmorton's 260 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 9, 1786. Relapse of the 
Lord Chancellor ; renewal of correspondence with 
Colman ; the Nonsense Club ; expectation of Lady 
Hesketh's arrival 261 

Arrival of Lady Hesketh at Omey 261 

Influence of that event on Cowper 261 

Extract from a letter from him to Mr. Bull 262 

Description of a thunder-storm, from a letter to the 
same 262 

Cowper's House at Olney 262 

His intimacy with Mr. Newton 262 

His pious and benevolent habits 262 

He removes from Olney to the Lodge at Weston 263 

His acquaintance with Samuel Rose, Esq., and the 
late Rev. Dr. Johnson 263 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 19, 1786. His intended 
removal from Olney 26$ 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 22, 1786. His em- 
ployments ; interruption given to them by Lady 
Hesketh's arrival ; Newton's Sermons 26J-1 

To the Bev. Wm. Unwin, July 3, 1766. Lady Hes- 
keth's arrival and character ; state of his old abode 
and descriptionof the new one at Weston; books 
recommended for Mr. Unwin's son 264 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, July 4, 1786. Particulars 
relative to the trar.slati in of Homer ••• rv,f 



CONTENTS 



xis 



Page 

To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 5, 1786. His intend- 
ed removal from Olney ; its unhealthy situation ; 
his unhappy state of mind ; comfort of Lady Hes- 
keth's presence 265 

Cowper's spirits not affected apparently by his men- 
tal maladv : .*» 266 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Aug. 24, 1786. Pro- 
gress of his Translation ; the Throckmortons 266 

To the same, without date. His lyric productions ; 
recollections of boyhood 267 

Extract of a letter to the Rev. Mr. Unwin 267 

Lines addressed to a young lady on her birth-day. . . 267 

Proposed plan of Mr. Unwin for checking sabbath- 
breaking and drunkenness 267 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, no date. Cowper's opin- 
ion of the inutility of Mr. Unwin's efforts 267 

Exhortation to perseverance in a good cause 268 

Hopes of present improvement 268 

To the Rev. William Unwin, no date. State of the 
national affairs 269 

To the same, no date. Character of Churchill's po- 
etry '• • 269 

To the same, no date. Cowper's discovery in the 
Register of poems long composed and forgotten 
bvhim 270 

To the Rev. Walter Bajrot, Aug. 31, 1786. Defence 
of elisions ; intended removal to Weston 270 

To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 30, 1786. Defence 
of his and Mrs. Unwin's conduct 271 

Explanatory remarks on the preceding letter 272 

Amiable spirit and temper of Newton 272 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Oct. 6, 1786. Loss of the MS. 
of part of his translation 273 

'Jowper's removal to Weston 273 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Nov. 17, 1786'. On his re- 
moval from Olney ; invitation to Weston 273 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 17, 1786. Excuse 
for delay in writing ; his new residence ; affection 
for his old abode 273 

To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 26, 1786. Comforts of his new 
residence ; the cliffs ; his rambles 274 

Unexpected death of the Rev. Mr. Unwin 2?5 

To Lady Hesketh, Dec. 4, 1786. On the death of Mr. 
Unwin 275 

To the same, Dec. 9, 1786. On a singidar circum- 
stance-relating to an intended pupil of Mr. Unwin's 275 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 9, 1786. Death of Mr. 
Unwin ; Cowper's new situation at Weston 276 

To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 16, 1786. Death of 
Mr. Unwin ; forlorn state of his old dwelling 276 

To Lady Hesketh, Dec. 21, 1786. Cowper's opinion 
of praise ; Mr. Throckmorton's chaplain 277 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 3, 1787. Reasons 
why a translator of Homer should not be calm ; 
praises of his works ; death of Mr. Unwin 277 

Cowper has a severe attack of nervous fever 278 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 8, 1787. State of his health ; 
proposal of General Cowper respecting his Ho- 
mer; letter from Mr. Smith M. P. for Nottingham; 
Cowper's song of u The Rose" reclaimed by him 278 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 13, 1787. inscription 
for Mr. Unwin's tomb ; government of Providence 
in his poetical labors 279 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 18, 1787. Suspension of his 
translation by fever; his sentiments respecting 
dreams ; visit of Mr. Rose 279 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., July 24, 1787. On Burns' 
poems 280 

Remarks on Bums and his poetry 280 

Passages from his poems 281 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 27, 1787. Invitation to 
Weston ; state of Cowper's health ; remarks on 
Barclay's " Argenis," and on Burns 281 

To Lady Hesketh, August 30, 1787. Improvement 
in his health ; kindness of the Throckmortons 282 

To the same, Sept. 4, 1787. Delay of her coming ; 
Mrs. TLi ockmorton's uncle ; books read by Cow- 
per 282 

To the same, Sept. 15, 1787. His meeting with her 
friend, Miss J ; new gravel-walk 283 

To the same, Sept. 29, 1787. Remarks on the rela- 
tive situation of Russia and Turkey 283 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 2, 1787. Cowper 
confesses that for thirteen years he doubted Mr. 
N.'s identity ; acknowledgments for the kind offers 
of the Newtons ; preparations for Lady Hesketh's 
coming 284 

to Samuel Rose, Esq., Oct. 19, 1787. State of his 
health ; strength of local attachments 284 

to the Fev John Newton, Oct. 20, 1787. His miser- 



Pag 

able state during his recent indisposition ; petition 
to Lord Dartmouth in behalf of the Rev. Mr. Pos- 
tlethwaite 285 

To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 10, 1787. On the delay of 
her coming ; Cowper's kitten ; changes of weather 
foretold by a leech 283 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 16, 1787. On his own 
present occupation 281 

To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 27, 1787. Walks and scenes 
about Weston ; application from a parish clerk for 
a copy of verses ; papers in " The Lounger ;" anec- 
dote of a beggar and vermicelli soup 28C 

To the same, Dec. 4, 1787. Character of the Throck- 
mortons 287 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Dec. 6, 1787. Visit to 
Mr. B.'s sister at Chichely ; Bishop Bagot; a case 
of ridiculous distress 28 ? 

To Lady Hesketh, Dec. 10, 1787. Progress of his 
Homer ; changes in life 288 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Dec. 13, 1787. Requisites in 
a translator of Homer 288 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 1, 1788. Extraordinary co'in- 
cfdence between a piece of his own and one of Mr. 
Merry's ; " The Poet's New Year's Gift ;" compul- 
sory inoculation for small-pox 289 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 5, 1788. Translation 
of the commencing lines of the Iliad by Lord Ba- 
got ; revisal of Cowper's translation ; the clerk's 
verses 290 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 19, 1788. His engagement 
with Homer prevents the production of occasional 
poems ; remarks on a new print of Bunbury's 290 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 21, 1788. Reasons 
for not writing to him; expected arrival of the 
Rev. Mr. Bean ; changes of neighboring ministers ; 
narrow escape of Mrs. Unwin from being burned. • 291 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 30, 1788. His anxiety on ac- 
count of her silence 292 

To the same, Feb. 1, 1788. Excuse for his melan- 
choly ; his Homer ; visit from Mr. Greatheed 292 

Causes of Cowper's correspondence with Mrs. King 293 

To Mrs. King, Feb. 12, 1788. Reference to his de- 
ceased brother ; he ascribes the effect produced by 
his poems to God 293 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 14, 1788. A sense of the 
value of time the best security for its improve- 
ment ; Mr. C ; brevity of human life illustrated 

by Homer 294 

Commencement of the efforts for the abolition of the 
slave trade 294 

To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 16, 1788. On negro slavery ; 
Hannah More's poem on the Slave Trade ; extract 
from it ; advocates of the abolition of slavery ; trial 
of Warren Hastings 294 

To the same, Feb. 22, 1788. Remarks on Burke's 
speech impeaching Warren Hastings, and on the 
duty of public accusers % . . . 296 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 1, 1788. Excuse 
for a lapse of memory in regard to a letter of Mr. 
Bean's 296 

To the same, March 3, 1788. Arrival of Mr. Bean at 
Olney ; Cowper's correspondence with Mrs. King 296 

To Mrs. King, March 3, 1788. Brief history of his 
own life 297 

To Lady Hesketh, March 3, 1788. Catastrophe of a 
fox-chase ; Cowper in at the death 298 

To the same, March 12, 1788. Remarks on Hannah 
More's works, and on Wilberforce's book; the 
Throckmortons.... 298 

Cowper is solicited to write in behalf of the negroes 299 

To General Cowper, 1787. Songs written by him on 
the condition of negro slaves 299 

" The Mornkig Dream," a ballad *. . . . 299 

Efforts for the abolition of the slave trade 300 

Wilberforce, the liberator of Africa 300 

Cowper's ballads on negro slavery 300 

The negro's Complaint 300 

The question why Great Britain should be the first 
to sacrifice interest to humanity answered by Cow- 
per 300 

Lines from Goldsmith's "Traveller," on the Eng- 
lish character 301 

Exposition of the cruelty and injustice of the slave 
trade, by Granville Sharp 301 

Proof of the slow progress of truth 301 

Extracts from Cowper's poems on negro slavery 302 

Case of Somerset, a slave, and Lord Mansfield's judg- 
ment 309 

Final abolition of slavery by Great Britain, and efforts 
making for the religious instruction of the negroes 309 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Probability that Africa may be enlightened by their 
means 303 

Cowper's lines on the blessings of spiritual liberty. . 303 

Letter to Mrs. Hill, March 17, 1788. Thanks for a 
present of a turkey and ham ; Mr. Hill's indisposi- 
tion ; inquiry concerning Cowper's library 303 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 17, 1788. With a 
Song, written, at Mr. N.'s request, for Lady Bal- 
gonie 304 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 29, 1788. Coldness 
of the spring ; remarks on " The Manners of the 
Great ;" progress of his Homer 304 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 29, 1788. He express- 
es his wonder that his company should be desira- 
ble to Mr. R. ; Mrs. Unwin's character ; acknowl- 
edges the receipt of some books ; Clarke's notes 
on Homer ; allusion to his own ballads on negro 
slavery ». • ■ ■ 305 

To Lady Hesketh, March 31, 1788. He makes men- 
tion of his song, "The Morning Dream; 1 ' allusion 
to Hannah More on the u Manners of the Great". . 305 

Character of and extracts from Mrs. More's work. . . 306 

To Mrs. King, April 11, 1788. Allusion to his melan- 
choly, and necessity for constant employment ; im- 
probability of their meeting 306 

To the Rev. John Newton, April 19, 1788. Remarks 
on the conduct of government in regard to the 
Slavery Abolition question 307 

To Lady Hesketh, May 6, 1788. Smollett's Don 
Quixotte ; he thanks her for the intended present 
of a box for letters and papers ; renewal of his cor- 
respondence with Mr. Rowley ; remarks on the ex- 
pression, " As great as two inkle-weavers" 307 

To Joseph Hill, Esq.. May 8, 1788. Lament for the 
loss of his library; progress of his Homer 308 

To Lady Hesketh, May 12, 1788. Mrs. Montagu and 
the Blue-Stocking Club ; his late feats in walking 308 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 24, 1788. Thanks for the ■ 
present of prints of the Lacemaker and Crazy 
Kate ; family of Mr. Chester ; progress of Homer ; 
antique bust of Paris 309 

To the Rev. William B ull, May 25, 1788. He declines 
the composition of hymns, which Mr. B. had urged 
him to undertake 309 

To Lady Hesketh, May 27, 1788. His lines on Mr. 
Henry Cowper ; remarks on Mrs. Montagu's Essay 
on the Genius of Shakespeare ; antique head of 
Paris ; remarks on the two prints sent him by Mr. 
Hill 310 

To the same, June 3, 1788. Sudden change of the 
weather ; remarks on the advertisement of a dan- 
cing-master of Newport-Pagnell 310 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 5, 1788. His writ- 
ing engagements ; effect of the sudden change of 
the weather on his health ; character of Mr. Bean ; 
visit from the Powleys; he declines writing fur- 
ther on the slave-trade ; invitation to Weston ; 
verses on Mrs. Montagu 311 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 8, 1788. On the death of 
his uncle, Ashley Cowper 312 

To Lady Hesketh, June 10, 1788. On the death of 
her father, Ashley Cowper ... 312 

To the same, June 15, 1788. Recollections of her 
father 312 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 17, 1788. Coldness 
of the season ; reasons for declining to write on 
slavery ; contrast between the awful scenes of na- 
ture and the horrors produced by human passions 313 

To Mrs. King, June 19, 1788. He excuses his silence 
on account of inflammation of the eyes ; sudden 
change of weather ; reasons why we are not so 
hardy as our forefathers ; his opinion of Thomson, 
the poet 313 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 23, 1788. Apology for 
an unanswered letter; providence of God in re- 
gard to the weather ; visitors at Weston ; brevity 
of human life 314 

J'o the Rev. John Newton, June 24, 1788. Difficul- 
ties experienced by Mr. Bean in enforcing a stricter 
observance of the Sabbath at Olney ; remarks on 
the slave-trade 315 

To Lady Hesketh, June 27, 1788. Anticipations of 
her next visit; allusion to Lord Thurlow's prom- 
ise to provide for him ; anecdote of his dog Beau ; 
remarks on his ballads on slavery 316 

rhe Dog and the Water Lily 317 

o Joseph Hill, Esq., July 6, 1788. He gives Mr. H. 
notice that he has drawn on him ; allusion to an 

engagement of Mr. H.'s 317 

o Lady Hesketh, July 28, 1788. Her Went at de- 



Page 

scription; the liine-walk at Weston; remarks on 
the "Account of Five Hundred Living Authors".. 317 

To the same, August 9, 1788. Visitors at Weston ; 
motto composed by Cowper for the king's clock . . 314 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., August 18, 1788. Circum- 
stances of their parting ; he recommends Mr. R. 
to take due care of himself in his pedestrian jour- 
neys ; strictures on Lavater's Aphorisms 318 

Remarks on physiognomy and on the merits of La- 
vater as the founder of the Orphan House at Zu- 
rich Note 319 

To Mrs. King, August 28, 1788. He playfully guesses 
at Mrs. King's figure and features — 3*fl 

To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 2, 1788. Reference 
to Mr. N.'s late visit ; his own melancholy state of 
mind ; Mr. Bean's exertions for suppressing public 
houses 3xJ 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 11, 1788. Remarkable 
oak; lines suggested by it; exhortation against 
bashfulness 320 

To Mrs. King, Sept. 25, 1788. Thanks for presents ; 
invitation to Weston-... 321 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 25, 1788. A riddle ; su- 
perior talents no security for propriety of conduct; 
progress of Homer ; Mrs. Throckmorton's bullfinch 321 

To Mrs. King, Oct. 11, 1788. Account of his occu- 
pations at different periods of his life 322 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 29, 1788. Declin- 
ing state of Jenny Raban ; Mr. Greatheed 223 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 30, 1788. Vincent 
Bourne ; invitation to Weston 323 

To Mrs. King, Dec. 6, 1788. Excuse for not being 
punctual in writing; succession of generations; 
Cumberland's " Observer" 324 

To the Rev. John Newton. Dec. 9, 1788. Mr. Van 
Lier's Latin MS. ; Lady Hesketh and the Throck- 
mortons ; popularity of Mr. C. as a preacher 324 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Jan. 19, 1789. Local helps 
to memory ; Sir John Hawkins' book 325 

To the same, Jan. 24, 1789. Accidents generally oc- 
cur when and where we least expect them 325 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 29, 1789. Excuse for 

* irregularity in correspondence ; progress of Ho- 
mer ; allusion to political affairs 325 

To Mrs. King, Jan. 29, 1789. Thanks for presents ; 
Mrs. Unwin's fall in the late frost ; distress of the 
Royal Family on the state of the King, and anec- 
dote of the Lord Chancellor 323 

To the same, March 12, 1789. Excuse for long si- 
lence, and for not having sent, according to prom- 
ise, all the small pieces he had written ; his poem 
on the King's recovery 32f 

To the same, April 22, 1789. He informs Mrs. K. that 
he has a packet of poems ready for her ; his verses 
on the Queen's visit to London on the night of the 
illuminations for the King's recovery ; disappoint- 
ment on account of her not coming to Weston; 
Twining's translation of Aristotle 327 

To the same, April 30, 1789. Thanks for presents ; 
his brother's poems 328 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., May 20, 1789. Reference to 
his lines on the Queen's visit; character of Haw- 
kins Brown 328 

To Mrs. King, May 30, 1789. He acknowledges the 
receipt of a packet of papers ; reference to his poem 
on the Queen's visit 329 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 5, 1789. He commis- 
sions Mr. R. to buy him a cuckoo-clock ; Boswell's 
Tour to the Hebrides; Hawkins' and Boswell's 
Life of Johnson 329 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 16, 1789. On his 
marriase; allusion to his poem on the Queen's 
visit 329 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 20, 1789. He expresses 
regret at not receiving a visit from Mr. R. ; ac- 
knowledges the arrival of the cuckoo-clock ; re- 
mark on Hawkins' and Boswell's Life of Johnson. 330 

To Mrs. Throckmorton, July 18, 1789. Poetic turn 
of Mr. George Throckmorton ; news concerning 

the Hall 330 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., July 23, 1789. Importance 
of improving the early years of life ; anticipr, ions 

of Mr. R.'s visit 330 

To Mrs. King. August 1, 1789. Grumbling uf his 
correspondents on his silence ; his time engrossed 
by Homer ; he professes himself an admirer of 

pictures, but no connoisseur 33J 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., August 8, 1789. Mrs. Piozzi's 

Travels; remark on the author of the "Dunciad" 331 
To Joseph Hill, Esq., August 12, 178">. Unfavorable * 



CONTENTS 



Page 
woather and spoiled hay ; multiplicity of his en- 
gagements ; Sunday school hymn 332 

To the Rev. John Newton, August 16, 1789. Excuse 
for long silence ; progress of Homer 332 

Remarks on Cowper's observation that authors are 
responsible for their writings 333 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 24, 1789. Coldness of 
the season 333 

To the same, Oct. 4, 1789.. Description of the re- 
ceipt of a hamper, in the manner of Homer 333 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot (without date). Excuse 
for long silence ; why winter is like a backbiter ; 
Villoison's Homer ; death of Lord Cowper 334 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot (without date). Remarks 
on Villoison's Prolegomena to Homer 334 

Note on the reveries of learned men 335 

To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 1, 1789. Apology 
for not writing; Mrs. Unwin's state of health; 
reference to political events 335 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 18, 1789. Political reflec- 
tions 335 

Character of the French Revolution 336 

Burke on the features which distinguish the French 
Revolution from that of England in 1688 336 

Political and moral causes of the French Revolution 336 

Origin of the Revolution in America 337 

The Established Church endangered by resistance to 
the spirit of the age 337 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Jan. 3, 1790. Excuses for si- 
lence ; inquiry concerning Mr. R.'s health ; labori- 
ous task of revisal 338 

To Mrs. King, Jan 4, 1790. His anxiety on account 
of her long silence ; his occupations ; Mrs. Unwin's 
state 338 

To the same, Jan. 18, 1790. He contradicts a report 
that he intends to quit Weston ; reference to his 
Homer 339 

Commencement of Cowper's acquaintance with his 
cousin the Rev. John Johnson 339 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 22, 1790. Particulars concern- 
ing a poem of his cousin Johnson's ; anticipations 
of the Cambridge critics respecting his Homer 339 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 2, 1790. He impugns 
the opinion of Bentley that the last Odyssey is 
spurious 340 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 5, 1790. Account of 
his painful apprehensions in the month of January 340 

To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 9, 1790. Service rendered 
by her to his cousin Johnson : Cowper's lines on a 
transcript of an Ode of Horace by Mrs. Throck- 
morton 341 

To the same, Feb. 26, 1790. He promises to send her 
a specimen of his Homer for the perusal of a lady ; 
his delight at being presented by a relative with 
his mother's picture 342 

To Mrs. Bodham, Feb. 27, 1790. He expresses his 
delight at receiving his mother's picture from her ; 
lines written by him -on the occasion ; recollec- 
tions of his mother ; invitation to Weston ; re- 
membrances of other maternal relatives 342 

To John Johnson, Esq., Feb. 28, 1790. He refers to 
the present of his mother's picture ; he mentions 
his invitation of the family of the Donnes to Wes- 
ton ; inquiries concerning Mr. J.'s poem 343 

To Lady Hesketh, March 8, 1790. On Mis. 's 

opinion of his Homer; his sentiments on the Test 
Act; passage from his poems on that subject; ill 
health of Mrs. Unwin 344 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 11, 1790. On the state 
of his health ; he condemns the practice of dissem- 
bling indispositions 345 

To Mrs. King, March 12, 1790. On her favorable 
opinion of his poems ; his mother's picture and his 
poem on the receipt of it 345 

To Mre. Throckmorton, March 21, 1790. He regrets 
her absence from Weston ; Mrs. Carter's opinion 
of his Homer ; his new wig 345 

To Lady Hesketh, March 22, 1790. flis opinion of 
the style best adapted to a translation of Homer. . 346 

To John Johnson, Esq., March 23, 1790. Character 
of tne Odyssey ; Cowper professes his affection for 
Mr J 347 

lo the same, April 17, 1790. Remark on an innocent 
deception practised by Mr. J. ; Cowper boasts of 
his skill in physiognomy, and recommends the 
study of Greek 347 

To Lady Hesketh, April 19 1790. '" His revisal of 
Homer ; anecdote of a prisoner in the Bastile, and 

lines on the subject 348 

To the same April 30, 1790. Message to Bishop 



Page 
Madan ; remarks on General Cowper's approbation 
of his picture verses 348 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 2, 1790. On the approach- 
ing termination of his employment with Homer.. . 348 

To Mrs. Throckmorton, May 10, 1790. Humorous 
account of a boy sent with letters to her in Berk- 
shire ; Cowper's adventure with a dog 348 

To Lady Hesketh, May 28, 1790. He declines the 
offer of her services to procure him the place of 
poet laureat 340 

To the same, June 3, 1790. He is applied to by a 
Welshman to get him made poet laureat 349 

To John Johnson, Esq., June 7, 1790. Advice to 
Mr. J. on his future plans and studies ; with re- 
marks on Cowper's strictures on the University of 
Cambridge 349 

Remarks on Cowper's exhortation respecting the di- 
vinity of the glorious Reformation 35L 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 8, 1790. Congratulations 
on his intended marriage ; proposed riddle 350 

To Mrs. King, June 14, 1790. His literary occupa- 
tions ; state of Professor Martyn's health ; ill health 
of Mrs. Unwin 351 

To Lady Hesketh, June 17, 1790. Grievance of 
going a-visiting ; his envy of a poor old woman ; 
inscriptions for two oak plantations 351 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 22, 1790. Snakes 
and ants of Africa ; Bishop Bagot and his mutinous 
clergy 352 

To Mrs. Bodham, June 29, 1790. Anticipations of a 
visit from her 352 

To Lady Hesketh, July 7, 1790. State of Mrs. Unwin ; 
remarks on the abolition of ranks by the French.. 353 

To John Johnson, Esq., July 8, 1790. Recommen- 
dation of music as an amusement ; expected visit 
from Mr. J. and his sister 354 

To Mrs. King, July 16, 1790. On their recent visit to 
Weston; reference to his own singularities; re- 
grets for the distance between them 354 

To John Johnson, Esq., July 31, 1790. Warning 
against carelessness and shyness; proposed em- 
ployments and amusements 354 

To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 11, 1790. On the 
state of Mrs. Newton's health ; he refers to his own 
state, and declines the offer of trying the effect of 
animal magnetism 355 

To Mrs. Bodham, Sept. 9, 1790. He informs her of 
the termination of his labors with Homer, and the 
conveyance of his translation to London by Mr. 
Johnson 356 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 13, 1790. On his mar- 
riage ; Cowper's preface to his Homer ; solution of 
the riddle in a former letter to Mr. R 356 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 17, 1790. On the list of 
subscribers to his Homer 357 

To Mrs. King, Oct. 5, 1790. On her illness ; allusion 
to a counterpane which she had presented to him ; 
reference to the list of subscribers to his Homer, 
and the time of publication 357 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 15, 1790. On the 
death of Mrs. Scott ; translation of Van Lier's let- 
ters ; concern for Mrs. Newton's sufferings 357 

To the same, Oct. 26, 1790. His instructions to 
Johnson, the bookseller, to affix to the first volume 
of his poems the preface written for it by Mr. N. ; 
fall of the leaves a token of the shortness of human 
life 358 

On Christian submission to the divine will in regard 
to life and death 359 

To Mrs. Bodham, Nov. 21, 1790. Character of her 
nephew, Mr. Johnson ; Mrs. Hewitt 359 

To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 26, 1790. On the study 
of jurisprudence ; visit from the Dowager Lady 
Spencer 359 

To Mrs. King, Nov. 29, 1790. On the praises of 
friends ; his obligations to Professor Martyn ; prog- 
ress in printing his Homer 360 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 30, 1790. On his pro- 
fessional exertions in behalf of a friend ; revisal of 
proofs of his Homer 360 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Dec. 1, 1790. He retorts 
the charge of long silence, and boasts of his inten- 
tion to write ; progress in printing his Homer; his 
reasons for not soliciting the laureatship 36f. 

To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 5, 1790. Dying state 
of Mrs. Newton 36 

Remarks on the doubts and fears of Christians 36i 

To John Johnson, Esq., Dec. 18, 1790. Cambridge 
subscription for Homer ; progress in printing the 
work 361 



CONTENTS 



Page 

To Mrs. King, Dec. 31, 1790. Thanks for the present 
of a counterpane ; his own indisposition ; his poet- 
ical operations • . 362 

Cow per s verses on the visit of Miss Stapleton to 
Weston 362 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 4, 1791. On his 
own state of health ; on the quantity of syllables 
in verse 363 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 20, 1791. On the 
death of Mrs. N 363 

To John Johnson, Esq., Jan. 21, 1791. He urges Mr. J. 
to come to Weston ; caution respecting certain sin- 
gularities 363 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 5, 1791. Thanks for sub- 
scriptions from Scotland, and for the present of 
Pope's Homer 364 

To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 13, 1791. Influence of a 
poet's reputation on an innkeeper 364 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 26, 1791. He play- 
fully gives Mr. B. leave to find fault with his 
verses ; his sentiments respecting blank verse 364 

To John Johnson, Esq., Feb. 27, 1791. Progress in 
printing Homer; neglect of his work by Oxford.. 365 

To Mrs. King, March 2, 1791. Apology for forget- 
ting a promise, owing to his being engrossed by 
Homer ; success of his subscription at Cambridge ; 
the Northampton dirge 365 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 6, 1791. Progress in 
printing his Homer 366 

Commencement of Cowper's acquaintance with the 
Rev. James Hurdis 366 

To the Rev. James Hurdis, March 6, 1791. He com- . 
pliments Mr. H. on his poetical productions ; thanks 
him for offers of service ; excuses himself from vis- 
itinghim, and invites him to Weston 366 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 10, 1791. Simile drawn 
from French and English prints of subjects in 
Homer 367 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 18, 1791. On Dr. 
Johnson's taste for poetry ; aptness of Mr. B.'s quo- 
tations ; Mr. Chester's indisposition 367 

To John Johnson, Esq., March 19, 1791. On the 
poems of Elizabeth Bentley, an untaught female of 
Norwich 367 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 24, 1791. On his ap- 
plication to Dr. Dunbar relative to subscriptions 
to Cowper's Homer 368 

To Lady Hesketh, March 25, 1791. Slight of Horace 
Walpole ; a night alarm and its effects ; remarks 
on a book sent by Lady H 368 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 29, 1791. Recol- 
lections of past times ; difference between dreams 
and realities ; reasons why the occasional pieces 
which he writes do not reach Mr. N. ; expected 
visit of his maternal relations ; his mortuary verses 369 

To Mrs. Throckmorton, April 1, 1791. On the fail- 
ure of an attempt in favor of his subscription at 
Oxford ; remarks on a pamphlet by Mr. T 396 

To John Johnson, Esq., April 6, 1791. Thanks for 
Cambridge subscriptions 370 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., April 29, 1791. Subscriptions 
to his Homer 370 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 2, 1791. Progress in 
printing Homer ; visit from Mr. B.'s nephew ; Mil- 
ton's Latin poems 370 

Dr. Johnson's remark on Milton's Latin poems — 371 

To the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, May 11, 1791. On a 
poem of Mr. B.'s 371 

To Lady Hesketh, May 18, 1791. Complaint of her 
not writing; letter from Dr. Cogswell, of New 
York, respecting his poems 371 

To John Johnson, Esq., May 23, 1791. On his trans- 
lation of the Battle of the Frogs and the Mice — 371 

The Judgment of the Poets, a poem, by Cowper, on 
the relative charms of May and June 372 

To Lady Hesketh, May 27, 1791. Tardiness of the 
printer of his Homer 372 

To John Johnson, Esq., June 1, 1791. He congratu- 
lates Mr. J. on the period of his labors as a tran- 
scriber . 372 



PART THE THIRD. 

Observations on Cowper's version of Homer 373 

Reasons of his failure in that work to satisfy public 

expectation 373 

Comparative specimens of Pope's and Cowper's ver- 

sions 374 



Pagl 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, June 13, 1791. Completion 
of his Homer ; their mutual fondness for animals ; 
a woman's character best learned in domestic life 374 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 15, 1791. Man an un- 
grateful animal ; visit from No; folk relations 373 

To Dr. James Cogswell, June 15. 1791. Acknowledg- 
ment of a present of books ; his translation of Ho- 
mer : books sent by him to Dr. C. 376 

To the' Rev John Ne*ton,.June 2-1, 1791. Exhorta- 
tion to more frequent correspondence ; affectionate 
remembrance of Mr. N. ; on the recent loss of his 
wife; value of Homer." 376 

To Mrs. Bodham, July 7, 1791. Apology for having 
omitted to send a letter which he had written ; he 
declines visiting Norfolk; state of health of her 
relatives then at Weston 377 

To the Rev. John Newton, July 22, 1791. His en- 
gagement in making corrections for a new edition 
of Homer ; decline of the Rev. Mr. Venn ; refer- 
ence to the riots at Birmingham 378 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Aug. 2, 1791. Visit of 
Lady Baacot ; riots at Birmingham 379 

To Mrs. King, Aug. 4, 1791. State of her health ; his 
own and Mrs. Unwin's ; invitation to Weston ; 
publication of his Homer 379 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Aug. 9, 1791. His study 
being liable to all sorts of intrusions, he cannot 
keep his operations secret ; reason for his dissatis- 
faction with Pope's Homer ; recommendation of 
Hebrew studies 38C 

To John Johnson, Esq., Aug. 9, 1791. Causes for his 
being then an idle man 380 

Cowper undertakes the office of editor of Milton's 
works 38(1 

Regret expressed that he did not devote to original 
composition the time given to translation 381 

Origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Hayley 381 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 14, 1791. He informs 
him of his new engagement as editor of Milton. . . 381 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Sept. 21, 1791. Pleasure 
afforded by Lord Bagot's testimony in favor of his 
Homer; inquiry concerning persons alluded to in 
an elegy of Milton's 381 

To the Rev. Mr. King, Sept. 23, 1791. On Mrs. K.'s 
indisposition 382 

To Mrs. King, Oct. 21, 1791. Congratulation on her 
recovery ; he contends that women possess much 
more fortitude than men ; he acquaints her with 
his new engagement on Milton 382 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Oct. 25, 1791. Visit of 
Mr. Chester ; poem of Lord Bagot's ; condemnation 
of a remark of Wharton's respecting Milton 383 

To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 31, 1791. His delight to 
hear of the improved health of Mr. J. and his sis- 
ter ; his own state of health ; his new engagement 388 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 14, 1791. On compound 
epithets; progress in his translation of Milton's 
Latin poems 384 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 16, 1791. Apology 
for not sending a poem which Mr. N. had asked 
for ; Mr. N.'s visit to Mrs. Hannah More ; her sis- 
ter's application for Cowper's autograph ; Cowper 
regrets that he had never seen a mountain; his 
engagement on TVnlton 384 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Dec. 5, 1791. Expectation 
of a new edition of his Homer; he defends a pas- 
sage in it ; his engagement upon Milton 385 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Dec. 10, 1791. His engage- 
ment upon Milton 385 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Dec. 21, 1791. Sudden seiz- 
ure of Mrs. Unwin 388 

Cowper's affliction on occasion of Mrs. Unwin's at- 
tack 381 

To Mrs. King, Jan. 26, 1792. He describes the cir- 
cumstances of Mrs. Unwin's alarming seizure ; he 
asserts that women surpass men in true fortitude ; 
his engagements 388 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 14, 1792. On the in- 
disposition of Mr. B. and his children ; he professes 
his intention to avail himself oi all remarks in a 
new edition of his Homer ; course which he pur- 
poses to pursue in regard to Milton ; his corre- 
spondence with the Chancellor 387 

To Thomas Park, Esq., Feb. 19, 1792. Acknowledg- 
ment of the receipt of books sent by him ; he sig- 
nifies his acceptance of the offer of noti«es relative 
to Milton 381 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 20, 1792. Lines 
written by him for Mrs. Martha More's Collection 
of Autographs ; his reply to the demand of more 



CONTENTS 



Page 
original composition ; remarks on the settlement 
at Botany Bay, and African colonization 388 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Feb. 21, 1792. Reasons for 
deferring the examination of Homer; progress 
made in Milton's poems 389 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, March 2, 1792. He expresses 
his obligations for Mr. H.'s remarks on Homer ; he 
permits the tragedy of Sir Thomas More to be in- 
scribed to him 389 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 4, 1792. Departure 
of the Throckraortons from Weston ; his dislike of 
change - , 389 

To Mrs. King, March 8, 1792. On her late indisposi- 
tion ; testimonies concerning his Homer 390 

To Thomas Park, Esq., March 10, 1792. On Mr. P's 
professional pursuits ; he disclaims a place among 
the literati ; and asks for a copy of Thomson's mon- 
umental inscription 390 

To John Johnson, Esq., March 11, 1792. He men- 
tions having heard a nightingale sing on new year's 
day ; departure of Lady Hesketh ; expected visit 
of Mr. Rose 391 

Verses addressed to " The Nightingale which the au- 
thor heard on new year's day, 1792" 391 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 18, 1792. Ae as- 
sures Mr. N. that, though reduced to the com- 
pany of Mrs. Unwin alone, they are both com- 
fortable 391 

To tne Rev. Mr. Hurdis, March 23, 1792. Remarks 
on Mr. H.'s tragedy of Sir Thomas More 392 

To Lady Hesketh, March 25, 1792. Cause of the 
delay of a preceding letter to her ; detention of 
Mr. Hayley's letter to Cowper, at Johnson the 
bookseller's 392 

To Thomas Park, Esq., March 30, 1792. Remarks 
on a poem of Mr. P.'s 393 

To Samuel Rose, March 30, 1792. Spends his morn- 
ings in letter-writing 393 

To the same, April 5, 1792. Vexatious delays of 
printers ; supposed secret enemv 393 

To William Hayley, Esq., April fi", 1792. Expected 
visit of Mr. H. ; Cowper introduces Mrs. Unwin, 
and advises him to bring books with him, if he 
should want any 394 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, April 8, 1792. Apology for 
delay in writing ; reference to Mr. H.'s sisters ; and 
to an unanswered letter 394 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., April 15, 1792. Thanks for a 
remittance ; satirical stanzas on a blunder in his 
Homer; progress in Milton 395 

To Lady Throckmorton, April 16, 1792. Lady 
thieves ; report of his being a friend to the slave 
trade ; means taken by him to refute it 395 

Sonnet addressed to William Wilberforce, Esq., and 
published by Cowper in contradiciton of the report 
above mentioned 396 

Remarks on a report respecting Cowper's sentiments 
relative to the slave trade 396 

Reflections on Popularity 396 

Letter to the Rev. J. Jekyll Rye, April 16, 1792. 
Cowper asserts the falsehood of a report that he 
was friendly to the slave trade 396 

To the Printers of the Northampton Mercury ; on the 
same subject, with a Sonnet addressed to Mr. Wil- 
berforce 397 

Remarks on the relative merits of rhyme and blank 
verse, with reference to a translation of Homer. . 397 

Cowper's sentiments on the subject, and on transla- 
tion in general 398 

To the Lord Thurlow, on the inconvenience of rhyme 
in translation 398 

Lord Thurlow to William Cowper, Esq. On the 
value of rhyme in certain kinds of poems ; on 
metrical translations ; close translation of a pas- 
sage in Homer 399 

To the Lord Thurlow. Vindication of Cowper's 
choice of blank verse for his translation of Homer ; 
his version of the passage given by Lord T 400 

Lord Thurlow to William Cowper, Esq. On his 
translation of Homer 401 

To the Lord Thurlow. On the same subject 401 

Passages from Cowper's translation 401 

Facts respecting it 402 

To Mr. Johnson, the bookseller, Feb. 11, 1790. Cow- 
per acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Fuseli, for 
his remarks on his translation of Homer 402 

To the same, Sept. 7, 1790. On the same subject. . . 402 

Indignant remonstrance of Cowper's, addressed to 
Johnson on the alteration of a line in one of his 
poems 402 



Page 

To Thomas Park, Esq., April 27, 1792. Remarks on 
some poems of Mr. P.'s, and on his own literary 
engagement* 403 

Marriage of Mr. Courtenay to Miss Stapleton 403 

To Lady Hesketh, May 20, 17<fc. On the marriage 
of Mr. Courtenay ; Dr. Madan's promotion to a 
-Bishopric; complimentary Sonnet produced by 
Cowper, addressed to Mr. Wilberforce ; Lines to 
Warren Hastings, Esq 404 

To John Johnson, Esq., May 20, 1792. On the post- 
ponement of his Ordination, &c 404 

Hayley's visit to Cowper, and his account of it 405 

Sonnet addressed by Cowper to Mrs. Unwin 405 

Mrs. Unwin's paralytic attack 405 

Kind attentions of Hayley 405 

To Lady Hesketh, May 24, 1792. Seizure and state 
of Mrs. Unwin 405 

To the same, May 26, 1792. State of Mrs. Unwin. . . 406 

Lines addressed to Dr. Austen 406 

To Mrs. Bodham, June 4, 1792. On the postpone- 
ment of Mr. Johnson's Ordination 406 

To William Hayley, Esq., June 4, 1792. State of Mrs. 
Unwin 407 

To the same, June 5, 1792. On the same subject. . . 407 

To the same, June 7, 1792. On the same subject. . . 407 

To the same, June 10, 1792. On the same subject ; 
Lines addressed to Dr. Darwin 408 

Origin of Darwin's poem of the " Botanic Garden". . 408 

To Lady Hesketh, June 11, 1792. On his growing 
correspondence ; improvement of Mrs. Unwin's 
health ; events of the past Jwo months ; arrival of 
Mr. Johnson 409 

To William Hayley, Esq., June 19, 1792. State of Mrs. 
Unwin ; ice-islands and cold summers ; proposed 
visit to Hayley at Eartham 4(>* 

Remarks on a supposed change in the climate, with 
passages from Cowper's translation of a Poem of 
Milton's on that subject 409 

To William Hayley, Esq., June 27, 1792. Intended 
journey to Eartham ; Catharina, on her marriage to 
George Courtenay, Esq 410 

To the same, July 4, 1792. Suspension of his literary 
labors ; his solicitude for Mrs. Unwin ; his visit to 
Weston Hall 410 

To the same, July 15, 1792. On the proposed journey 
to Eartham ; translations from Milton ; portrait of 
Cowper by Abbot 41? 

To Thomas Park, Esq., July 20, 1792. On the obsta- 
cles to his literary engagements ; reference to (Jow- 
per's drawings, and to the Olney Hymns 411 

To William Hayley, Esq., July 22, 1792* Preparations 
for the journey to Eartham 412 

To the Rev. William Bull, July 25, 1792. On his sit- 
ting to Abbot for his portrait ; his intended journey 
to Eartham 412 

To William Hayley, Esq., July 29, 1792. His terror 
at the proposed journey ; resemblance of Abbot's 
portrait 413 

To the Rev. John Newton, July 30, 1792. State of 
Mrs. TTnwin ; intended journey to Eartham ; recol- 
iectiouc. 4wakened by Mr. N.'s visit to Weston 413 

To the Rev. Mr. Greatbeed, Aug. 6, 1792. Account 
of his journey to Eartham, and situation there 414 

To Mrs. Courtenay, Aug. 12, 1792. Particulars of the 
journey to Eartham, and description of the place. . 414 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 14, 1792. Invitation to 
Eartham 415 

To the same, Aug. 18, 1792. Cowper wishes him to 
join the party at Eartham 415 

To Mrs. Courtenay, Aug. 25, 1792. Epitaph on Fop ; 
arrangements for the return to Weston ; state of 
himself and Mrs. Unwin 41 ¥ 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, A ug. 26, 1792. On the death 
of his sister ; invitation to Eartham 41i 

To Lady Hesketh, Aug. 26, 1792. Company at Ear- 
tham ; his own state and Mrs. Unwin's ; portrait 
of Cowper by Romnej 416 

To Mrs. Charlotte Smith, Sept., 1792. Sympathy of 
himself and Hayley in her misfortunes ;" remark on 
an expression in her letter ; state of Mrs. Unwin. . 117 

To Lady L.sketh, Sept. 9, 1792. Reasons for prefer- 
ring Weston to Eartham ; state of Mrs. Unwin ; ar- 
rangements for their return ; character of Mr. 
Hurdis 417 

Cowper's occupations at Eartham 418 

Account of Adreini's Adama, which suggested to 
Milton the design of his Paradise Lost 418 

To Mrs. Courtenay, Sept, 10, 1792. Reference to the 
French Revolution ; state of Mrs Unwin ; remem- 
brances to friends at Weston...- 418 

2 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Departure from Eartham 419 

To William Hayley, Esq., Sept. 18, 1792. Cowper's 
feelings on his departure 419 

To the same, Sept. 21, 1792. Particulars of his jour- 
ney and arrival at Weston 419 

To the same, Oct. 2, 1792. Unsuccessful attempt at 
writing 420 

To the same, Oct. 13, 1792. Cowper's impatience for 
the arrival of Hayley's portrait ; his intention of 
paying a poetical tribute to Romney 420 

To Mrs. King, Oct. 14, 1792. Reference to the visit 
to Eartham 421 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 18, 1792. His em- 
ployments at Eartham, and indisposition at Wes- 
ton, urged as an excuse for not writing ; reference 
to his visit to Hayley 421 

To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 19, 1792. On his ex- 
pected visit ; Cowper's unfitness for writing 422 

To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 22, 1792. Reflections on 
J.'s sitting for his picture ." 422 

To William Hayley, Esq., Oct. 28, 1792. Cowper com- 
plains of his unfitness for literary labor, and the 
grievance that Milton is to him ; sonnet addressed 
to Romney 422 

To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 5, 1792. Cowper's opin- 
ion of his Homer 422 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 9, 1792. Hindrances to 
his literary labors ; Mrs. Unwin's situation and his 
own depression of spirits ; he consents to the pre- 
fixing his portrait to a new edition of his poems. . 423 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 11, 1792. Apology 
for not writing to him ; his gloomy state of mind. . 423 

To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 20, 1792. Thanks him 
for his verses ; his engagement to supply the new 
clerk of Northampton with an annual copy of 
verses ; reference to his indisposition 424 

To William Hayley, Esq., Nov. 25, 1792. Acknowl- 
edgment of his friendship ; his acceptance of the 
office of Dirge-writer to the new clerk of North- 
ampton 424 

To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 9, 1792. Reasons 
for not being in haste with Milton ; injurious effect 
of the season on his spirits 424 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 16, 1792. Political reflec- 
tions with reference to the question of Parliament- 
ary Reform, reformation of the Church, and the 
rights of Catholics and Dissenters 425 

First agitation of the question of Parliamentary Re- 
form 425 

To Thomas Park, Esq., Dec. 17, 1792. Obstacles to 
his writing while at Mr. Hayley's, and since his re- 
turn home ; on Johnson's intention of prefixing his 
portrait to his poems 425 

Anecdote of Mrs. Boscawen 426 

To William Hayley, Esq., Dec. 26, 1792. The year '92 
a most melancholy one to him 426 

To Thomas Park, Esq., Jan. 3, 1793. Introduction 
of Mr. Rose to him ; Cowper refers to a remedy 
recommended by Mr. P. for inflammation of the 
eyes ; his share in the Oiney Hymns 426 

To William Hayley, Esq., Jan. 20, 1793. Cowper's 
solicitude respecting his welfare ; arrival of Hay- 
ley's picture 427 

To the same, Jan. 29, 1793. On the death of Dr. 
Austen 427 

To John Johnson, Esq., Jan. 31, 1793. Thanks for 
pheasants, and promises of welcome to a bustard. 428 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 5, 1793. Revisal of Ho- 
mer 428 

To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 10, 1793. Necessity for his 
taking laudanum; he rallies her on her political 
opinions 428 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 17, 1793. Remarks on 
a criticism on his Homer in the Analytical Review 428 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Feb. 22, 1793. He con- 
gratulates Mr. H. on the prospect of his being 
elected Poetry Professor at Oxford ; observations 
in natural history 429 

To William Hayley, Esq., Feb. 24, 1793. Complains 
of inflamed eyes as a hindrance to writing ; revi- 
sal of Homer ; dream about Milton 429 

Milton's Vision of the Bishop of Winchester 430 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 4, 1793. His ail- 
ments and employments ; reference to the French 

Revolution 430 

setter from Thomas Hayley (son of William Hayley, 
Esq.,) to William Cowper, Esq., containing criti- 
cisms on his Homer 430 

To Mr. Thomas Hayley, March 14, 1793. In answer 
to the preeaO'ng 431 



Pag« 

To William Hayley, Esq., March 19, 1793. Complains 
of being harassed by a multiplicity of business ; 
his progress in Homer ; reference to Mazarin's 
epitaph 431 

Last moments of Cardinal Mazarin 431 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 27, 1793. On the con- 
clusion of- an engagement with Johnson for a new 
edition of his Homer 433 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 29, 1793. Reference 
to his pecuniary circumstances ; preparations for a 
new edition of his Homer ; remarks on an intended 
canal 432 

To John Johnson, Esq., April 11, 1793. On sending 
his pedigree to the HerakTs College ; liberality of 
Johnson the bookseller ; on Mr. J.'s determination 
. to enter the church 433 

Illustrious ancestry of Cowper 433 

To William Hayley, Esq., April 23, 1793. His en- 
gagement in writing notes to Homer 433 

To the Rev. John Newton, April 25, 1793. He urges 
business as an excuse for the unfrequency of his 
letters ; his own and Mrs. Unwin's state ; his ex- 
change of books with Dr. Cogshall of New York ; 
reference to the epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Unwin. . 433 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 4, 1793. On the 
death of Bishop Bagot 434 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., May 5, 1793. Apology for si- 
lence ; his engagement in writing notes to his Ho- 
mer ; intended revisal of the Odyssey 434 

To Lady Hesketh, May 7, 1793. His correspondence 
prevented by his Homer; Whigs and Tories 435 

To Thomas Park, Esq., May 17, 1793. Chapman's 
translation of Homer ; Cowper's horror of London 
and dislike of leaving home ; epitaph on the Rev. 
Mr. Unwin ; his poems on Negro Slavery 435 

To William Hayley, Esq., May 21, 1793. Employ- 
ment of his time ; insensible advance of old age ; 
" Man as he is" attributed erroneously to the pen 
of Hayley ; notes on Homer 436 

To Lady Hesketh, June 1, 1793. Desiring her to fix a 
day for coming to Weston ; lines on Mr. Johnson's 
arrival at Cambridge 436 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, June 6, 1793. Uses of afflic- 
tion ; suspension of his literary labors ; proposed 
revisal of his Homer 437 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 12, 1793. State of 
Mrs. Unwin's and his own health ; reference to a 
new work of Mr. N.'s 437 

To William Hayley, Esq., June 29, 1793. Sonnet ad- 
dressed to Mr. H. ; Cowper declines engaging in a 
work proposed by Mr. H. ; " The Four Ages". .. . 437 
To the same, July 7, 1793. He promises to join Mr. 
H. in the production of " The Four Ages," ref- . 
erence to his oddities ; embellishments of his 
premises 438 

Antique bust of Homer, presented to Cowper by Mr. 
Johnson 438 

Cowper's poetical tribute for the gift 439 

To Thomas Park, Esq., July 15, 1793. Chapman's 
translation of the Iliad ; Hobbe's translation ; Lady 
Hesketh ; his literary engagements 439 

To Mrs. Charlotte Smith, July 25, 1793. On her poem 
of "The Emigrants," which was dedicated to Cow- 
per 439 

To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed, July 27, 1793. He thanks 
Mr. G. for the offer of part of his house ; reasons for 
declining it ; promised visits 340 

To William Hayley, Esq., July 27, 1793. Anticipa- 
tions of a visit from Mr. H. ; head of Homer and 
proposed motto for it ; question concerning the 
cause of Homer's blindness ; garden shed. .. - — 440 

To the Rev. John Johnson, Aug. 2, 1793. On his or- 
dination ; Flaxman's designs to the Odyssey 441 

To Lady Hesketh, Aug. 11, 1793. Miss Fanshaw ; 
present from Lady Spencer of Flaxman's designs. . 441 

Explanation respecting Miss Fanshaw ; verses by 
her ; Cowper's reply ; his lines addressed to Count 
Gravina 442 

To William Hayley, Esq., Aug. 15, 1793. Epigram 
on building; inscription for an hermitage; Flax- 
man's designs ; plan of an Odyssey illustrated by 
them ; inscription for the bust of Homer 442 

To Mrs. Courtenay, Aug. 20, 1793. Story of Bob 
Archer and the fiddler; Flaxman's designs to 
Homer 443 

To Samuel Bose, Esq., Aug. 22, 1793. Allusion to 
scenery on the south coast of England ; his literary 
occupations 443 

To William Hayley, Esq., Aug. 27, 1793. Question 
respecting Homer's blindness ; Flaxman's illuetra- 



CONTENTS 



xt| 



Page 
tions of Homer ; recollections of Lord Mansfield ; 
erection of Homer's bust 443 

To Lady Hesketh, Aug. 29, 1793. On her intended 
visit to Weston ; Miss Fanshaw 444 

To the Rev. Mr. Johnson, Sept. 4, 1793. His agree- 
able surprise on the appearance of a sun-<Hal, a 
present from Mr. J. ; revisal of his Homer 444 

To William Hayley, Esq., Sept. 8, 1793. Flaxman's 
designs to Homer; anticipations of Mr. H.'s visit. 445 

To Mrs. Courtenay, Sept. 15, 1793. His improve- 
ments at Weston ; the sun-dial ; Pitcairne 445 

To the Rev. Mr. Johnson, Sept. 29, 1793. Visits de- 
vourers of time ; expected visiters at Weston 446 

To William Hayley, Esq., Oct. 5, 1793. Demands 
upon his time; expected visiters ; reference to H.'s 
Life of Milton 446 

To the same, Oct. 18, 1793. Anticipations of his visit 
to Weston 446 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 22, 1793. Apology 
for not writing ; reference to a late journey of Mr. 
N.'s ; thanks for his last publication 447 

To the Rev. J. Jekyll Rye, Nov. 3, 1793. Thanks 
for his support of Mr. H urdis ; reference to the ap- 
plication of the clerk of Northampton 447 

Hayley's second visit to Weston 447 

Invitation to Cowper and his guests, from Lord 
Spencer to Althorpe,tomeet Gibbon the historian, 
declined by him 447 

To Mrs. Courtenay, Nov. 4, 1793. He complains of 
being distracted with business ; Hayley's visit ; ep- 
idemic fever ; M rs. Unwin 447 

Mtate of Cowper and Mrs. Unwin as described by 
Hayley 448 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 5, 1793. Lady Hesketh's 
visit to Wargrave ; his house at Weston, and pros- 
pects from it 448 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Nov. 10, 1793. Thanks 
him for his support of Mr. Hurdis ; reference to 
the French Revolution 448 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Nov. 24, 1793. Congratula- 
tions on his election to the professorship of poetry 
at Oxford; Hayley's visit ; his Life of Milton; re- 
visal of his Homer ; invitation to Weston 449 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 29, 1793. Expected visit 
from him and Mr. (the late Sir Thomas) Lawrence ; 
subject from Homer proposed by the latter for his 
pencil ; a companion to it suggested by Cowper ; 
intention of Lawrence to take Cowper's portrait 
for engraving 449 

To the same, Dec. 8, 1793. Thanks him for books ; 
history of Jonathan Wild ; character of " Man as 
he is" 450 

To William Hayley, Esq., Dec. 8, 1793. Inquiries 
concerning his Life of Milton ; his own literary oc- 
cupations 450 

Suspension of Cowper's literary labors, and decline 
of his mental powers 450 

Results of Cowper's literary labors on the works of 
Milton 451 

Specimens of the translation of the Latin poem ad- 
dressed by M ilton to his father 452 

Hayley's remarks on that poem 452 

Passages from Cowper's notes on Milton 453 

Fuseli's Milton Gallery 454 

Origin of Hayley's acquaintance with Cowper . . 454 

Hayley's first letter, with a sonnet addresssed to 
Cowper 454 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 10, 1793. On a sprain re- 
ceived by Mr. H. ; revisal of Homer ; inquiry con- 
cerning Lord Howe's fleet 455 

The idea of the projected poem of " The Four Ages," 
suggested by Mr. Buchanan 455 

To the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, May 11, 1793. Compli- 
menting Mr. B. on the sketch which he furnished 
for the poem 455 

Increasing infirmities of Mrs. Unwin, and their effect 
on Cowper 455 

His affecting situation at this period 456 

Dissatisfaction of Lord Thurlow with a passage in 
Cowper's Homeland his and Hayley's attempts to 
improve upon it 456 

to William Hayley, Esq., Dec. 17, 1793. With a new 
version of the passage above mentioned ; criti- 
cisms on their performances ; his own notions of 

•the principles of translation 656 

to the same, Jan. 5, 1794. New translation of the 
' before-mentioned passage ; remarks on translation, 

and particulary of Homer 457 

Co the same, from the Rev. William Greatheed, 
April 8, 1791. He acquaints Mr. H. with the alarm- 



ing situation of Cowper, and urges his coming to 

Weston 458 

Hayley repairs to Weston 458 

Lady Hesketh obtains the advice of Dr. Willis 458 

Grant of a pension of 300/. per annum, by his Majesty, 

to Cowper 459 

Plan for the removal of Cowper and Mrs. Unwin to 

Norfolk '. 459 

Cowper's sensations on leaving Weston 459 

Lines " To Mary," the last original production com- 
posed by him at Weston 459 

Journey from Weston to North Tuddenham, in Nor- 
folk 460 

Stay at Tuddenham 460 

Removal to Mundsley, a village on the coast 460 

Letter from Cowper to the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, de- 
scribing his present situation, and soliciting news 

of Weston 460 

Cowper becomes settled at Dunham Lodge, near 

Swaffham- 461 

He is induced by the appearance of Wakefield's edi- 
tion of Pope's Homer, to engage in the revisal of 

his o wn version 461 

Death of Mrs. Unwin 461 

Her Funeral and Inscription 461 

Cowper's malady renders him insensible to her loss 461 
Successful effort of Mr. Johnson to engage him to re- 
turn to the revisal of Homer, which he had discon- 
tinued 462 

Hayley's testimony to the affectionate offices rendered 

to Cowper by Mr. Johnson 462 

Trial of the effect of frequent change of place 463 

Visit from Dowager Lady Spencer 463 

Attempts of Mr. Johnson to amuse him 463 

Letter from Cowper to Lady Hesketh, referring to 

his melancholy situation 463 

He finishes the revisal of his Homer 463 

" The Cast-away," his last original production. .. . . . 464 

His removal to Dereham 464 

His translations of Latin and Greek epigrams, and of 

some of Gay's Fables into Latin 464 

New version of a passage in his Homer, being the last 

effort of his pen 464 

Appearance of dropsy 465 

His last illness 465 

His death 465 

His burial, and inscription by Hayley 465 

Remarks on the mental delusion under which he la- 
bored to the last 466 

Memoir of the early life of Cowper, written by himself 467 

Remarks on the preceding Memoir 478 

Death of Cowper's friend, Sir William Russel 479 

Cowper's attachment to his cousin, Miss Theodora 

Jane Cowper 479 

Nervous attacks, and their presumed causes 480 

Distinguishing features in his malady 481 

His depression did not prevent the free exercise of 

his mental powers 481 

It was not perceptible to others 481 

It was not inconsistent with a rich vein of humor. . . 481 

His own picture of his mental sufferings. 482 

His religious views not the occasion of his »>• . ' bed- 

ness, but a support under it . 482 

Sketch of the character, and account of the lasi i 
ness of the late Rev. John Cowper, by his brothi . -!• -} 

Narrative of Mr. Van Lier 4: . 

Notices of Cowper's friends 49J 

The Rev. W. Cawthorne Unwin 492 

Joseph Hill, Esq 493 

Samuel Rose, Esq 493 

Lady Austen 494 

Rev'. Walter Bagot 494 

Sir George Throckmorton 494 

Rev. Dr. Johnson 495 

Rev.W. Bull 495 

Particulars concerning the person and character of 

Cowper 495 

Cowper's personal character illustrated by extracts 

from his Works 496 

Poetical portraits d rawn by him 497 

His poem on the Yardlev Oak 499 

Description of the Tree" 49S* 

Original poem on the subject, by the late Samuel 

Wliitbread, Esq 499 

Cowper's moderation amidst literary fame 499 

Anecdote of Dr. Parr 50Q 

Cowper's sensibility to unjust censure 50(1 

Letter to John Thornton, Esq., on a severe criticism 
of his first volume of poems in the "Analytical 
Review" . . SOO 



XX 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

His excellence as an epistolary writer 500 

Character of his Latin poems 501 

The Wish, an English version by Mr. Ostler 501 

Sublime piety and morality of Cowper's works 501 

Beneficial influence of his writings on the Church of 

England 503 

Concluding remarks 504 

Essay on the genius and poetry of Cowper, by the 

Rev. J. W. Cunningham, A. M 507 



THE POEMS. 

Preface to the Poems • 517 

Table Talk -... 519 

The Progress of Error 525 

Truth 530 

Expostulation 534 

Hope 540 

Charity 546 

Conversation 551 

Retirement 558 

The Task, in Six Books :— 

Book I. The Sofa 564 

II. The Time-Piece 570 

III. The Garden .. 576 

IV. The Winter Evening •■ 582 

V. The Winter Morning Walk 588 

VI. The Winter Walk at Noon 594 

Epistle to Joseph Hill, Esq 602 

Tirocinium ; or, a Review of Schools 603 

The Yearly Distress, or Tithing Time at Stock, in 

Essex 610 

Sonnet addressed to Henry Cowper, Esq 610 

Lines addressed to Dr. Darwin 610 

On Mrs. Montagu's Feather Hangings 611 

Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, 

during his solitary Abode in the Island of Juan 

Fernandez 611 

On observing some Names of little note in the Bio- 

graphia Britannica 611 

Report of an adjudged Case 612 

On the Promotion of Edward Thurlow Esq., to the 

Lord High Chancellorship of England 612 

Ode to Peace 612 

Human Frailty '612 

The Modern Patriot t 613 

On the Burning of Lord Mansfield's Library, &c — 613 

On the same 613 

The Love of the World Reproved 613 

On the death of Mrs. (now Lady) Throckmorton's 

Bullfinch 613 

The Rose 614 

The Doves 614 

A Fable 615 

Ode to Apollo 615 

A Comparison 615 

Another, addressed to a Young Lady 615 

The Poet's New Year's gift 615 

Pairing-time anticipated 616 

The Dog and the Water Lily 616 

The Winter Nosegay 617 

The Poet, the Oyster, and the Sensitive Plant 617 

The Shrubbery 617 

Mutual Forbearance .necessary to the Married State. 618 

The Negro's Complaint 618 

Pity for Poor Africans 618 

The Morning Dream 619 

—-—The Diverting History of John Gilpin 619 

The Nightingale and Glow-worm 621 

An Epistle to an afflicted Protestant Lady in France 622 

To the Rev. W. Cawthorne Unwin 622 

To the Rev. Mr. Newton 622 

Catharina 623 

The Moralizer corrected 623 

The Faithful Bird 624 

The Needless Alarm 624 

Boadicea 625 

Heroism 625 

On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk 626 

Friendship 627 

Dn a mischievous Bull which the Owner of him sold 

at the Author's instance 629 

Annus memorabilis, 1789. Written in commemo- 
ration of his Majesty's happy recovery 629 

Vymn for tint use of the Sunday School at Olney . ... 629 



Tag* 

Stanzas subjoined to a Bill r>f Mortality for the year 

1787 6»: 

The same for 1788 630 

The same for 1789 630 

ThesaAefor 1790 631 

The same for 1792 631 

The same for 1793... •■ •■••• 632 

On a Goldfinch starved to Death in his Cage 632 

The Pineapple and the Bee 632 

Verses written at Bath, on finding the heel of a Shoe 632 
An Ode, on reading Richardson's History of Sir 

Charles Grandison 633 

An Epistle to Robert Lloyd, Esq 633 

A tale founded on a Fact, which happened in Jan., 

1779 634 

To the Rev. Mr. Newton, on his return from Rams- 
gate 

Love Abused 

A poetical Epistle to Lady Austen 

The Colubriad , 

Song. On Peace 

Song—" When all within is Peace" 

Verses selected from an occasional Poem entitled 

"Valediction" 

Epitaph on Dr. Johnson 

To Miss C , on her Birthday 

Gratitude 

Lines composed for a Memorial of Ashley Cowper, 



Esq. 

On the Queen's Visit to London 

The Cockflghter's Garland 

To Warren Hastings, Esq 

To Mrs. Throckmorton 

To the Immortal Memory of the Halibut on which I 

dined 

Inscription for a Stone erected at the sowing of a 

Grove of Oaks 

Another 

To Mrs. King 

In Memory of the late John Thornton, Esq 

The Four Ages 

The Retired Cat 

The Judgment of the Poets 

Yardley Oak — . , 

To the Nightingale which the author heard sing on 

New Year's Day 

Lines written in an album of Miss Patty More's — 

Sonnet to William Wilberforce, Esq . 

Epigram on refining Sugar 

To Dr. Austen, of Cecil Street, London 

Catharina; on her Marriage to George Courtenay, 



634 
634 
635 
635 
636 
636 

636 
636 
637 
637 

637 



639 
639 



639 
639 
639 
640 
640 
641 
641 
642 

643 
643 
643 

644 
644 

644 



Esq. 

Epitaph on Fop, a dog belonging to Lady Throck- 
morton 644 

Sonnet to George Romney, Esq 644 

Mary and John 644 

Epitaph of Mr. Chester, of Chichely 644 

To my Cousin, Anne Bodhiun 645 

Inscription for a Hermitage in the Author's Garden. 645 

To Mrs. Unwin 645 

To John Johnson, on his presenting me with an an- 
tique Bust of Homer 645 

To a young Friend 645 

To a Spaniel called Beau, killing a young bird 645 

Beau's Replv 645 

To William Hayley, Esq 646 

Answer to Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by 

Miss Catharine Fanshawe 646 

On Flaxman's Penelope 646 

To the Spanish Admiral, Count Gravina 646 

Inscription for the tomb of Mr. Hamilton 646 

Epitaph on a Hare 646 

Epitaphium Alterum 647 

Account of the Author's Treatment of his Hares — 647 

ATale 648 

To Mary 649 

The Castaway 649 

To Sir Joshua Reynolds 650 

The Distressed Travellers ; or, Labor in Vain.' 650 

On the Author of " Letters on Literature" 651 

Stanzas on Liberties taken with the Remains of 

Milton 651 

To the Rev. William Bull 651 

Epitaph on Mrs. Higgins 652 

Sonnet to a Young Lady on her Birth-day 652 

On a Mistake in his Translation of Homer 652 

On the Benefit received by his Majesty from Sea- 
bathing 652 

Addressed to Miss on reading the Prayer for In- 
difference 652 



CONTENTS 



XT 



Page 

From a letter jo the Rev. Mr. Newton 653 

The Flatting Mill 653 

Epitaph on a free but tame Redbreast 654 

Bonnet addressed to W. Haylev, Esq 654 

An Epitaph 654 

On receiving Hayley's Picture 654 

On a Plant of Virgin's Bower 654 

On receiving Heyne's Virgil 654 

Stanzas by a Lady 654 

Cowper's Reply 655 

Lines addressed to Miss T. J. Cowper 655 

To the same 655 

On a sleeping Infant 655 

Lines 655 

Inscription for a Moss-house in the Shrubbery at 

Weston 655 

Lines on the Death of Sir William Russel 655 

On the high price of Fish 656 

To Mrs. Newton 656 

Verses printed by himself on a flood at Olney 056 

Extract from a Sunday-school Hymn 656 

On the receipt of a Hamper (in the manner of Homer) 656 

On the neglect of Homer 656 

Sketch of the Life of the Rev. John Newton 657 

OLNEY HYMNS. 

Preliminary Remarks on the Olney Hymns 666 

Hymn i. Walking with God 670 

a. Jehovah-Jireh. The Lord will provide .. . 670 
m. Jehovah-Rophi. I am the Lord that heal- 

eth thee 670 

iv. Jehovah-Nissi. The Lord my Banner 671 

v. Jehovah-Shalom. The Lord send peace . . 671 

vi. Wisdom '. 671 

vii. Vanity of the World 671 

vm. O Lord, I will praise thee 672 

ix. The contrite Heart 672 

x. The future Peace and Glory of the Church 672 

XI. Jehovah our Righteousness 672 

xn. Ephraim renenting 673 

xm. The Covenant 673 

xiv. Jehovah-Shammah : 673 

xv. Praise for the Fountain opened 673 

xvi. The Sower 673 

xvii. TLe House of Prayer 674 

xviii. Lo vest thou me ? 674 

xix. Contentment 674 

xx. Old Testament Gospel 674 

xxi. Sardis 674 

xxn. Praying for a Blessing on the Young 674 

xxiii. Pleading for and with Youth 675 

xxiv. Prayer for Children 675 

xxv. Jehovah-Jesus 676 

xxvi. On opening a Place for social Prayer 676 

xxvii. Welcome to the Table 676 

xxvin. Jesus hastening to suffer 676 

xxix. Exhortation to Prayer 676 

xxx. The Light and Glory of the Word 677 

xxxi. On the Death of a Minister 677 

xxXti. The shining Light 677 

xxxm. Seeking the Beloved 677 

xxxiv. The Waiting Soul 677 

xxxv. Welcome Cross 678 

xxxvi. Afflictions sanctified by the Word 678 

xxxvii. Temptation 678 

Scxviii. Looking upwards in a Storm 678 

xxxix. The Valley of the Shadow of Death 678 

xl. Peace after a Storm 679 

xli. Mourning and Longing 679 

xlii. Self-Acquaintance • 679 

xliii. Prayer for Patience 679 

xliv. Submission 680 

xlv. The happy Change 680 

xlvi. Retirement 680 

xlvii. The hidden Life G^0 

xlviii. Joy and Peace in Believing 68 1 

xlix. True Pleasures 681 

l. TheChristian 681 

li. Lively Hope and Gracious Fear 681 

lii. For the Poor 681 

liii. My Soul thirsteth for God 682 

liv. Love constraineth to Obedience 682 

Lv. The Heart healed and changed by Mercy. . 682 

lvi. Hatred ofSin 682 

lvii. The new Convert 682 

Lvm. True and false Comforts 683 

lix. A living and a dead Faith 683 

lx. Abuse of the Gospel 683 

lxi. The narrow Way 683 



Page 

lxh. Dependence 68i 

lxiii. NotofWorks 68k 

lxiv. Praise for Faith 684 

lxv. Grace and Providence 684 

lxvi. I will praise the Lord at all times 685 

lxvii. Longing to be with Christ 685 

lxviii. Light shining out of darkness 685 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA 
MOTHE GUION. 

Brief Account of Madame Guion, and of the Mystic 

Writers 685 

The Nativity 691 

God neither known nor loved by the World 695 

The Swallow 693 

The Triumph of Heavenly Love desired 693 

A figurative Description of the Procedure of Divine 

Love 693 . 

A Child of God longing to see him beloved 694 

Aspirations of the Soul after God 694 

Gratitude and Love to God 694 

Happv Solitude— Unhappy Men 694 

Living Water 695 

Truth and Divine Love rejected by the World 695 

Divine Justice amiable 695 

The Soul that Loves God finds him everywhere 695 

The Testimony of Divine Adoption 696 

Divine Love endures no rival 696 

Self-Diffidence 696 

The Acquiescence of Pure Love 697 

Repose in God 697 

Glory to God alone 697 

Self-Love and Truth incompatible 697 

The Love of God, the End of Life 697 

Love faithful in the Absence of the Beloved 69S 

Love pure and fervent 698 

The entire Surrender 698 

The perfect Sacrifice 698 

God hides his People 698 

The Secrets of Divine Love are to be kept 699 

The Vicissitudes experienced in the Christian Life. . 700 

Watching unto God in the Night Season 701 

On the same 701 

Onthesame 702 

The Joy of the Cross 702 

Joy in Martyrdom 702 

Simple Trust 703 

The necessity of Self-Abasement 703 

Love increased by Suffering 703 

Scenes favorable to Meditation 704 

TRANSLATIONS OF THE LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS 07 
MILTON. 

Elegy I. To Charles Deodati 705 

II. On the Death of the University Beadle at 

Cambridge 706 

III. On the Death of the Bishop of Winchester . 706 

IV. To his Tutor, Thomas Young 706 

V. On the Approach of Spring 707 

VI. To Charles Deodati 708 

VII 709 

Epigrams. On the Inventor of Guns 710 

To Leonora singing at Rome 710 

To the same 710 

The Cottager- and his Landlord. A Fable. 710 

To Christina, Queen of Sweden, with Cromwell's 

Picture 710 

On the death of the Vice-Chancellor, a Physician... 711 

On the Death of the Bishop of Ely 711 

Nature unimpaired by Time 711 

On the Platonic Idea as it was understood by Aris 

totie 712 

To his Father 712 

To Salsillus. a Roman poet, much indisposed 714 

To Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa 714 

On the Death of Damon 715 

An Ode, addressed to Mr. John Rouse, Librarian of 

the University of Oxford 717 

Sonnet—" Fair Lady, whose harmonious name" 718 

Sonnet — M As on a hill-top rude, when closing day" 718 

Canzone—" Thev mock my toil" 718 

Sonnet— To Charles Deodati 719 

Sonnet — " Lady ! it cannot be but that thine eyes". . 719 
Sonnet — "Enamor'd, artless, young, on foreign 
ground" 719 

Simile in Paradise Lost 719 

Translation of Dryden's Epigram on Milton 7M 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 

The Glowworm 719 

The Jackdaw '. • 720 

TheCricket 720 

The Parrot 720 

The Thracian 720 

Reciprocal Kindness the Primary Law of Nature. . . 721 

A Manual more ancient than the Art of Printing 721 

An Enigma—" A needle, small as small can be" — 721 
Sparrows self-domesticated in Trinity Coll., Cam- 
bridge 722 

Familiarity dangerous 722 

Invitation to the Redbreast 722 

Strada's Nightingale- 722 

Ode on the Death of a Lady who lived one hundred 

years 722 

The Cause won 723 

The Silkworm 723 

The Innocent Thief 723 

Denner's Old Woman 723 

The Tears of a Painter 724 

The Maze 724 

No Sorrow Peculiar to the Sufferer 724 

The Snail 724 

The Cantab 724 

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 

From the Greek of Julianus 725 

On the same by Palladas 725 

An Epitaph 725 

Another 725 

Another 725 

Another t 725 

By Callimachus 725 

On Miltiades 725 

On an Infant 725 

By Heraclides 725 

On the Reed 725 

To Health 725 

On Invalids 726 

On the Astrologers 726 

On an Old Woman 726 

On Flatterers 726 

On a true Friend 726 

On the Swallow 726 

On late acquired Wealth 726 

On a Bath, by Plato 796 

On a Fowler, by Isidorus 726 

On Niobe 726 

On a good Man 726 

On a Miser 726 

Another 726 

Another 726 

On Female Inconstancy '.. 121 

On the Grasshopper 727 

On Hermocratia 727 

From Menander 727 

On Pallas bathing, from a Hymn of Callimachus 727 

To Demosthenes 727 

On a similar Character .727 



On an ugly Fellow 727 

On a battered Beauty 727 

On a Thief 727 

On Pedigree — 728 

On Envy 728 

By Moschus 728 

By Philemon 728 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF OAT. 

Lepus multis Amicus. 728 

Avarus et Plutus 729 

Papilio et Limax 729 

EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN. 

On one ignorant and arrogant 729 

Prudent Simplicity 729 

Sunset and Sunrise 729 

To a Frjend in Distress 729 

Retaliation 729 

'• When little more than Boy in Age" 729 

TRANSLATIONS FROM VIRGIL, OVID, HORACE, AND 
HOMER. 

The Salad, by Virgil ' 730 

Translation from Virgil, ^Eneid, Book VIII. Line 18 731 

Ovid. Trist. Book V. Eleg. XII 734 

Hor. Book I. Ode IX 735 

Hor. Book I. Ode XXXVIII 735 

Hor. Book I. Ode XXXVIII 735 

Hor. BookU. Ode X 735 

A Reflection on the foregoing Ode 735 

Hor. Book H. XVI 735 

The Fifth Satire of the First Book of Horace 736 

The Ninth Satire of the First Book of II jrace 737 

Translation of an Epigram from Homer 738 

cowper's latin poems. 

Montes G'aciales, in Oceano Germanico natantes . . . 739 
On the Ice Islands .*een fl^atin? in the German Ocean 73S 

Monumental Inscription to William Northcot 740 

Translation 740 

In Seditionem Horrendam 740 

Translation 740 

Motto on a Clock, with Translation bv Hayley 740 

A Simile Latinised 740 

On the Loss of the Royal George ... 740 

In Submersionem Navigii, cui Georgius Regale 

Nomen inditum 741 

In Brevitatem Vitae Spatii Hominibus concessi... . 741 

On the Shortness of Human Life 741 

The Lily and the Rose 741 

Idem Latine redditum 742 

The Poplar Field 742 

Idem Latine redditum 742 

Votum 742 

Translation of Prior's Chloe and Euphelia 742 

Verses to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd 742 

The same in Latin t • 743 

Papers, by Cowper, inserted in " The Connoisseur''. 1AA 



THE LIFE OF COWPER 



PAKT THE FIRST, 



The family of Cowper appears to have 
neld, for several centuries, a respectable rank 
among the merchants and gentry of England. 
We learn from the life of the first Earl Cow- 
per, in the Biographia Britannica, that his an- 
cestors were inhabitants of Sussex, in the 
reign of Edward the Fourth. The name is 
found repeatedly among the sheriffs of Lon- 
don ; and William Cowper, who resided as a 
country gentleman in Kent, was created a 
baronet by King Charles the First, in 1641* 
But the family rose to higher distinction in 
the beginning of the last century, by the 
remarkable circumstance of producing two 
brothers, who both obtained a seat in the 
House of Peers by their eminence in the pro- 
fession of the law. William, the elder, be- 
came Lord High Chancellor in 1707. Spen- 
cer Cowper, the younger, was appointed 
Chief Justice of Chester in 1717, and after- 
wards a Judge in the Court of Common 
Pleas, being permitted by the particular fa- 
vor of the king, to hold those two offices to 
the end of his life. He died in Lincoln's Inn, 
on the 10th of December, 1728, and has the 
higher claim to our notice as the immediate 
ancestor of the poet. By his first wife, Ju- 
dith Pennington (whose exemplary character 
is still revered by her descendants), Judge 
Cowper left several children ; among them a 
daughter, Judith, who at the age of eighteen 
discovered a striking talent for poetry, in the 
praise of her contemporary poets Pope and 
Hughes. This lady, the wife of Colonel Ma- 
dan, transmitted her own poetical and devout 
spirit to. her daughter Frances Maria, who was 
married to her cousin, Major Cowper; the 
amia ble character of Maria will unfold itself 
in the course of this work, as the friend and 
correspondent of her more eminent relation, 
the second grandchild of the Judge, destined 
to honor the name of Cowper, by displaying, 

* This gentleman was a writer of English verse, and, 
with rare munificence, bestowed both an epitaph and a 
monument on that illustrious divine, the venerable 
Hooker. In the edition of Walton's Lives, by Zouch, 
the curious reader may find the epitaph written by Sir 
William Cowper. 



with peculiar purity and fervor, the double 
enthusiasm of poetry and devotion. The 
father of the subject of the following pages 
was John Cowper, the Judge's second son, 
who took his degrees in divinity, was chap 
lain to King George the Second, and resided 
at his Rectory of Great Be'rkhamstead, in 
Hertfordshire, the scene of the poet's in- 
fancy, which he has Mms commemorated in a 
singularly beautiful and pathetic composition 
on the portrait of his mother. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more • 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor : 
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 
'Tis now become a history little known, 
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 
Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fait 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd 
A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, [laid j 
That thou might'st know me safe and warmlj 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit or confectionary plum; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd 
All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall ; 
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor interpos'd too often makes : 
All this, still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so t© my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may. 

The parent, whose merits are so feelingly 
recorded by the filial tenderness of the poet, 
was Ann, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq., of 
Ludham Hall, in Norfolk. This lady, whoso 
family is said to have been originally from 
Wales, was married in the bloom of youth 
to Dr. Cowper : after giving birth to several 
children, who died in their infancy, and leav- 
ing two sons, William, the immediate subject 
of this memorial, born at Berkhamstead on 
the 26th of November, 1731, and John (whose 



24 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



accomplishments and pious death will be de- 
scribed in the course of this compilation), she 
died in childbed, at the early age of thirty- 
four, in 1737. Those who delight in con- 
templating the best affections of our nature 
will ever admire the tender sensibility with 
which the poet has acknowledged his obli- 
gations to this amiable mother, in a poem 
composed more than fifty years after her de- 
cease. Readers of this description may find 
a pleasure in observing how the praise so 
liberally bestowed on this tender parent, at 
so late a period, is confirmed (if praise so 
unquestionable may be said to receive con- 
firmation) by another poetical record of her 
merit, which the hand of affinity and affection 
bestowed upon her tomb — a record written 
at a time when the poet, who was destined 
to prove, in his advanced life, her most pow- 
erful eulogist, had hardly begun to show the 
dawn of that genius which, after many years 
of silent affliction, rose like a star emerging 
from tempestuous darkness. 

The monument of Mrs. Cowper, erected 
by her husband in the cnancel of St. Peter's 
church at Berkhamstead, contains the follow- 
ing verses, composed by a young lady, her 
niece, the late Lady Walsingham. 

Here lies, in early years bereft of life, 
The best of mothers, and the kindest wife : 
Who neither knew nor practis'd any art. 
Secure in all she wish'd, her husband's heart. 
Her love to him, still prevalent in death, 
Pray'd Heav'n to bless him with her latest breath. 

Still was she studious never to offend, 
And glad of an occasion to commend : 
With ease would pardon injuries receiv'd, 
Nor e'er was cheerful when another griev'd ; 
Despising state, with her own lot content, 
Enjoy'd the comforts of a life well spent; 
Resign'd, when Heaven demanded back her 

breath, 
Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death. 

Whoe'er thou art that dost this tomb draw near, 
O stay awhile and shed a friendly tear ; 
These lines, tho' weak, are as herself sincere. 

The truth and tenderness of this epitaph 
will more than compensate with every can- 
did reader the imperfection ascribed to it by 
its young and modest author. To have lost 
a parent of a character so virtuous and en- 
dearing, at an early period of his childhood, 
was the 'prime misfortune of Cowper, and 
what contributed perhaps in the highest de- 
gree to the dark coloring of his subsequent 
life. The influence of a good mother on the 
first years of her children, whether nature 
has given them peculiar strength or peculiar 
delicacy of frame, is equally inestimable. It 
Is the prerogative and the felicity of such a 
mother to temper the arrogance of the strong, 
and to dissipate the timidity of the tender. 
The infancy of Cowper was delicate in no 
common degree, and his constitution discov- 



ered at a very early season that morbid ten- 
dency to diffidence, to melancholy and de- 
spair, which darkened as he advanced in 
years into periodical fits of the most deplor- 
able depression. 

The period having arrived for commencing 
his education, he was sent to a reputable 
school at Market-street, in Badfordshire, un- 
der the care of Dr. Pitman, and it is probable 
that he was removed from it in consequence 
of an ocular complaint. From a circumstance 
which he relates of himself at that period, 'in 
a letter written in 1792, he seems to havp 
been in danger of resembling Milton in th« 
misfortune of blindness, as he resembled 
him, more happily, in the fervency of a de- 
vout and poetical spirit. 

"I have been all my life," says Cowper, 
" subject to inflammations of the eyes, and in 
my boyish days had specks on both, that 
threatened to cover them. My father, alarmed 
for the consequences, sent me to a female 
oculist of great renown at that time, in whose 
house I abode two years, but to no good 
purpose. From her I went to Westminster 
school, where, at the age of fourteen, the 
small-pox seized me, and proved the better 
oculist of the two, for it delivered me from 
them all : not however from great liableness 
to inflammation, to which I am in a degree 
Still subject, though much less than formerly, 
since I have been constant in the use of a 
hot foot-bath every night, the last thing be- 
fore going to rest." 

It appears a strange process in education, 
to send a tender child, from a long residence 
in the house of a female oculist, immediately 
into all the hardships attendant on a public 
school. But the mother of Cowper was 
dead, and fathers, however excellent, are, in 
general, utterly incompetent to the manage- 
ment of their young and tender offspring. 
The little Cowper was sent to his first school 
in the year of his mother's death, and how ill- 
suited the scene was to his peculiar character 
is evident from the description of his sensa- 
tions in that season of life, which is often, 
very erroneously, extolled as the happiest 
period of human existence. He has been 
frequently heard to lament the persecution 
he suffered in his childish years, from the 
cruelty of his school-fellows, in the two 
scenes of his education. His own forcible 
expressions represented him at Westminster 
as not daring to raise his eye above the shoe- 
buckle of the elder boys, who were too apt 
to tyrannize over his gentle spirit. The 
acuteness of his feelings in his childhood, 
rendered those important years (which might 
have produced, under tender cultivation, a 
series of lively enjoyments) mournful peri- 
ods of increasing timidity and depression. 
In the most cheerful hours of his advanced 
life, he could never advert to this season 



LIFE OF COWPER 



24 



without shuddering at the recollection of its 
wretchedness. Yet to this perhaps the world 
is indebted for the pathetic and moral elo- 
quence of those forcible admonitions to pa- 
rents, which give interest and beauty to his 
admirable poem on public schools. Poets 
may be said to realize, in some measure, the 
poetical idea of the nightingale's singing with 
a thorn at her breast, as their most exquisite 
songs have often originated in the acuteness 
of their personal sufferings. Of this obvious 
truth, the poem just mentioned is a very 
memorable example ; and, if any readers 
have thought the poet too severe in his stric- 
tures on that system of education, to which 
we owe some of the most accomplished char- 
acters that ever gave celebrity to a civilized 
nation, such readers will be candidly recon- 
ciled to that moral severity of reproof, in re- 
collecting that it flowed from severe personal 
experience, united to the purest spirit of phi- 
lanthropy and patriotism. 

The relative merits of public and private 
education is a question that has long agitated 
:he world. Each has its partizans, its advan- 
tages, and defects ; and, like all general prin- 
ciples, its application must greatly depend on 
the circumstances of rank, future destination, 
and the peculiarities of character and temper. 
For the full development of the powers and 
faculties of the mind — for the acquisition of 
the various qualifications that fit men to sus- 
tain with brilliancy and distinction the duties 
of active life, whether in the cabinet, the sen- 
ate, or the forum — for scenes of busy enter- 
prize, where knowledge of the world and the 
growth of manly spirit seem indispensable ; 
in all such cases, we are disposed to believe, 
that the palm must be assigned to public edu- 
cation. 

But, on the other hand, if we reflect that 
brilliancy is oftentimes a flame which con- 
sumes its object, that knowledge of the world 
is, for the most part, but a knowledge of the 
evil that is in the world ; and that early habits 
of extravagance and vice, which are ruinous 
in their results, are not unfrequently con- 
tracted at public schools; if to these facts 
we add that man is a candidate for immortal- 
ity, and that' "life" (as Sir William Temple 
observes) "is but the parenthesis of eter- 
nity," it then becomes a question of solemn 
import, whether integrity and principle do not 
find a soil more congenial for their growth in 
the shade and retirement of private education ? 
The one is an advancement for time, the other 
for eternity. The former affords facilities for 
making men great, but often at the expense 
of happiness and conscience. The latter di- 
minishes the temptations to vice, and, while 
it affords a field for useful and honorable ex- 
ertion, augments the means of being wise and 
holy. 

We leave the reader to decide the great 



problem for himself. That he may be ena- 
bled to form a right estimate, we would urge 
him to suffer time and eternity to pass in 
solemn and deliberate review before him. 

That the public school was a scene by no 
means adapted to the sensitive mind of Cow- 
per is evident. Nor can we avoid cherishing 
the apprehension that his spirit, naturally 
morbid, experienced a fatal inroad from that 
period. He nevertheless acquired the repu- 
tation of scholarship, with the advantage of 
being known and esteemed by some of the 
aspiring characters of his own age, who sub- 
sequently became distinguished in the great 
arena of public life. 

With these acquisitions, he left Westmin- 
ster at the age of eighteen, in 1749 ; and, as 
if destiny had determined that all his early 
situations in life should be peculiarly irksome 
to his delicate feelings, and tend rather tc 
promote than to counteract his constitutional 
tendency to melancholy, he was removed from 
a public school to the office of an attorney. 
He resided three years in the house of«a Mr. 
Chapman, to whom he was engaged by/arti- 
cles for that time. Here he was placed for 
the study of a profession which nature seemed 
resolved that he never should practise. 

The law is a kind of soldiership'and, lik: 
the profession of arms, it may be said to re 
quire for the constitution of its heroes, 

" A frame of adamant, a soul of fire." 

The soul of Cowper had indeed its fire, but 
fire so refined and ethereal, that it could not 
be expected to shine in the gross atmosphere 
of worldly contention. Perhaps there never 
existed a mortal, who, possessing, with a 
good person, intellectual powers naturally 
strong and highly cultivated, was so utterly 
unfit to encounter the bustle and perplexities 
of public life. But the extreme modesty and 
shyness of his nature, which disqualified him 
for scenes of business and ambition, endeared 
him inexpressibly to those who had oppor- 
tunities to enjoy his society, and discernment 
to appreciate the ripening excellencies of his 
character. 

Reserved as he was, to an extraordinary 
and painful degree, his heart and mind were 
yet admirably fashioned by nature for all the 
refined intercourse and confidential enjoyment 
both of friendship and love ; but, though ap- 
parently formed to possess and to communi- 
cate an extraordinary portion of moral felic- 
ity, the incidents of his life were such, that, 
conspiring with the peculiarities of his nature, 
they rendered him, at different times, the vic- 
tim of sorrow. The variety and depth of his 
sufferings in early life, from extreme tender- 
ness of feeling, are very forcibly displayed in 
the following verses, which formed part of a 
letter to one of his female relatives, at the 
time they were composed. The letter has 



26 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



perished, and the verses owe their preserva- 
tion to the affectionate memory of the lady 
to whom they were addressed. 

Doom : d as I am. in solitude to waste 
The present moments, and regret the past; 
Derriv'd* of every joy I valued most, 
My friend torn from me. and my mistress lost ; 
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien. 
The dull effect of humor or of spleen ! 
Still, still. I mourn : with each returning day, 
Him* snatch'd by fate in early youth away ; 
And herf — thro' tedious years of doubt and pain, 
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — but in vain ! 
prone to pity, generous, and sincere, 
Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear; 
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, 
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; 
See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, 
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! 
See me neglected on the world's rude coast, 
Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, 
And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! 
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, 
All that delights the happy — palls with me ! 

Having concluded the term of his engage- 
ment with the solicitor, he settled himself in 
chambers in the Inner Temple, as a regular 
student o£law ; but although he resided there 
till the age of thirty-three, he rambled (ac- 
cording to his own colloquial account of his 
early years) from the thorny road of his aus- 
tere patroness, Jurisprudence, into the prim- 
rose paths of literature and poetry. During 
this period, he contributed two of the Satires 
in Duncombe's Horace, which are worthy of 
his pen, and indications of his rising genius. 
He also cultivated the friendship of some lit- 
erary characters, who had been his school- 
fellows at Westminster, particularly Colman, 
Bonnell Thornton, and Lloyd. Of these early 
associates of Cowper, it may be interesting to 
learn a brief history. Few men could have 
entered upon life with brighter prospects than 
Colman. His father was Envoy at the Court 
of Florence, and his mother was sister to the 
Countess of Bath. Possessed of talents that 
qualified him for exertion, with a classical 
taste perceptible in his translation of Hor- 
ace's Art of Poetry, and of the works of 
Terence, he relinquished the bar, to which 
he had been 'called, and became principally 
known for his devotedness to theatrical pur- 
suits. His private life was not consistent 
with the rules of morality ; and he closed his 
days, after a protracted malady, by dying in 
a Lunatic Asylum in Paddington, in the year 
1794. 

To Bonnell Thornton, jointly with Colman, 
we owe the Connoisseur, to which Cowper 
contributed a few numbers. Thornton also 
united with Colman and Warner in a transla- 

* Sir William Russel, the favorite friend of the young 
poet. 

t Miss Theodora Cowper. 



tion of Plautus. But his talents, instead of be- 
ing profitably employed, were chiefly marked 
by a predilection for humor, in the exercise 
of which he was not very discreet ; for the 
venerated muse of Gray did not escape his 
ridicule, and the celebrated Ode to St. Cecilia 
was made the occasion of a public burlesque 
performance, the relation of which would not 
accord with the design of this undertakings 
He who aims at nothing better than to amuse 
and divert, and to excite a laugh at the ex- 
pense of both taste and judgment, proposes 
to himself rio very exalted object. Thornton 
died in the year 1770, aged forty-seven. 

Lloyd was formerly usher at Westminster 
School, but feeling the irksomeness of the 
situation, resigned it, and commenced author. 
His Poems have been repeatedly republished. 
His life presented a scene of thoughtless ex- 
travagance and dissipation. Overwhelmed 
with debt, and pursued by his creditors, he 
was at length confined in the Fleet Prison, 
where he expired, the victim of his excesses, 
at the early age of thirty-one years. 

We record these facts, — 1st, That we may 
adore that mercy which, by a timely interpo- 
sition, rescued the future author of the Task 
from such impending ruin : — 2ndly, To show 
that scenes of gaiety and dissipation, however 
enlivened by flashes of wit, and distinguished 
by literary superiority, are perilous to charac- 
ter, health, and fortune ; and that the talents, 
which, if beneficially employed, might have 
led to happiness and honor, when perverted 
to unworthy ends, often lead prematurely to 
the grave, or render the past painful in the 
retrospect, and the future the subject of fear- 
ful anticipation and alarm. 

Happily, Cowper escaped from this vortex 
of misery and ruin. His juvenile poems dis- 
cover a contemplative spirit, and a mind early 
impressed with sentiments of piety. In proof 
of this assertion, we select a few stanzas from 
an ode written, when he was very young, on 
reading Sir Charles Grandison. 

To rescue from the tyrant's sword 

The oppress'd ; — unseen, and unimplor'd, 

To cheer the face of woe ; 
From lawless insult to defend 
An orphan's right — a fallen friend, 

And a forgiven foe : 

These, these, distinguish from the crowd, 
And these alone, the great and good, 

The guardians of mankind. 
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
Oh ! with what matchless speed, they leave 

The multitude behind ! 

Then ask ye from what cause on earth 
Virtues like these derive their birth 1 

Derived from Heaven alone, 
Full on that favor'd breast they shine, 
Where faith and resignation join 

To call the blessing down. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



21 



Such is that heart : — but while the Muse 
Thy theme. O Richardson, pursues. 

Her feebler spirits taint . 
She cannot reach, and would not wrong, 
That subject for an angel's song. 

The hero, and the saint. 

His early turn to moralize on the slightest 
• occasion will appear from the following' verses, 
which he wrote at the age of eighteen : and 
i in which those who love to trace the rise and 
progress of genius will, I think, be pleased to 
remark the very promising seeds of those pe- 
culiar powers, which unfolded themselves in 
the richest maturity at a remoter period, and 
rendered that beautiful and sublime poem, 
The Task, the most instructive and interest- 
ing of modern compositions. Young as the 
poet was when he produced the following 
lines, we may observe that he had probably 
been four years in the habit of writing Eng- 
lish verse, as he has said in one of his letters, 
that he began his poetical career at the age 
of fourteen, by translating an elegy of Tibul- 
lus. I have reason to believe that he wrote 
many poems in his early life ; and the singu- 
lar merit of this juvenile composition is suffi- 
cient to make the friends of genius regret 
that an excess of diffidence prevented him 
from preserving the poetry of his youth. 

VERSES, 

WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF 
A SHOE, 1748. 

Fortune ! I thank thee : gentle goddess ! thanks ! 
Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny 
She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou 

cast 
A treasure in her way ; for neither meed 
Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes 
And bowel-racking pains of emptiness. 
Nor noon-tide feast, nor evening's cool repast, 
Hopes she from this — presumptuous, tho'. perhaps. 
The cobbler, leather-caning artist might. 
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon 
Whatever, not as erst the fabled cock 
Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found. 
Spurn'd the rich gem thou gav'st him. Where- 
fore ah! 
Why not on me that favor (worthier sure) 
Conferr'dst thou, goddess 1 Thou art blind, thou 

say st ; 
Enough — thy blindness shall excuse the deed. 

Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale 
From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here, 
Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found ; 
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song ! 
This pondrous heel of perforated hide • 

Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, 
Haply. — for such its massy form bespeaks,-^ 
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
Upbore : on this supported, oft he stretch'd, 
With uncouth strides along the furrow'd glebe, 
Flatt'ning the stubborn clod, 'till cruel time 
(What will not cruel time 7) oj a wry step, 
Sever'd the strict cohesion ; vmen, alas ! 
He who could erst with even, equal pace, 



Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry 
And some proportion form'd now on one side, 
Curtail'd and maim'd. the sport of vagrant boya 
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! 
With toilsome steps, and difficult moves on. 
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet 
Of humble villager. The statesman thus 
Up the steep road where proud ambition leads, 
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds 
His prosperous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
While policy prevails, and friends prove true : 
But that support soon failing, by him left 
On whom he most depended, basely left. 
Betray'd deserted: from his airy height 
Headlong he falls, and. through the rest of life, 
Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 

Of a youth, whg, in a scene like Bath, could . 
produce such a meditation, it might fairly be 
expected that he would 

• In riper fife, exempt from public haunt, 
Find tongues in trees, books in the running 

brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 

Though extreme diffidence, and a tendency 
to despond, seemed early to preclude Cowper 
from the expectation of climbing to the splen- 
did summit of the profession he had chosen ; 
yet, by the interest of his family, he had pros- 
pects of emolument in a line of life that ap- 
peared better suited to the modesty of his 
nature and to his moderate ambition. 

In his thirty-first year he was nominated to 
the offices of Reading Clerk and Clerk of the 
private Committees in the House of Lords — 
a situation the more desirable, as such an es- 
tablishment might enable him to marry early 
in life ; a measure to which he was "doubly 
disposed by judgment and inclination. But 
the peculiarities of his wonderful mind ren- 
dered him unable to support the ordinary du- 
ties of his new office ; for the idea of reading 
in public proved a source of torture to his 
tender and apprehensive spirit. An expediem 
was devised to promote his interest without 
wounding his feelings. Resigning his situa- 
tion of Reading Clerk, he was appointed 
Clerk of the Journals in the same House of 
Parliament. Of his occupation, in conse- 
quence of this new T appointment, he speaks 
in the following letter to a lady, who will 
become known and endeared to the reader in 
proportion to the interest he takes in the 
writings of Cowper. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Temple, August 9. 1763. 

My dear Cousin, — Having promised to 
write to you, I make haste to be as good as 
my word. I have a pleasure in writing to you 
at any time, but especially at the present 
when my days are spent in reading the Jour- 
nals, and my nights in dreaming of them ; an 
employment not very agreeable to a head 
that has long been habituated to the luxury 



28 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of choosing its subject, and lias been as little 
employed upon business as if it had grown 
upon the shoulders of a much wealthier gen- 
tleman. But the numscull pays for it now, 
and will not presently forget the discipline it 
has undergone lately. If I succeed in this 
doubtful piece of promotion, I shall have at 
least this satisfaction to reflect upon, that the 
volumes I write will be treasured up with the 
utmost care for ages, and will last as long as 
the English constitution — a duration which 
ought to satisfy the vanity of any author who 
has a spark of love for his country. Oh, my 
good Cousin ! if I was to open my heart to 
you, I could show you strange sights; no- 
thing I flatter myself that would shock you, 
but a great deal that wouldi make you won- 
der. I am of a very singular temper, and 
very unlike all the men that I have ever con- 
versed with. Certainly I am not an absolute 
fool : but I have more weaknesses than the 
greatest of all the fools I can recollect at pres- 
ent. In short, if I was as fit for the next 
world as I am unfit for this, and God forbid 
I should speak it in vanity, I would not change 
conditions with any saint in Christendom. 

My destination is settled at last, and I have 
obtained a furlough. Margate is the word, 
and what do you think will ensue, Cousin ? I 
know what you expect, but ever since I was 
born I have been good at disappointing the 
most natural expectations. Many years ago, 
Cousin, there was a possibility that I might 
prove a very different thing from what I am 
at present. My character is now fixed, and 
riveted fast upon me, and, between friends, is 
not a very splendid one, or likely to be guilty 
of much fascination. 

Adieu, my dear Cousin ! so much as I love 
you, I wonder how it has happened I was 
never in love with you. Thank Heaven that 
I never was, for at this time I have had a 
pleasure in writing to you, which in that case 
I should have forfeited. Let me hear from 
you, or I shall reap but half the reward that 
is due to my noble indifference. 

Yours ever, and evermore, 

W. C. 

It was hoped from the change of his sta- 
tion that his personal appearance in parlia- 
ment might not be required, but a parlia- 
mentary dispute made it necessary for him 
to appear at the bar of the House of Lords, 
to entitle himself publicly to the office. 

Speaking of this important incident in a 
sketch, which he once formed himself, of 
passages in his early lif J, he expressed what 
he endured at the time in these remarkable 
words : " They whose spirits are formed like 
mine, to whom a public exhibition of them- 
selves is mortal poison, may have some idea 
of the horrors of my situation — others can 
iave none." 



His terrors on this occasion arose to sucl 
an astonishing height, that they utterly over- 
whelmed his reason; for, although he had 
endeavored to prepare himself for his public 
duty, by attending closely at the office for 
several months, to examine the parliamentary 
journals, his application was rendered useless 
by that excess of diffidence, which made him 
conceive that, whatever knowledge he might 
previously acquire, it would all forsake him 
at the bar of the House. This distressing 
apprehension increased to such a degree, as 
the time for his appearance approached, that, 
when the day so anxiously dreaded arrived, 
he was unable to make the experiment. The 
very friends who called on him for the pur- 
pose of attending him to the House of Lords, 
acquiesced in the cruel necessity of his re- 
linquishing the prospect of a station so se- 
verely formidable to a frame of such singular 
sensibility. 

The conflict between the wishes of honor 
.able ambition and the terrors of diffidence so 
entirely overwhelmed his health and faculties, 
that, after two learned and benevolent divines 
(Mr. John Cowper, his brother, and the cele- 
brated Mr. Martin Madan, his first cousin) 
had vainly endeavored to establish a lasting 
tranquillity in his mind by friendly and relig- 
ious conversation, it was found necessary to 
remove him to St. Alban's, where he resided 
a considerable time, under the care of that 
eminent physician, Dr. Cotton, a scholar and 
a poet, who added to many accomplishments 
a peculiar sweetness of manners, in very ad- 
vanced life, when I had the pleasure of a 
personal acquaintance with him. 

The misfortune of mental derangement is 
a topic of such awful delicacy, that I consider 
it to be the duty of a biographer rather to 
sink, in tender silence, than to proclaim, with 
circumstantial and offensive temerity, the 
minute particulars of a calamity to which all 
human beings are exposed, and perhaps in 
proportion as they have received from nature 
those delightful but dangerous gifts, a heart 
of exquisite tenderness -and a mind of crea« 
tive energy. 

This is a sight for pity to pursue, 
Till she resembles, faintly, what she views ; 
Till sympathy contracts a kindred pain, 
Pierc'd with the woes that she laments in vain. 
This, of all maladies, that man infest,' 
Claims most compassion, and receives the least 

But-with a soul that ever felt the sting 
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing. 



'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, 
Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes. 
Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, 
Each yielding harmony, disposed aright ; 
The screws revers'd ^a task, which, if He please 
God, in a moment, executes with ease), 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



29 



Ten thousand, thousand strings at once go loose ; 
Lost, till He tune them, all their power and use. 

No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels ; 
No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. 
And thou, sad sufferer, under nameless ill, 
That yields not to the touch of human skill, 
Improve the kind occasion, understand 
A Father's frown, and kiss the chast'ning hand ! 

It is in this solemn and instructive light, 
that Cowper himself teaches us to consider 
the calamity of which I am now speaking ; 
and of which, like his illustrious brother of 
Parnassus, the younger Tasso, he was occa- 
sionally a most affecting example. Provi- 
dence appears to have given a striking lesson 
to mankind, to guard both virtue and genius 
against pride of heart and pride of intellect, 
by thus suspending the affections and the 
talents of two most tender and sublime poets, 
who resembled each other, not more in the 
attribute of poetic genius than in the similar- 
ity of the dispensation that quenched its light 
and ardor. 

From December, 1763, to the following 
July, the sensitive mind of Cowper appears 
to have labored under the severest suffering 
of morbid depression ; but the medical skill 
of Dr. Cotton, and the cheerful, benignant 
manners of that accomplished physician, grad- 
ually succeeded, with the blessing of Heaven, 
in removing the indescribable load of relig- 
ious despondency, which had clouded the fa- 
culties of this interesting man. His ideas of 
religion were changed from the gloom of ter- 
ror, and despair to the brightness of inward 
joy and peace. 

This juster and happier view of evangeli- 
cal truth is said to have arisen in his mind, 
while he was reading the third chapter of 
Saint Paul's Epistle to the Romans. The 
words that rivetted his attention were the 
following : " Whom God hath set forth to be 
a propitiation through faith in his blood, to de- 
clare his righteousness for the remission of 
sins that are past, through the forbearance of 
God." Rom. iii. 25. 

It was to this passage, which contains so 
lucid an exposition of the Gospel method of 
salvation, that, under the divine blessing, the 
poet owed the recovery of a previously disor- 
dered intellect and the removal of a load from 
a deeply oppressed conscience — he saw, by a 
new and powerful perception, how sin could 
be "pardoned, and the sinner be saved — that 
the way appointed of God was through the 
great propitiation and sacrifice upon the cross 
— that faith lays hold of the promise, and 
thus becomes the instrument of conveying 
pardon and peace to the soul. 

It is remarkable how God, in every age, 
from the first promulgation of the Gospel to 
the present time, and under all the various 
Dodifications of society, barbarian, Scythian, 



bond or free, has put his seal to this funda- 
mental doctrine of the Gospel. 

Whether we contemplate man amid the 
polished scenes of civilized and enlightened 
Europe, or the rude ferocity of savage tribes 
— whether it be the refined Hindoo, or the 
unlettered Hottentot, whose mind becomes 
accessible to the power and influences of re- 
ligion, the cause and the effect are the same. 
It is the doctrine of the cross that works the 
mighty change. The worldly wise may re- 
ject this doctrine, — the spiritually wise com- 
prehend and receive it. But, whether it be 
rejected, with all its tremendous responsibili- 
ties, or received with its inestimable blessings, 
the truth itself still remains unchanged and 
unchangeable, attested by the records of every 
church and the experience of eveiy believing 
heart — " the cross is to them that perish fool- 
ishness, but unto us which are saved it is the 
power of God." 1 Cor. i. 18. 

It is impossible not to admire the powei, 
and adore the mercy, that thus wrought a 
double deliverance in the mind of Cowper by 
a process so remarkable. Devout contempla- 
tion became more and more dear to his re- 
viving spirit. Resolving to relinquish all 
thoughts of a laborious profession, and all 
intercourse with the busy world, he acqui- 
esced in a plan of settling at Huntingdon, by 
the advice of his brother, who, as a minister 
of the Gospel, and a fellow of Bene't Col 
lege, Cambridge, resided in that University . 
a situation so near to the place chosen for 
Cowpers retirement, that it afforded to these 
affectionate brothers opportunities of easy 
and frequent intercourse. I regret that all 
the letters which passed between them have 
perished, and the more so, as they sometimes 
cone-ponded in verse. . John Cowper was 
also a poet. He had engaged to execute a 
translation of Voltaire's Henriade, and in the 
course of the work requested, and obtained, 
the assistance of William, who translated, as 
he informed me himself, two entire cantos of 
the poem. This fraternal production is said 
to have appeared in a magazine of the year 
1759. I have discovered a rival, and proba- 
bly an inferior translation, so published, but 
the joint work of the poetical brothers has 
hitherto eluded all my researches. 

In June, 1765, the reviving invalid removed 
to a private lodging in the town of Hunting- 
don, but Providence soon introduced him into 
a family, which afforded him one of the most 
singular and valuable friends that ever watched 
an afflicted mortal in seasons ci overwhelm, 
ing adversity ; that friend, to whom the poet 
exclaims in the commencement of the Task, 

And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
Whose arm, this twentieth winter, I perceive 
Fast locked in mine, with pleasure, such as love 
Confirmed by long experience of thy worth, 
And well tried virtues, could alone inspire ; 



30 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Witness a joy, that thou hast doubled long ! 
Thou knowest my praise of Nature most sincere ; 
And that my raptures are not conjured up 
To serve occasions of poetic pomp, 
But genuine, and art partner of them all. 

These verses would be alone sufficient to 
make every poetical reader take a lively in- j 
terest in the lady they describe ; but these ( 
are far from being the only tribute which the ! 
gratitude of Cowper has paid to the endear- j 
ing virtues of his female companion. More ' 
poetical memorials of her merit will be found 
in these volumes, and in verse so exquisite, 
that it may be questioned if the most pas- 
sionate lover ever gave rise to poetry more 
tender or more sublime. 

Yet, in this place, it appears proper to ap- 
prize the reader, that it was not love, in the 
common acceptation of the word, which in- 
spired these admirable eulogies. The attach- 
ment of Cowper to Mrs. Unwin, the Mary of 
the poet, was an attachment perhaps unpar- 
alleled. Their domestic union, though not 
sanctioned by the common forms of life, was 
supported with perfect innocence, and en- 
deared to them both by their having strug- 
gled together through a series of sorrow. A 
spectator of sensibility, who had contemplated 
the uncommon tenderness of their attention 
to the wants and infirmities of each other in 
the decline of life, might have said of their 
singular attachment, 

L'Amour n'a rien de si tendre, 
Ni l'Amitie de si doux. 

As a .connection so extraordinary forms a 
striking feature in the history of the poet, the 
reader will probably be anxious to investigate 
its origin and progress. — It arose from the 
following little incident. 

The countenance and deportment of Cow- 
er, though they indicated his native shyness, 
ad yet very singular powers of attraction. 
On his first appearance in one of the churches 
of Huntingdon, he engaged the notice and 
respect of an amiable young man, William 
Cawthorne Unwin, then a student at Cam- 
bridge, who, having observed, after divine 
service, that the interesting stranger was tak- 
ing a solitary turn under a row of trees, was 
irresistibly led to share his walk, and to so- 
licit his acquaintance. 

They were soon pleased with each other, 
and the intelligent youth, charmed with the 
acquisition of such a friend, was eager to 
communicate the treasure to his parents, who 
had long resided in Huntingdon. 

Mr. Unwin, the father, had for some years 
been master of a free school in the town; 
but, as he advanced in life he quitted the la- 
borious situation, and, settling in a large con- 
venient house in the High-street, contented 
nimself with a few domestic pupils, whom he 
instructed in classical literature. 



This worthy divine, who was now far ad 
vanced in years, had been lecturer to the two 
churches at Hunting#>n, before he obtained 
from his college at Cambridge the living of 
Grimston. While he lived in expectation of 
this preferment, he had attached himself to a 
young lady of lively talents, and remarkably 
fond of reading. This lady, who, in the pro- 
cess of time, and by a series of singula, 
events, became the friend and guardian o. 
Cowper, was the daughter of Mr. Ca'wthorn»: 
a draper in Ely. She was married to Mr 
Unwin, on his succeeding to the prefermer: 
that he expected from his college, and settle: 
with him on his living of Grimston; but, no . 
liking the situation and society of that seques- 
tered scene, she prevailed on her husband to 
establish himself in Huntingdon, where he 
was known and respected. 

They had resided there many years, and, 
with their two only children, a son and a 
daughter, they formed a cheerful and social- 
family, when the younger Unwin, described 
by Cowper as 

" A friend, 
Whose worth deserves the warmest lay 
That ever friendship penn'd," 

presented to his parents the solitary stranger, 
on whose retirement he had benevolently in- 
truded, and whose welfare he became more 
and more anxious to promote. An event 
highly pleasing and comfortable to Cowper 
soon followed this introduction ; he was af- 
fectionately solicited by all the Unwins to re- 
linquish his lonely lodging, and to become a 
part of their family. 

We are now arrived at that period in the 
personal history of Cowper. when we are for- 
tunately enabled to employ his own descrip- 
tive powers in recording the events and char- 
acters that particularly interested him, and in 
displaying the state of his mind at a remark- 
able season of his chequered life. The fol- 
lowing are a'mong the earliest letters of this 
affectionate writer, which the kindness of his 
friends and relatives has supplied towards the 
execution and embellishment of this work. 

Among his juvenile intimates and corre- 
spondents, he particularly regarded two gen- 
tlemen, who devoted themselves to different 
branches of the law, the first Lord Thurlow, 
and Joseph Hill, Esq., whose name appears 
in Cowper's Poems, prefixed to a few verses 
of exquisite beauty, a brief epistle, that seems 
to have more of the genuine ease, spirit, and 
moral gaiety of Horace, than any original 
epistle in the English language. From these 
two confidential associates of the poet, in his 
unclouded years, we might have expected 
materials for the display of his early genius; 
but, in the torrent of busy and splendid life, 
which bore the first of them to a mighty dis- 
tance from his less ambitious fellow-fttudenl 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



of the Temple, the private letters and verses 
that arose from their youthful intimacy have 
perished. 

The lexers to Mr. Hill are copious, and 
extend through a long period of time, and 
although many of them were of a nature not 
suited to publication, yet many others will 
illustrate and embellish this volume. The 
steadiness and integrity of Mr. Hill's regard 
for a person so much sequestered from his 
sight gives him a particular title to be distin- 
guished among those whom Cowper has 
honored, by addres-ing to them his highly 
interesting and affectionate letters. Many 
of these, which we shall occasionally intro- 
duce in the parts of the ' narrative to which 
they belong, may tend to confirm a truth, not 
unpleasing to the majority of readers, that 
the temperate zone of moderate fortune, 
equally removed from high and low life, is 
most favorable to the permanence of friend- 
ship. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Huntingdon, June -24, 1765. 

Dear Joe, — The only recompense I can 
make you for your kind attention to my af- 
fairs, during my illness, is to tell you "that, 
by the mercy of God, I am restored to per- 
fect health, both of mind and body. This, I 
believe, will give you pleasure, and I would 
gladly do anything from which you could re- 
ceive it. 

I left St. Alban's, on the 17th, and arrived 
that day at Cambridge, spent some time there 
with my brother, and came hither on the 
22nd. . I have a lodging that puts me con- 
tinually in mind of our summer excursions ; 
we have had many worse, and except the size 
of it (which however is sufficient for a single 
man) but few better. I am not quite alone, 
having brought a servant with me from St. 
Alban's, who is the very mirror of fidelity 
and affection for his master. And, whereas 
the Turkish Spy says, he kept no servant 
because he would, not have an enemy in his 
house, I hired mine because I would have a 
friend* Men do not usually bestow these 
encomiums on their lackeys, nor do they 
usually deserve them, but I have had experi- 
ence of mine, both in sickness and in health, 
and never saw his fellow. 

The river Ouse, I forget how they spell it, 
is the most agreeable circumstance in this 
part of the world ; at this town it is, I be- 
lieve, as wide as the Thames at Windsor; 
nor does the silver Thames better deserve 
that epithet, nor has it more flowers upon its 
banks, these being attributes which, in strict 
truth, belong to neither. Fluellen would 
say, they are as like as my fingers to my 
fingers, and there is salmon in both. It is a 
noble stream to bathe in, and I shall make 



that use of it three times a week, having in- 
troduced myself to it tor the first time thii 
morning. 

I beg you will remember me to all my 
friends, which is a task will cost you no 
great pains to execute — particularly remem- 
ber me to those of your own house, and be 
lieve me 

Your very affectionate 

W. C. 



TO LADV HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, July 1, 1765. 

. My dear Lady Hesketh, — Since the visit 
you were so kind to pay me in the Temple 
(the only time I ever saw you without pleas- 
ure), wh it have I not suffered ? And, since 
it has pleased God to restore me to the use 
of my reason, what have I not enjoyed ? You 
know, by experience, how pleasant it is to feel 
the first approaches of health after a fever ; 
but, oh ! the fever of the brain ! To feel the 
quenching of that fire is indeed a blessing 
which I think it impossible to receive with, 
out the most consummate gratitude. Terri- 
ble as this chastisement is, I acknowledge in 
it the hand of an infinite justice ; nor is it at 
all more difficult for me to perceive in it the 
hand of an infinite mercy likewise : when I 
consider the effect it has had upon me, I am 
exceedingly thankful for it, and, without hy- 
pocrisy, esteem it the greatest blessing, next 
19o life itself, I ever received from the divine 
bounty. I pray God that I may ever retain 
this sense of it, and then I am sure I shall 
continue to be, as I am at present, really 
happy. 

I write thus to you, that you may not think 
me a forlorn and wretched creature; which 
you might be apt to do, considering my very 
distant removal from every friend I have in 
the world — a circumstance which, before this 
event befell me, would undoubtedly have 
made me so; but my affliction has taught 
me a road to happiness, which, without it, I 
should never have found ; and I know, and 
have experience of it every day, that the 
mercy of God, to him who believes himself 
the object of it, is more than sufficient to 
compensate for the loss of every other bless- 
ing. 

You may now inform all those whom you 
think really interested in my welfare, that 
they have no need to be apprehensive on the 
score of my happiness at present. And you 
yourself will believe that my happiness is no 
dream, because I have told you the founda- 
tion on which it is built. What I have writ- 
ten would appear like enthusiasm to many 
for we are apt to give that name to every 
warm affection of the mind in others which 
we have not experienced in ourselves ; but to 
you, who have so much to be thankful for 



and a temper inclined to gratitude, it will not 
appear so. 

7 beg you will give my love to Sir Thomas, 
and believe that I am* obliged to you both for 
inquiring after me at St. Ai ban's. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Huntingdon, July 3, 1765. 

Dear Joe,- — Whatever you may think of the 
matter, it is no such easy thing to keep house 
for two people. A man cannot always live 
like the lions in the Tower; and a joint of 
meat, in so small a family, is an endless in- 
cumbrance. In short, I never knew how to 
pity poor housekeepers before; but now I 
cease to wonder at that politic cast which 
their occupation usually gives to their coun- 
tenance, for it is really a matter full of per- 
plexity. 

I have received but one visit since here I 
came. I don't mean that I have refused any, 
but that only one has been offered. This 
was from my woollen-draper; a very heal- 
thy, wealthy, sensible, sponsible man, and 
extremely civil. He has a cold bath, and 
has promised me a key of it, which I shall 
probably make use of in the winter. He has 
undertaken, too, to get me the St. James's 
Chronicle three times a-week, and to show 
me Hinchinbrook House, and to do eve#y 
service for me in his power; so that I did 
not exceed the truth, you see, when I spoke 
of his civility. Here is a card-assembly, and 
a dancing-assembly, and a horse-race, and a 
club, and a bowling-green ; so that I am well 
off, you perceive, in point of diversions ; espe- 
cially as I shall go to 'em, just as much as I 
should if I lived a thousand miles off. But 
no matter for that ; the spectator at a play is 
more entertained than the actor ; and in real 
life it is much the same. You will say, per- 
haps, that if I never frequent these places, I 
shall not come within the description of a 
spectator; and you will say right. I have 
made a blunder, which shall be corrected in 
the next edition. 

You are old dog at a bad tenant ; witness 
all my uncle's and your mother's geese and 
gridirons. There is something so extremely 
impertinent in entering upon a man's premi- 
ses, and using them without paying for 'em, 
that I could easily resent it if I would. But 
I rather choose to entertain myself with 
thinking how you will scour the man about, 
and worry him to death, if once you begin 
with him. Poor wretch ! I leave him entirely 
to your mercy. 

My dear Joe, you desire me to write long 
etters. I have neither matter enough nor 
perseverance enough for the purpose. How- 

* Private correspondence. 



ever, if you can but contrive to be tired of 
reading as soon as I am tired of writing, we 
shall find that short ones answer just as well 
and, in my opinion, this is a very practicable 
measure. 

My friend Colman has had good fortune , 
I wish him better fortune still ; which is, that 
he may make a right use of it. The trage- 
dies of Lloyd and Bensley are both very deep 
If they are not of use to the surviving part of 
the society, it is their own fault. 

I was debtor to Bensley seven pounds, 01 

nine, I forget which. If you can find out Ms 

brother, you will do me a great favor if you 

will pay him for me ; but do it at your leisure. 

Yours and theirs,* 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, July 4, 1765. 

Being just emerged from the Ouse, I sit 
down to thank you, my dear cousin, for your 
friendly and comfortable letter. What could 
you think of my unaccountable behavior to 
you in that visit I mentioned in my last? I 
remember I neither spoke to you nor looked 
at you. The solution of the mystery indeed 
followed soon after, but at the same time it 
must have been inexplicable. The uproar 
within was even then begun, and my silence 
was only the sulkiness of a thunder-storm 
before it opens. I am glad, however, that 
the only instance in which I knew not how 
to value your company was when I was not 
in my senses. It was the first of the kind, 
and I trust in God it will be the last. 

How naturally does affliction make us 
Christians ! and how impossible it is, when 
all human help is vain, and the whole earth 
too poor and trifling to furnish us with one 
moment's peace — how impossible is it then 
to avoid looking at the Gospel ! It gives me 
some concern, though at the same time it in- 
creases my gratitude, to reflect, that a convert 
made in Bedlam is more likely to be a stum- 
bling-block to others than to advance their 
faith. But, if it has that effect upon any, it 
is owing to their reasoning amiss, and draw 
ing their conclusions from false premises. 
He who can ascribe an amendment of life 
and manners and a reformation of the hearl 
itself to madness, is guilty of an absurdity 
that in any other case would fasten the im- 
putation of madness upon himself; for, by so 
doing, he ascribes a reasonable effect to an 
unreasonable cause, and a positive effect to a 
negative. But, when Christianity only is to 
be sacrificed, he that stabs deepest is always 

* The author is supposed to mean Mrs. Hill and her 
two daughters. The word theirs cannot so well refer to 
the last antecedent, the persons who stand in that rela- 
tion with it being both dead at the time he wrote, as ii 
evident from the context. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



33 



the wisest man. You, my dear cousin, your- 
self, will be apt to think I carry the matter 
too far, and that, in the present warmth of 
my heart, I make too ample a concession in 
saying, that I am onhj now a convert. You 
think I always believed, and I thought so too, 
but you were deceived, and so was I. I called 
myself indeed a Christian, but He who knows 
my heart, knows that I never did a right thing, 
nor abstained from a wrong one, because I 
was so. But, if I did either, it was under 
the influence of some other motive. And it 
is such seeming Christians, such pretending 
believers, that do most mischief to the cause, 
and furnish the strongest arguments to sup- 
port the infidelity of its enemies : unless pro- 
fession and conduct go together, the man's 
life is a lie, and the validity of what he pro- 
fesses itself is called in question. The differ- 
ence between a Christian and an unbeliever 
would be so striking, if the treacherous allies 
of the church would go over at once to the 
other side, that I am satisfied religion would 
be no loser by the bargain. 

I reckon it one instance of the providence 
that has attended me throughout this whole 
event, that, instead of being delivered into the 
hands of one of the London physicians — who 
were so much nearer, that I wonder I was 
notr— I was carried to Dr. Cotton. I was not 
only treated by him with the greatest tender- 
ness while I was ill, and attended with the 
utmost diligence, but when my reason was 
restored to me, and I had so much need of a 
religious friend to converse with, to whom I 
could open my mind upon the subject with- 
out reserve, I could hardly have found a fitter 
person for the purpose. My eagerness and 
anxiety to settle my opinions upon that long- 
neglected point made it necessary, that while 
my mind was yet weak, and my spirits uncer- 
tain, I should have some assistance. The 
doctor was as ready to administer relief to 
me in this article likewise, and as well quali- 
fied to do it as in that which was more im- 
mediately his province. How many physi- 
cians would have thought this an irregular 
appetite and a symptom of remaining mad- 
ness ! , But if it were so, my friend was as 
mad as myself, and it is well for me that he 
was so. 

My dear cousin, you know not half the 
deliverances I have received ; my brother is 
the only one in the family who does. My 
recovery is indeed a signal one, but a greater, 
if possible, went before it. My future life 
must express my thankfulness, for by words 
i cannot do it. 

I pray God to bless you, and my friend 
Sit Thomas. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, July 5, 1 765. 

My dear Lady Hesketh, — My pen runs so 
fast you will begin to wish you had not put 
it in motion, but you must consider we have 
not met, even by letter, almost these two 
years, which will account, in some measure, 
for my pestering you in this manner ; besides 
my last was no answer to yours, and there- 
fore I consider myself as still in your debt. 
To say truth, I have this long time promised 
myself a correspondence with you as one of 
my principal pleasures. 

I should have written to you from St. Al 
ban's long since, but was willing to perform 
quarantine first, both for my own sake, and 
because I thought my letters would be more 
satisfactory to you from any other quarter. 
You will perceive I allowed myself a very 
sufficient time for the purpose, for I date my 
recovery from the 25th of last July, having 
been ill seven months, and well twelve months. 
It was on that day my brother came to see me ; 
I was far from well when he came in ; yet, 
though he only stayed one day with me, his 
company served to put to flight a thousand 
deliriums and delusions which I still labored 
under, and the next morning found myself a 
new creature. But to the present purpose. 

As far as I am acquainted with this place, 
I like it extremely. Mr. Hodgson, the min- 
ister of the parish, made me a visit the day 
before yesterday. He is very sensible; a 
good preacher, and conscientious in the dis- 
charge of his duty. He is very well known 
to Dr. Newton, Bishop of Bristol, the author 
of the Treatise oh the Prophecies, one of our 
best bishops, and who nas written the mosl 
demonstrative proof of the truth of Christian- 
ity, in my mind, that ever was published. 

There is a village, called Hertford, about a 
mile and a half from hence. The church 
there is very prettily situated upon a rising 
ground, so close to the river that it washes 
the wall of the churchyard. I found an epi- 
taph there the other morning, the two first 
lines of which being better than anything 
else I saw there, I made shift to remember. 
It is by a widow, on her husband. 

" Thou wast too good to live on earth with me, 
And I not good enough to die with thee." 

The distance of this place from Cambridge 
is the worst circumstance belonging to it. 
My brother and I are fifteen miles asunder, 
which, considering that I came hither for the 
sake of being near him, is rather too much. 
I wish that young man was better known in 
the family. He has as many good qualities 
as his nearest kindred could wish io find in 
him. 

As Mr. Quin very roundly expressed him- 
self upon some such occasion, " here is very 
plentiful accommodation, and great happiness 

3 



31 



UUWPER'S WORKS, 



of provision." So that' if I starve, it must be 
through forgetfulness rather than scarcity. 
Fare thee well, my good and dear cousin. 
Ever yours, .W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

July 12, 1765. 

My dear Cousin, — You are very good to 
me, and if you will only continue to write at 
such intervals as you find convenient, I shall 
receive all that pleasure which I proposed to 
myself from our correspondence. I desire no 
more than that you would never drop me for 
any length of time together, for I shall then 
think you only write because something hap- 
pened to put you in mind of me, or for some 
other reason equally mortifying. I am not, 
however, so unreasonable as to expect you 
should perform this act of friendship so fre- 
quently as myself, for you live in a world 
swarming with engagements, and my hours 
are almost all my own. You must every day 
be employed in doing what is expected from 
you by a thousand others, and I have nothing 
to do but what is most agreeable to myself. 

Our mentioning Newton's Treatise on the 
Prophecies brings to my mind an anecdote 
of Dr. Young, who you know died lately at 
Welwyn. Dr. Cotton, who was intimate 
with him, paid him a visit about a fortnight 
before he was seized with his last illness. 
The old man was then in perfect health ;' the 
antiquity of his person, the gravity of his ut- 
terance, and the earnestness with which he 
discoursed about religion, gave him, in the 
doctor's eye, the appearance of a prophet. 
They had been delivering their sentiments 
upon this book of Newton, when Young 
closed the conference thus: — "My friend, 
there are two considerations upon which my 
faith in Christ is built as upon a rock : the 
fall of man, the redemption of man, and the 
resurrection of man, the three cardinal arti- 
cles of our religion, are such as human inge- 
nuity could never have invented, therefore 
they must be divine ; the other argument is 
this. If the prophecies have been fulfilled 
(of which there is abundant demonstration), 
the Scripture must be the word of God, and 
if the Scripture is the word of God, Chris- 
tianity must be true." 

This treatise on the prophecies serves a 
double purpose ; it not only proves the truth 
of religion, in a manner that never has been, 
nor ever can be controverted ; but it proves 
likewise, that the Roman Catholic is the apos- 
tate, and the anti-Christian church, so fre- 
quently foretold both in the Old and New 
Testaments. Indeed so fatally connected is 
the refutation of Popery with the truth of 
Christianity, when the latter is evinced by 
the completion of the prophecies, that, in 
proportion as light is thrown upon the one, 



the deformities and errors of the other are 
more plainly exhibited. But I leave you to 
the book itself; there are parts of it which 
may possibly afford you less entertainment 
than the rest, because yot have never been 
a school-boy, but in the ma.,a it is so interest- 
ing, and you are so fond of that which is so, 
that I am sure you will like it. 

My dear cousin, how happy am I in having 
a friend, to whom I can open my heart upon 
these subjects ! I have many intimates in the 
world, and have had many more than I shall 
have hereafter, to whom a long letter upon 
these most important articles would appear 
tiresome at least, if not impertinent. But ] 
am not afraid of meeting with that reception 
from you, who have never yet made it your 
interest that there should be no truth in the 
word of God. May this everlasting truth be 
your comfort while you live, and attend you 
with peace and joy in your last moments ! I 
love you too weir not to make this a part of 
my prayers ; and when I remember my friends 
on these occasions, there is no likelihood that 
you can be forgotten. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

P. S. — Cambridge. I add this postscript 
at my brother's rooms. He desires to be af- 
fectionately remembered to you, and if you 
are in town about a fortnight hence, when he 
proposes to be there himself, will take a 
breakfast with you. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, August 1st, 1765. 

My dear Cousin, — If I was to measure your 
obligation to write by my own desire to hear 
from you, I should call you an idle corre- 
spondent if a post went by without bringing 
a letter, but I am not so unreasonable ; on 
the contrary, I think myself very happy in 
hearing from yon upon your own terms, as 
you find most convenient. Your short his- 
tory of my family is a very acceptable part 
of your letter ; if they really interest them- 
selves in my welfare* it is a mark of their 
great charity for one who has been a disap- 
pointment and a vexation to them ever since 
he has been of consequence enough to be 
either. My friend the major's behavior* to 
me, after all he suffered by my abandoning 
his interest and my own, in so miserable a 
manner, is a noble instance of generosity and 
true greatness of mind : and, indeed, I know 
no man in whom those qualities are more 
conspicuous ; one need only furnish him with 

* Cowper's pecuniary resources had been seriously 
impaired by his loss of the Clerkship of the Journals in 
the House of Lords, and by his subsequent resignation 
of the office of Commissioner of Bankrupts. At the 
kind instigation of Major Cowper, his friends had been 
induced to unite in rendering his income more adequate 
to his necessary annual expenditure. 



an opportunity to display them, and they are 
always ready to show themselves in his words 
and actions, and even in his countenance, at 
a moment's warning. I have great reason to 
be thankful — I have lost none of my acquaint- 
ance, but those whom I determined not to 
keep. I am sorry this class is so numerous. 
What would I not give that every friend I 
have in the world were not almost but alto- 
gether Christians! My dear cousin, I am 
half afraid to talk in this style, lest I should 
?<*>m .o indulge a censorious humor, instead 
of hoping, as I ought, the best for all men. 
But what can be said against ocular proof, 
and what is hope when it is built upon pre- 
sumption? To use the most holy name in 
the universe for no purpose, or a bad one, 
contrary to his own express commandment; 
to pass the day, and the succeeding days, 
weeks, and months, and years, without one 
act of private devotion, one confession of our 
sins, or one thanksgiving for the numberless 
blessings we enjoy ; to hear the word of God 
in public, with a distracted attention, or with 
none at all; to absent -ourselves voluntarily 
from the blessed Communion, and to live in 
the total neglect of it, though our Saviour 
has charged it upon us with an express in- 
junction — are the common and ordinary liber- 
ties which the generality of professors allow 
themselves ; and what is this but to live with- 
out God in the world ? Many causes may be 
assigned for this anti-Christian spirit, so prev- 
alent among Christians, but one of the prin- 
cipal I take to be their utter forgetful n ess 
that they have the word of God in their pos- 
session. 

My friend, Sir William Russel, was dis- 
tantly related to a very accomplished man, 
who, though he never believed the Gospel, 
iftmired the Scriptures as the sublimest com- 
positions in the world, and read them often. 
I have been intimate myself with a man of 
fine taste, who has confessed to me that, 
though he could not subscribe to the truth 
of Christianity itself, yet he never could read 
St. Luke's account of our Saviour's appear- 
ance to the two disciples going to Emmaus 
without being wonderfully affected by it, and 
he thought that, if the stamp of divinity was 
anywhere to be found in Seripture, it was 
strongly marked and visibly impressed upon 
that passage. If these men, whose hearts 
were chilled with the darkness of infidelity, 
30uld find such charms in the mere style of 
the Scripture, what must they find there 
whose eye penetrates deeper than the letter, 
and who firmly believe themselves interested 
in all the valuable privileges of the Gospel ? 
* He that believeth on me is passed from 
death unto life," though it be as plain a sen- 
tence as words can form, has more beauties 
ki it for such a person than all the labors 
antiquity can boast of. If my poor man 



of taste, whom I have just mentioned, had 
searched a little further, he might have found 
other parts of the sacred history as strongly 
marked with the characters of divinity, as 
that he mentioned. The parable of the prod- 
igal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever 
was invented; our Saviour's speech to his 
disciples, with which he closes his earthly 
ministration, full of the sublimest dignity, 
and tenderest affection; surpass everything 
that I ever read, and, like the Spirit by which 
they were dictated, fly directly to the heart. 
If the Scripture did not disdain all affectation 
of ornament, one should, call these, and such 
as these, the ornamental parts of it, but the 
matter of it is that upon which it principally 
stakes its credit with us, and the style, how- 
ever excellent and peculiar to itself, is the 
only one of those many external evidences 
by which it recommends itself to our belief. 
I shall be very much obliged to you for the 
book you mention ; you could not have sent 
me anything that would have been more wel- 
come, unless you had sent me your own med- 
itations instead of them. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

August 14th, 1765. 

Dear Joe, — Both Lady Hesketh and my 
brother had apprized me of your intention to 
give me a call; and herein I find they were 
both mistaken. But they both informed me, 
likewise, that you were already set out for 
Warwickshire ; in consequence of which lat- 
ter intelligence, I have lived in continual ex- 
pectation of seeing you, any time this fort- 
night, Now, how these two ingenious per 
sonages (for such they are both) should mis- 
take an expedition to French Flanders for a 
journey to Warwickshire, is more than I, 
with all my ingenuity, can imagine. I am 
glad, however, that I have still a ch^ee of 
seeing you, and shall treasure it up ; ... rngst 
my agreeable expectations. Tn the meant;, . 
you are welcome to the British shore, as the 
song has it, and I thank y u for your epitome 
of your travels. You don't tell me how you 
escaped the vigilance of the custom-house 
officers, though I dare say you were knuckle- 
deep in contrabands, and had your boots 
stuffed with all and all manner of unlawful 
wares and merchandizes. 

You know, Joe, I am very deep in debt to 
my little physician at St. Albans, and that the 
handsomest thing I can do will be to pay him 
le pliUdt qu'il sera possible (that is vile French, 
I believe, but you can, now, correct it). My 
brother informs me that you have such a 
quantity of cash in your hands on my ac- 
count, that I may venture to send him forty 
pounds immediately. This, therefore, I shall 

* Private corn-spundence. 



t»e obliged if you will manage for me ; and 
when you receive the hundred pounds, which 
my brother likewise brags you are shortly to 
receive, I shall be glad if you will discharge 
the remainder of that debt, without waiting 
for any further advice from your humble 
servant. 

I am become a professed horseman, and do 
hereby assume to myself the style and title 
of the Knight of the Bloody Spur. It has 
cost me much to bring this point to bear; 
but I think I have at last accomplished it. 
My love to all your family. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, August 17, 1765. 

You told me, my dear cousin, that I need 
not fear writing too often, and you perceive 
I take you at your word. At present, how- 
ever, I shall do little more than thank you 
for your Meditations, which I admire exceed- 
ingly ; the author of them manifestly loved 
the truth with an undissembled affection, had 
made great progress in the knowledge of it, 
and experienced all the happiness that natu- 
rally results from that noblest of all attain- 
ments. There is one circumstance which he 
gives us frequent occasion to observe in him, 
*vhich I believe will ever be found in the 
philosophy of every true Christian. I mean 
the eminent rank which he assigns to faith 
among the virtues, as the source and parent 
of them all. There is nothing more infalli- 
bly true than this ; and doubtless it is with 
a view to the purifying and sanctifying na- 
ture of a true faith, that our Saviour says 
"He that believeth in me hath everlasting 
life," with many other expressions to the 
same purpose. Considered in this light, no 
wonder it has the power of salvation ascribed 
to it. Considered in any other, we must 
suppose it to operate like an oriental talis- 
man, if it obtains for us the least advantage ; 
which is an affront to Him, who insists upon 
our having it, and will on no other terms ad- 
mit us to his favor. I mention this distin- 
guishing article in his Reflections, the rather 
because it serves for a solid foundation to 
the distinction I made in my last, between 
the specious professor and the true believer, 
between him whose faith is his Sunday suit 
and him who never puts it off at all — a dis- 
tinction I am a little fearful sometimes of 
making, because it is a heavy stroke upon 
the practice of niore than half the Christians 
in the world. 

My dear cousin, I tol ' you I read the book 
with great pleasure, which may be accounted 
for from its ovvn merit, but perhaps it pleased 
me the more because you had travelled the 
same road before me. You know there is 
no such pleasure as this, which would want 



great explanation to some folks, being per 
haps a mystery to those whose hearts are a 
mere muscle, and serve only for the purpose? 
of an even circulation. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Sept. 4th, 1765. 
Though I have some very agreeable ac- 
quaintance at Huntingdon, my dear cousin, 
none are so agreeable as the arrival of your 
letters. I thank you for that which I have 
just received from Droxford, and particularly 
for that part of it, where you give me an un- 
limited liberty upon the subject I have al- 
ready so often written upon. Whatever in. 
terests us deeply, as naturally flows into the 
pen as it does from the lips, when every re- 
straint is taken away, and we meet with a 
friend indulgent enough to attend to us. 
How many, in all that variety of characters 
with whom I am acquainted, could I find, 
after the strictest search, to whom I could 
write as I do to you ? I hope the number 
will increase : I am sure it cannot easily be 

diminished. Poor ! I have heard the 

whole of his history, and can only lament 
what I am sure I can make no apology for. 
Two of my friends have been cut off, during 
my illness, in the midst of such a life as it is 
frightful to reflect upon, and here am I, in 
better health and spirits than I can almost 
remember to have enjoyed before, after hav- 
ing spent months in the apprehension of in- 
stant death. How mysterious are the ways 
of Providence ! Why did I receive grace 
and mercy? Why was I preserved, afflicted 
for my good, received, as I trust, into favor, 
and blessed with the greatest happiness I c«i 
ever know, or hope for, in this life, while 
these were overtaken by the great arrest, un- 
awakened, unrepenting, and every way un- 
prepared for it? His infinite wisdom, to 
whose infinite mercy I owe it all, can solve 
these questions, and none besides him. If a 
freethinker, as many a man miscalls himself, 
could be brought to give a serious answer 
to them, he would certainly say, "Without 
doubt, Sir, you were in great danger; you 
had a narrow escape ; a most fortunate one, 
indeed." How excessively foolish, as well 
as shocking ! As if life depended upon luck, 
and all that we are or can be, all that we have 
or hope for, could possibly be referred to ac- 
cident. Yet to this freedom of thought it is 
owing that He, who, as our Saviour tells us, 
is thoroughly apprized of the death of the 
meanest of his creatures, is supposed to leave 
those, whom he has made in his own image, 
to the mercy of chance : and to this therefore 
it is likewise owing, that the correction which 
our Heavf nly Father bestows upon us, that 
we may bt fitted to receive his blessing, is so 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



M 



often disappointed of its benevolent intention, 
and that men despise the chastening of the 
Almighty. Fevers and all diseases are acci- 
dents, and long life, recovery at least from 
sickness, is the gift of the physician. No 
man can be a greater friend to the use of 
means upon these occasions than myself, for 
it were presumption and enthusiasm to neg- 
lect them. God has endued them with salu- 
tary properties on purpose that we might 
avail ourselves of them, otherwise that part 
of his creation were in vain. But to impute 
our recovery to the medicine, and to carry 
our views no further, is to rob God of his 
honor, and is saying in effect that he has 
parted with the keys of life and death, and, 
by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has 
placed our lives out of his own reach. He 
that thinks thus, may as well fall upon his 
knees at once, and return thanks to the me- 
dicine that cured him, for it was certainly 
more instrumental in his recovery than either 
the apothecary or the doctor. My dear cous- 
in, a firm persuasion of the superintendence 
of Providence over all our concerns is abso- 
lutely necessary to our happiness. Without 
it, we cannot be said to believe in the Scrip- 
ture, or practise anything like resignation to 
his will. If I am convinced that no affliction 
can befall me without the permission of God, 
I am convinced likewise that he sees and 
knows that I am afflicted; believing this, I 
must, in the same degree, believe that if I 
pray to him for deliverance he hears me ; I 
must needs know likewise, with equal assur- 
ance, that if he hears he will also deliver me, 
if that will upon the whole be most condu- 
cive to my happiness ; and, if he does not de- 
liver me, I may be well assured that he has 
none but the most benevolent intention in 
declining it. He made us, not because we 
could add to his happiness, which was always 
perfect, but that we might be happy otfrselves; 
and will he not, in all his dispensations to- 
wards us, even in the minutest, consult that 
end for which he made us ? To suppose the 
contrary, is (which we are not always aware 
of) affronting every one of his attributes; 
and, at the same time, the certain conse- 
quence of disbelieving his care for us is that 
we renounce utterly our dependence upon 
him. In this view it will appear plainly that 
the line of duty is not stretched too tight, 
when we are told that we ought to accept 
everything at his hands as a blessing, and to 
be thankful even while we smart under the 
rod of iron, with which he sometimes rules 
us. Without this persuasion, every bless- 
ng, however we may think ourselves happy 
in it, loses its greatest recommendation, and 
every affliction is intolerable. Death itself 
must be welcome to him who has this faith, 
and he who has it not must aim at it, if he is 
not a madman. You cannot think how glad 



I am to hear you are going to commenca 
lady, and mistress of Freemantle.* I know 
it well, and could go to it from Southampton 
blindfold. You are kind to invite me to it, 
and I shall be so kind to myself as to accept 
the invitation, though I should not, for a 
slight consideration, be prevailed upon to 
quit my beloved retirement at Huntingdon. 
Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, Sept. 14, 1765. 

My dear Cousin, — The longer I live here, 
the better I like the place, and the people who 
belong to it. I am upon very good terms 
with no less than five families, besides two 
or three odd scrambling fellows like myself. 
The last acquaintance I made here is with 
the race of the Unwins, consisting of father 
and mother, son and daughter, the most com- 
fortable, social folks you ever knew. The 
son is about twenty-one years of age, one of 
the most unreserved and amiable young men 
I ever conversed with. He is not yet arrived 
at that time of life when suspicion recom- 
mends itself to us in the form of wisdom 
and sets everything but our own d< xy selves 
at an immeasurable distance from our esteem 
and confidence. Consequently, be is known 
almost as soon as seen, and, having nothing 
in his heart that makes it necessary for him 
to keep it barred and bolted, opens it to the 
perusal even of a stranger. The father is a 
clergyman, and the son is designed for orders. 
The design however is quite his own, proceed- 
ing merely from his being, and having always 
been, sincere in his belief and love of the Gos- 
pel. Another acquaintance I have lately made 
is with a Mr. Nicholson, a north-country di- 
vine, very poor, but very good, and. very 
happy. He reads prayers here twice a-day, 
all the year round, and travels on foot to 
serve two churches every Sunday through 
the year, his journey out and home again 
being sixteen miles. I supped with him last 
night. He gave me bread and cheese, and a 
black jug of ale of his own brewing, and 
doubtless brewed by his own hands. An- 
other of my acquaintance is Mr. , a thin, 

till, old man, and as good as he is thin. He 
drinks nothing but water, and eats no flesh, 
partly (I believe) from a religious scruple 
(for he is very religious), and partly in the 
spirit of a valetudinarian. He is to be met 
with every morning of his life, at about six 
o'clock, at a fountain of very fine water, 
about a mile from the town, which is reck- 
oned extremely like the Bristol spring. Being 
both early risers, and the only early walkers 
in the place, we soon became acquainted. 
His great piety can be equalled by nothing 

* Freemantle, a villa near Southampton. 



38 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



out his great regularity ; for he is the most 
perfect timepiece in the world. I have re- 
ceived a visit likewise from Mr. . He is 

very much a gentleman, well-read, and sensi- 
ble. I am persuaded, in short, that if I had 
had the choice of all England where to fix. 
my abode, I could not have chosen better for 
myself, and most likely I should not have 
chosen s,o well. 

You say, you hope it .is not necessary for 
salvation to undergo the same afflictions that 
1 have undergone. No ! my dear cousin, God 
deals with his children as a merciful father ; 
he does not, as he himself tells us, afflict wil- 
lingly the sons of men. Doubtless there are 
many, who, having been placed by his good 
providence out of the reach of any great evil 
and the influence of bad example, have, from 
their very infancy, been partakers of the grace 
of his Holy Spirit, in such a manner as never 
to have allowed themselves in any grievous 
offence against him. May you love him more 
and more, day by day, as every day, while 
vou think upcn him, you will find him more 
*vorthy of your love ; and may you be finally 
accepted by him for hi? sake whose interces- 
sion for all his faithful servants cannot but 
prevail ! Yours ever, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, Oct. 10, 1765. 

My dear Cousin, — I should grumble at 
your long silence, if I did not know that one 
may love one's friends very well, though one 
is not always in a humor to write to them. 
Besides, I have the satisfaction of being per- 
fectly sure that you have at least twenty times 
recollected the debt you owe me, and as often 
resolved to pay it: and perhaps; while you 
remain indebted to me, you think of me twice 
as often as you would do if the account was 
clear. These are the reflections with which I 
comfort myself under the affliction of not 
hearing from you ; my temper does not in- 
cline me to jealousy, and, if it did, I should 
set all right by having recourse to what I 
have already received from you. 

I thank God for your friendship, and for 
every friend I have ; for all the pleasing cir- 
cumstances here ; for my health of body, and 
perfect serenity of mind. To recollect the 
past, and compare it with the present, is all I 
have need of to fill me with gratitude ; and 
to be grateful is to be happy. Not that I 
think myself sufficiently thankful, or that I 
ever shall be so in this life. The warmest 
heart perhaps only feels by fits, and is often 
as insensible as the coldest. This at least is 
frequently the case with mine, and oftener 
whan it should be. But the mercy that can 
forgive iniquity will never be severe to mark 
>ur frailties; to that mercy, my dear cousin, 



I commend you, with earnest wishes for youl 
welfare, and remain your ever affectionate 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. 

I wish you joy, my dear cousin, of being 
safely arrived in port from the storms of 
Southampton. For my own part, who am 
but as a Thames wherry, in a world full of 
tempest and commotion, I know so well the 
value of the creek I have put into, and the 
snugness it affords me, that I have a sensible 
spmpathy with you in the pleasure you find 
in being once more blown to Droxford. I 
know enough of Miss Morley to send her my 
compliments, to which, if I had never seen 
her, her affection for you would sufficiently 
entitle her. If I neglected to do it sooner, 
it is only because I am naturally apt to neg- 
lect what I ought to do ; and if I was as 
genteel as I am negligent, I should be the 
most delightful creature in the universe. I 
am glad you think so favorably of my Hunt- 
ingdon acquaintance ; they are indeed a nice 
set of folks, and suit me exactly. I should 
have been more particular in my account of 
Miss Unwin, if I had had materials for a mi- 
nute description. She is about eighteen years 
v.f age, rather handsome and genteel. In her 
mother's company she says little, not because 
her mother requires it of her, but because she 
seems glad of that excuse for not talking, be- 
ing somewhat inclined to bashfulness. There 
is the most remarkable cordiality between all 
the parts of the family, and the mother and 
daughter seem to doat upon each other. The 
first time I went to the house, I was intro- 
duced to the daughter alone; and sat with 
her near half an hour before her brother came 
in, who tad appointed me to call upon him. 
Talking is necessary in a tete-a-tete, to distin- 
guish the persons of the drama from the 
chairs they sit on: accordingly, she talked a 
great deal, and extremely well ; and, like the 
rest of the family, behaved with as much ease 
and address as if we had been old acquaint- 
ance. She resembles her mother in her great 
piety, who is one of the most remarkable in- 
stances of it I have ever seen. They are alto- 
gether the cheerfullest and most engaging 
family-piece it is possible to conceive. Since 
I wrote the above, I met Mrs. Unwin in the 
street, and went home with her. She and I 
walked together near two hours in the gar- 
den, and had a conversation which did me 
more good than I should have received from 
an audience of the first prince in Europe. 
That woman is a blessing to me, and I never 
see her without being the better for her com- 
pany. I am treated in the family as if I was 
a near relation, and have been repeatedly in- 
vited to call upon them at all times. You 



LJFE OF COWPER. 



know what a shy fellow I am ) I cannot pre- 
vail with myself to make so much use of this 
privilege as I am sure tbey intend I should, 
but perhaps this awkwardness will wear off 
hereafter. It was my earnest request before 
I left St. Alban's, that wherever it might 
please Providfuicp io dispose of me, I might 
meet with such an acquaintance as I find in 
Mrs. Unwin. How happy it is to believe, 
with a ^teadfcAst assurance, that our petitions 
are heard, even while we are making them ! 
— and how delightful to meet with a proof 
of it in the effectual and actual grant of 
them ! Surely it is a gracious finishing given 
to those means which the Almighty has been 
pleased to make use of for my conversion. 
After having been deservedly rendered unfit 
for any society, to be again qualified for it, 
and admitted at once into the fellowship of 
those whom God regards as the excellent of 
the earth, and whom, in the emphatical lan- 
guage of Scripture, he preserves as the apple 
of his eye, is a blessing, which carries with 
it the stamp and visible superscription of di- 
vine bounty — a grace unlimited as unde- 
served ; and, like its glorious Author, free in 
its course, and blessed in its operation ! 

My dear cousin! health and happiness, 
and, above all, the favor of our great and 
gracious Lord attend you ! while we seek it 
in spirit and in truth we are infinitely more 
secure of it than of the next breath we ex- 
pect to draw. Heaven and earth have their 
destined periods ; ten thousand worlds will 
vanish at the consummation of all things; 
but the word of God standeth fast, and they 
W'ho trust in him shall never be confounded. 

My love to all who inquire after me. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO MAJOR COWPER. 

Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. 
My dear Major, — I have neither lost the 
use of my fingers nor my memory, though 
cay unaccountable silence might incline you 
to suspect that I had lost both. The history 
of those things which have, from time to 
time, prevented my scribbling would not only 
be insipid, but extremely voluminous, for 
which reasons they will not make their ap- 
pearance at present, nor probably at any 
time hereafter. If my neglecting to write to 
you were a proof that I had never thought of 
you, and that had been really the case, five 
shillings apiece would have been much too 
little to give for the sight of such a monster ! 
but I am no such monster, nor do I perceive 
in myself the least tendency to such a trans- 
format/on. You may recollect that I had 
but very uncomfortable expectations of the 
accommodations I should meet with at Hun- 
tingdon. How much better is it to take our 



lot where it shall please Providence tc cast it 
without anxiety! had I chosen. for myself, it 
is impossible I could have fixed upon a place 
so agreeable to me in all respects. J so 
much dreaded the thought of having a new 
acquaintance to make, with no other recom- 
mendation than that of being a perfect 
stranger, that I heartily wished no creaturs 
here might take the least notice of me. In- 
stead of which, in about two months after 
my arrival, I became known to all the visita- 
ble people here, and do verily think it the 
most agreeable neighborhood I ever saw. 

Here are three families who have received 
me with the utmost civility, and two in par- 
ticular. have treated me with as much cor- 
diality as if their pedigree and mine had 
grown upon the same s^ieep-skin. Besides 
these, there are three or four single men, 
who suit my temper to a hair. The town is 
one of the neatest in England ; the country 
is fine for several miles about it; and the 
roads, which are all turnpike, and strike out 
four or five different ways, are perfectly 
good all the year round. I mention this 
latter circumstance chiefly because my dis- 
tance from Cambridge has made a horseman 
of me at last, or at least is likely to do so. 
My brother and I meet every week, by an 
alternate reciprocation of intercourse, as Sam 
Johnson would express it ; sometimes I get 
a lift in a neighbor's chaise, but generally 
ride. As to my own personal condition, I 
am much happier than the day is long, and 
sunshine and candle-light alike see me per- 
fectly contented. I get books in abundance, 
as much company as I choose, a deal of com- 
fortable leisure, and enjoy better health, I 
think, than for many years past. What is 
there wanting to make me happy? No- 
thing, if I can but be as thankful as I ought, 
and I trust that He, who has bestowed so 
many blessings upon me, will give me grati- 
tude to crown them all. I beg you will give 
my love to my dear cousin Maria, and to 
everybody at the Park. If Mrs. Maitland is 
with you, as I suspect by a passage in Lady 
Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember me to 
her very affectionately. And believe me, my 
dear friend, ever yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

October 25, 1765. 
Dear Joe, — I am afraid the month of Oc- 
tober has proved rather unfavorable to the 
belle assemblee at Southampton, high winds 
and continual rains being bitter enemies to 
that agreeable lounge which you and I arr 
equally fond of. I have very cordially be 
taken myself to my books and my fireside , 
and seldom leave them unless for exercise, 
I have added another family to the numbel 




of those I was acquainted with when you 
were here. Their name is Unwin — the most 
agr a eable people imaginable ; quite sociable, 
and as free from the ceremonious civility of 
country gentle-folks as any I ever met with. 
They treat me more like a near relation than 
a, stranger, and their house is always open 
to me. The old gentleman carries me to 
Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of 
learning and good sense, and as simple as 
Parson Adams. His wife has a very uncom- 
mon understanding, has read much, to excel- 
lent purpose, and is more polite than a duch- 
ess. The son, who belongs to Cambridge, 
is a most amiable young man, and the daugh- 
ter quite of a piece with the rest of the fam- 
ily. They see but little company, which 
suits me exactly ; go when I will, I find a 
house full of peao* and cordiality in all its 
parts, and am sure to hear no scandal, but 
such discourse instead of it as we are all 
better for. You remember Rousseau's de- 
scription of an English morning ;* such are 
the mornings I spend with these good peo- 
ple, and the evenings differ from them in no- 
thing, except that they are still more snug 
and quieter. Now I know them, I wonder 
that I liked Huntingdon so well before I 
knew them, and am apt to think I should 
find every place disagreeable that had not an 
Unwin belonging to it. 

This incident convinces me of the truth of 
an observation I have often made, that when 
we circumscribe our estimate of all that is 
clever within the limits of our own acquaint- 
ance (which I at least have been always apt 
to do) we are guilty of a very uncharitable 
censure upon the rest of the world, and of a 
narrowness of thinking disgraceful to our- 
selves. Wapping and Redriff may contain 
some of the most amiable persons living, and 
such as one would go to Wapping and Red- 
riff to make acquaintance with. You re- 
member Gray's stanza, 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
The deep unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 
Full many a rose is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its fragrance on the desert air. 

Yours, dear Joe, W. C. 

X 

i *J JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Nov. 5, 1765. 

>)ear Joe, — I wrote to you about ten days 

Soliciting a quick return of gold, 

To purchase certain horse that likes me well. 

Either my letter or your answer to it, I fear, 
nas miscarried. The former, I hope ; be- 
cause a miscarriage of the latter might be 
attended with bad consequences. 
* See hifc Emilius. t Private correspondence. 



I find it impossible to proceed any longef 
in my present course without danger of 
bankruptcy. I have therefore entered into 
an agreement with the Rev. Mr. Unwin to 
lodge and board with him. The family are 
the most agreeable in the world. They live 
in a special good house, and in a very gen- 
teel way. They are all exactiy what I 
would wish them to be, and I know I shall 
be as happy with them as I can be on this 
side of the sun. I did not dream of this 
matter till about five days ago : but now the 
whole is settled. I shall transfer myself 
thither as soon as I have satisfied all de- 
mands upon me here. 

Yours ever, W. C 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Nov. 8, 1765, 

Dear 'Sephus, — Notwithstanding it is so 
agreeable a thing to read law lectures to the 
students of Lyons' Inn,f especially to the 
reader himself, I must beg leave to waive it. 
Danby Pickering must be the happy man ; 
and I heartily wish him joy of his deputy 
ship. A« to the treat, I think if it goes be- 
fore ' the lecture, it will be apt to blunt the 
apprehension of the student.' , and, if it 
comes after, it may erase from iVir memo- 
ries impressions so newly made. X °.ould 
wish therefore, that, for their bene^: b^\a be- 
hoof, this circumstance were omitted. Sut, 
if it be absolutely necessary, I hope Mr 
Salt, or whoever takes the conduct of it Wi" 
see that it be managed with the frugality and 
temperance becoming so learned a body. I 
shall be obliged to you if you will present 
my respects to Mr. Treasurer Salt, and ex- 
press my concern at the same time that he 
had the trouble of sending me two letters 
upon this occasion. The first of them never 
came to hand. 

I shall be obliged to you if you will tell 
me whether my exchequer is full or empty, 
and whether the revenue of last year is yet 
come in, that I may proportion my payments 
to the exigencies of my affairs. 

My dear 'Sephus, give my love to your 
family, and believe me much obliged to you 
for your invitation. At present I am in such 
an unsettled condition, that I can think of 
nothing but laying the foundation of my fu- 
ture abode at Unwin's. My being admitted 
there is the effect of the great good nature 
and friendly turn of that family, who, I have 
great reason to believe, are as desirous to do 
me service as they could be after a much 
longer acquaintance. Let your next, if it 
comes a week hence, be directed to me there. 

The greatest part of the law-books are 

* Private correspondence. 

t The office of readevship to this society had been of 
fered to Cowper, but was declined By him. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



41 



those which Lord Cowper gave me. Those, 
and the very few which I bought myself, are 
all at the majors service. 

Stroke Puss's back the wrong way, and it 
will put her in mind of her master. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, March 6, 1766. 

My dear Cousin, — I have for some time 
past imputed your silence to the cause which 
you yourself assign for it, viz., to my change 
of situation ; and was even sagacious enough 
to account for the frequency of your letters 
to me while I lived alone, from your attention 
to me in a state of such solitude as seemed 
to make it an act of particular charity to write 
to me. I bless God for it, I was happy even 
then; solitude has nothing gloomy in it if 
the soul points upwards. St. Paul tells his 
Hebrew converts, "Ye are come (already 
come) to Mount Sion — to an innumerable 
company of angels,, to the general assembly 
of the first-born, which are written in heaven, 
and to Jesus, the mediator of the new cove- 
nant." When this is the case, as surely it 
was with them, or the Spirit of Truth had 
never spoken it, there is an end of the melan- 
choly and dulness of life at once. You will 
not suspect me, my dear cousin, of a design 
to understand this passage literally. But 
this however it certainly means, that a lively 
faith is able to anticipate, in some measure, 
the joys of that heavenly society which the 
soul shall actually possess hereafter. 

Since I have changed my situation, I have 
found still greater cause of thanksgiving to 
the Father of all Mercies. The family with 
whom I live are Christians, and it has pleased 
the Almighty to bring me to the knowledge 
of them, that I may want no means of im- 
provement in that temper and conduct which 
he is pleased to require in all his servants. 

My dear cousin, one half of the Christian 
world would call this madness, fanaticism, 
and folly : but are not these things warranted 
by the word of God, not only in the passages 
I have cited, but in many others ? If we have 
no communion with God here, surely we can 
expect none hereafter. A faith that does not 
place our conversation in heaven ; that does 
not warm the heart and purify it too ; that 
does not, in short, govern our thought, word, 
and deed, is no faith, nor will it obtain for us 
any spiritual blessing here or hereafter. Let 
us see therefore, my dear cousin, that we do 
not deceive ourselves in a matter of such in- 
finite moment. The world will be ever tell- 
ing us that we are good enough, and the 
world will vilify us behind our backs. But 
it is not the world which tries the heart, that 
is the prerogative of God alone. My dear 



cousin, I have often prayed for you behind 
your back, and now I pray for you to youi 
face. There are many who would not for 
give me this wrong, but I have known you 
so long and so well that I am not afraid of 
telling you how sincerely I wish for youi 
growth in every Christian grace, in every- 
thing that may promote and secure you? 
everlasting welfare. 

I am obliged to Mrs. Cowper for the book, 
which, you perceive, arrived safe. I am will- 
ing to consider it as an intimation on her 
part, that she would wish me to write to 
her, and shall do it accordingly. My circum- 
stances are rather particular, such as call upon 
my friends, those, I mean, who are truly such, 
to take some little notice of me, and will natu- 
rally make those who are not such in sincer- 
ity, rather shy of doing it. To this I impute 
the silence of many with regard to me, who 
before the affliction that befel me, were readj 
enough to converse with me. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER* 

Huntingdon, March 11, 1766. 

My dear Cousin, — I am much obliged to 
you for Pearsall's Meditations, especially as 
it furnishes me with an occasion of writing 
to you, which is all I have waited for. My 
friends must excuse me if I write to none 
but those who lay it fairly in my way to do 
so. The inference I am apt to draw from 
their silence is, that they wish me to be si- 
lent too. 

I have great reason, my dear cousin, to be 
thankful to the gracious Providence that con- 
ducted me to this place. The lady, in whose 
house I live, is so excellent a person, and re- 
gards me with a friendship so truly Christian, 
that I could almost fancy my own mother re- 
stored to life again, to compensate to me for 
all the friends I have lest, and all my con- 
nections broken. She has a son at Cam- 
bridge, in all respects worthy of such a 
mother, the most amiable young man I ever 
knew. His natural and acquired endowments 
are very considerable, and as to his virtues, 1 
need only say that he is a Christian. It ought 
to be a matter of daily thanksgiving to me 
that I am admitted into the society of such 
persons, and I pray God to make me and 
keep me worthy of them. 

Your brother Martin has been very kind to 
me, having written to me twice in a style 
which, though it was once irksome to me, to 
say the least, I now know how to value. 1 
pray God to forgive me the many light things 
I have both said and thought of him and his 
labors. Hereafter I shall consider him as a 

* The wife of Major Cowper, and sister of the ReT. 
Martin Madan, minister of Lock Chapel. 



42 



COWPER'S WORKS 



burning and a shining 1 light, and as one of 
those who, having turned many to righteous- 
ness, shall shine hereafter as the stars forever 
and ever. 

So much for the state of my heart : as to 
my spirits, I am cheerful and happy, and, 
having peace with God, have peace with my- 
self For the continuance of this blessing I 
trust to Him who gives it, and they who trust 
in Him shall never be confounded. 
Yours affectionately, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, April 4, 1766. 

My dear Cousin, — I agree with you that 
Utters are not essential to friendship, but 
they seem to be a natural fruit of it, when 
they are the only intercourse that can be had. 
And a friendship producing no sensible effects 
is so like indifference, that the appearance 
may easily deceive even an acute discerner. 
I retract however all that I said in my last 
upon this subject, having reason to suspect 
that it proceeded from a principle which 1 
would discourage in myself upon all occa- 
sions, even a pride that felt itself hurt upon 
a mere suspicion of neglect. I have so much 
cause for humility, and so much need of it 
too, and every little sneaking resentment is 
such an enemy to it, that I hope I shall never 
give quarter to anything that appears in the 
shape of sullenness or self-consequence here- 
after. Alas! if my best Friend, who laid 
down his life for me, were to remember all 
the instances in which I have neglected him, 
and to plead them against me in judgment, 
where should I hide my guilty head in the 
day of recompense? I will pray therefore 
for blessings upon my friends, though they 
cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though 
they continue such. The deceitfulness of 
the natural heart is inconceivable; I know 
well that I passed upon my friends for a per- 
son at least religiously inclined, if not actu- 
ally religious, and, what is more wonderful, 
I thought myself a Christian, when I had no 
faith in Christ, when I saw no beauty in Mm 
that I should desire him; in short, when I 
had neither faith, nor love, nor any Christian 
grace whatever, but a th usand seeds of re- 
bellion instead, evermore springing up in en- 
mity against him. But blessed be God, even 
the God who is become my salvation, the hail 
of affliction and rebuke for sin has swept 
away the refuge of lies. It pleased the Al- 
mighty, in great mercy, to set all my mis- 
deeds before me. At length, the storm being 
past, a quiet and peaceful serenity of soul 
succeeded, such as ever attends the gift of 
living faith in the all-sufficient atonement, and 
Jie sweet sense of mercy and pardon pur- 
chased by the blood of Christ. Thus did he 



break me and bind me up, thus did he wound 
me and his hands made me whole. My dear 
Cousin, I make no apology for entertaining 
you with the history of my conversion, be- 
cause I know you to be a Christian in the 
sterling import of the appellation. This is 
however but a very summary account of the 
matter, neither would a letter contain the 
astonishing particulars of it. If we evei 
meet again in this world, I will relate them 
to you by w^ord of mouth ; if not, they will 
serve for the subject of a conference in the 
next, where I doubt not I shall remember and 
record them with a gratitude better suited to 
the subject. 

Yours, my dear Cousin, affectionately, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, April 17, 1766. 

My dear Cousin, — As in matters unattain- 
able by reason and unrevealed in the Scrip- 
ture, it is impossible to argue at all ; so, in 
matters concerning which reason can only 
give a probable guess, and the Scripture has 
made no explicit discovery, it is, though not 
impossible to argue at all, yet impossible to 
argue to any certain conclusion. This seems 
to me to be the very case with the point in 

question reason is able to form many 

plausible conjectures concerning the possi- 
bility of our knowing each other in a future 
state, and the Scripture has, here and there, 
favored us with an expression that looks at 
least like a slight intimation of it ; but be- 
cause a conjecture can never amount to a 
proof, and a slight intimation cannot be con- 
strued into a positive assertion, therefore, I 
think, we can never come to any absolute 
conclusion upon the subject. We 'may, in- 
deed, reason about the plausibility of our 
conjectures, and we may discuss, with great 
industry and shrewdness of argument, those 
passages in the Scripture which seem to fa- 
vor the opinion ; but still, no certain means 
having been afforded us, no certain end can 
be attained ; and, after all that can be said, it 
will still be doubtful whether we shall know 
each other or not. 

As to arguments founded upon human 
reason only, it would be easy to muster up 
a much greater number on the affirmative 
side of the question than it would be worth 
my while to write or yours to read. Let us 
see, therefore, what the Scripture says, or 
seems to say, towards the proof of it; and 
of this kind of argument also I shall insert 
but a few of those, which seem to me to be 
the fairest and clearest for the purpose. 
For, after all, a disputant on either side of 
this question, is in danger of that censure of 
our blessed Lord's, " Ye do err, not knowing 
the Scripture, nor the power of God." 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



\* 



As to parables, I know it has been said in 
tiie dispute concerning the intermediate state 
that they are not argumentative; but, this 
having been controverted by very wise and 
good men, and the parable of Dives and La- 
zarus having been used by such to prove an 
intermediate state, I see not why it may not 
be as fairly used for the proof of any other 
matter which it seems fairly to imply. In 
this parable we see that Dives is represented 
as knowing Lazarus, and Abraham as know 
ing them both, and the discourse between 
them is entirely concerning their respective 
characters and circumstances upon earth. 
Here, therefore, our Saviour seems to coun- 
tenance the notion of a mutual knowledge 
and recollection ; and, if a soul that has per- 
ished shall know the soul that is saved, surely 
the heirs of salvation shall know and recol- 
lect each other. 

In the first epistle to the Thessalonians, 
the second chapter, and nineteenth verse, 
Saint Paul says, " What is our hope, or joy, 
or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye in 
the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at his 
coming? For ye are our glory and our joy." 

As to the hope which the apostle had formed 
concerning them, he himself refers the accom- 
plishment of it to the coming of Christ, mean- 
ing that then he should receive the recorn- 
pence of his labors in their behalf; his joy 
and glory he refers likewise to the same pe- 
riod, both which would result from the sight 
of such numbers redeemed by the blessing 
of God upon his ministration, when he should 
present them before the great Judge, and say, 
in the words of a greater than himself, " Lo ! 
I and the children whom thou hast given 
me." This seems to imply that the apostle 
should know the converts, and the converts 
the apostle, at least at the day of judgment, 
and, if then, why not afterwards ? 

See also the fourth chapter of that epistle, 
verses 13, 14, 16, whi/h I have not room to 
transcribe. Here the apostle comforts them 
under their affliction for their deceased breth- 
ren, exhorting them " not to sorrow as with- 
out hope ;" and what is the hope, by which 
he teaches them to support their spirits? 
Even this, " That them which sleep in Jesus 
shall God bring with him." In other words, 
and by a fair paraphrase surely, telling them 
they are only taken from them for a season, 
and that they should receive them at their 
resurrection. 

If you can take off the force of these texts, 
my dear cousin, you will go a great way to- 
wards shaking my opinion : if not, I think 
they must go a great way towards shaking 
yours. 

The reason why I did not send you my 
opinion of Pearsall was, because I had not 
then read him ; I have read him since, and 
\ike him much, especially the latter part of 



him; but' you have whetted my curiosity to 
see the last letter by tearing it out; unlesa 
you can give me a good reason why I should 
not see it, I shall inquire for the book the 
first time I go to Cambridge. Perhaps 1 
may be partial to Hervey for the sake of hia 
other writings, but I cannot give Pearsall the 
preference to him, for I think him one of the 
most scriptural writers in the world. 

Yours, W. O 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, April 18, 1766. 

My dear Cousin, — Having gone as far as 1 
thought needful to justify the opinion of our 
meeting and knowing each other hereafter, 1 
find upon reflection that I have done but half 
my business, and that one of the questions 
you proposed remains entirely unconsidered, 
viz., " Whether the things of our present state 
will not be of too low and mean a nature to 
engage our thoughts or make a part of our 
communications in heaven." 

The common and ordinary occurrences of 
life, no doubt, and even the ties of kindred 
and of all temporal interests, will be entirely 
discarded from amongst that happy society, 
and, possibly, even the remembrance of them 
done away. But it does not therefore follow 
that our spiritual concerns, even in this life, 
will be forgotten, neither do I think, that they 
can ever appear trifling to us, in any the most 
distant period of eternity. God, as you ssy, 
in reference to the Scripture, will be all in 
all. But does not that expression mean that, 
being admitted to so near an approach to our 
heavenly Father and Redeemer, our whole 
nature, the soul, and all its faculties, will be 
employed in praising and adoring him? 
Doubtless, however, this will be the case, 
and if so, will it not furnish out a glorious 
theme of thanksgiving to recollect " the rocfe 
whence we were hewn, and the hole of the 
pit whence we were digged?"- — to recollect 
the time, when our faith, which, under the 
tuition and nurture of the Holy Spirit, has 
produced such a plentiful harvest of immor- 
tal bliss, was as a grain of mustard seed, 
small in itself, promising but little fruit, and 
producing less ? — to recollect the various at- 
tempts that were made upon it, by the world, 
the flesh, and the devil, and its various tri- 
umphs over all, by the assistance of God, 
through our Lord Jesus Christ ! At present, 
whatever our convictions may be of the sin- 
fulness and corruption of our nature, we can 
make but a very imperfect estimate either of 
our weakness or our guilt. Then, no doubt, 
we shall understand the full value of the won- 
derful salvation wrought out for us : and it 
seems reasonable to suppose that, in order to 
form a just idea of our redemption, we shall 



be able to form a just one of the danger we 
have escaped ; when we know how weak and 
frail we are, surely we shall be more able to 
render due praise and honor to his strength 
who fought for us; when we know com- 
pletely the hatefulness of sin in the sight of 
God, and how deeply we were tainted by it, we 
shall know how to value the blood by which 
we were cleansed as we ought. The twenty- 
four elders, in the fifth of the Revelations, 
give glory to God for their redemption out 
of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and 
nation. This sureiy implies a retrospect to 
their respective conditions upon earth, and 
that each remembered out of what particular 
kindred and nation he had been redeemed, 
and, if so, then surely the minutest circum- 
stance of their redemption did not escape 
their memory. They who triumph over the 
Beast, in the fifteenth chapter, sing the song 
of Moses, the servant of God ; and what was 
that song ? A sublime record of Israel's de- 
liverance and the destruction of her enemies 
in the Red Sea, typical, no doubt, of the song 
which the redeemed in Sion shall sing to 
celebrate their own salvation and the defeat 
of their spiritual enemies. This again im- 
plies a recollection of the dangers they had be- 
fore encountered, and the supplies of strength 
and ardor they had, in every emergency, re- 
ceived from the great Deliverer out of all. 
These quotations do not, indeed, prove that 
their warfare upon earth includes a part of 
their converse with each other; but they prove 
that it is a theme not unworthy to be heard, 
even before the throne of God, and therefore 
it cannot be unfit for reciprocal communica- 
tion. 

But you doubt whether there is any com- 
munication between the blessed at all, nei- 
ther do I recollect any Scripture that proves 
it, or that bears any relation to the subject. 
But reason seems to require it so peremp- 
torily, that a society without social inter- 
course seems to be a solecism and a contra- 
diction in terms ; and the inhabitants of those 
regions are called, you know, in Scripture, 
an innumerable company, and an assembly, 
which seems to convey the idea of society as 
clearly as the word itself. Human testi- 
mony weighs but little in matters of this 
sort, but let it have all the weight it can. I 
know no greater names in divinity than 
Watts and Doddridge: they were both of 
this opinion, and I send you the words of 
the latter. 

" Our companions in glory may probably 
assist us by their wise and good observations, 
*vhen we come to make the providence of God 
here upon earth, under the guidance and di- 
rection of our Lord Jesus Christ, the subject 
of our mutual converse" 

Thus, my dear cousin, I have spread out 
my reasons before you for an opinion, which, 



whether admitted or denied, affects not the 
state or interest of our soul. May our Crea. 
tor, Redeemer, and Sanctifier, conduct us 
into his own Jerusalem, where there shall be 
no night, neither any darkness at all, where 
we shall be free, even from innocent error 
and perfect in the light of the knowledge of 
God in the face of Jesus Christ. 

Yours faithfully, W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, Sept. 3, 1766. 
My dear Cousin, — It is reckoned, you know 
a great achievement to silence an opponent in 
disputation, and your silence was of so long 
a continuance, that I might well begin to 
please myself with the apprehension of hav- 
ing accomplished so arduous a matter. To 
be serious, however, I am not sorry that what 
I have said concerning our knowledge of 
each other in a future state has a little in- 
clined you to the affirmative. For though 
the redeemed of the Lord shall be sure of 
being as happy in that state as infinite power 
employed by infinite goodness can make 
them, and therefore it may seem immaterial 
whether we shall, or shall not, recollect each 
other hereafter ; yet our present happiness at 
least is a little interested in the question. A 
parent, a friend, a wife, must needs, I think, 
feel a little heart-ache at the thought of an 
eternal separation from the objects of her 
regard: and not to know them when she 
meets them in another life, or never to meet 
them at all, amounts, though not altogether, 
yet nearly to the same thing. Remember 
them, I think she needs must. To hear that 
they are happy, will indeed be no small addi- 
tion to her own felicity ; but to see them so 
will surely be a greater. Thus, at least, it 
appears to our present human apprehension ; 
consequently, therefore, to think that, when 
we leave them, we lose them forever; that 
we must remain eternally ignorant whether 
they that were flesh of our flesh, and bone of 
our bone, partake with us of celestial glory, 
or are disinherited of their heavenly portion, 
must shed a dismal gloom over all our pres- 
ent connections. For my own part, this 
life is such a momentary thing, and all its in- 
terests have so shrunk in my estimation, since, 
by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I be- 
came attentive to the things of another ; that, 
like a worm in the bud of all my friendships 
and affections, this very thought would eat 
out the heart of them all had I a thousand ; 
and were their date to terminate with this 
life, I think I should have no inclination to 
cultivate and improve suf;h a fugitive busi- 
ness. Yet friendship is necessary to our 
happiness here, and, built upon Christian 
principles, upon which only it can stand, is a 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



4S 



thing even of religious sanction — for what is 
that love which the Holy Spirit, speaking by 
St. Joh.i, so much inculcates, but friendship 1 
— the only love which deserves the name — a 
love which can toil, and watch, and deny it- 
self, and go to death for its brother. Worldly 
friendships are a poor weed compared with 
this, and even this union of spirit in the bond 
of peace would suffer, in my mind at least, 
could I think it were only coeval with our 
earthly mansions. It may possibly argue 
great weakness in me, in this instance, to 
.stand so much in need of future hopes to 
support me in the discharge of present duty. 
But so it is : I am far, I know, very far, from 
being perfect in Christian love or any other 
Divine attainment, and am therefore unwill- 
ing to forego whatever may help me in my 
progress. 

You are so kind as to inquire after my 
health, for which reason I must tell you, 
what otherwise would not be worth mention- 
ing, that I have lately been just enough in- 
disposed to convince me that not only hu- 
man life in general, but mine in particular, 
hangs by a slender thread. I am stout 
enough in appearance, yet a little illness de- 
molishes me. I have had a severe shake, 
and the building is not so firm as it was. 
But I bless God for it, with all my heart. 
If the inner man be but strengthened, day 
by day, as I hope, under the renewing influ- 
ences of the Holy Ghost, it will be, no mat- 
ter how soon the outward is dissolved. He 
who has, in a manner, raised me from the 
dead, in a literal sense, has given me the 
grace, I trust, to be ready at the shortest 
notice to surrender up to him that life which 
I have twice received from him. Whether I 
live or die, I desire it may be to his glory, 
and it must be to my happiness. I thank 
God that I have those amongst my kindred 
to whom I can write, without reserve, my 
se timents upon this subject, as I do to you. 
A tetter upon any other subject is more in- 
sipid to me than ever my task was when a 
school-boy, and I say not this in vain glory, 
God forbid ! but to show you what the Al- 
mighty, whose name I am unworthy to men- 
tion, has done for me, the chief of sinners. 
Once he was a terror to me, and his service, 

what a weariness it was ! Now I can say, 

1 love him and his holy name, and am never 
so happy as when I speak of his mercies to 
me Yours, dear Cousin, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 



Huntingdon, Oct. 20, 1766. 
My dear Cousin, — I am very sorry for 
poor Charles's illness, and hope you will 
soon have cause to thank God for his com- 
plete recovery. We have an epidemical 



fever in this country likewise, which leaves 
behind it a continual sighing, almost to suffo- 
cation : not that I have seen any instance of 
it, for, blessed be God! our family have 
hitherto escaped it, but such was the account 
I heard of it this morning. 

I am obliged to you for the interest you 
take in my welfare, and for your inquiring so 
particularly after the manner in which my 
time passes here. As to amusements, I 
mean what the world calls such, we have 
none : the place indeed swarms with them ; 
and cards and dancing are the professed 
business of almost all the gentle inhabitants 
of Huntingdon. We refuse to take part in 
them, or to be accessories to this way ot 
murdering our time, and by so doing have 
acquired the name of Methodists. Having 
told you how we do not spend our time, I 
will next say how we do. We breakfast 
commonly between eight and nine ; till 
eleven, we read either the Scripture, or the 
sermons of some faithful preacher of those 
holy mysteries ; at eleven, we attend divine 
service, which is performed here twice every 
day ; and from twelve to three we separate, 
and amuse ourselves as we please. During 
that interval I either read in my own apart- 
ment, or walk, or ride, or work in the gar- 
den. We seldom sit an hour after dinner, 
but if the weather permits adjourn to the 
garden, where, with Mrs. Unwin and her 
son, I have generally the pleasure of relig- 
ious conversation till tea time. If it rains, or 
is too windy for walking, we either converse 
within doors, or sing some hymns of Mar- 
tin's collection, and, by the help of Mrs. Un- 
win's harpsichord, make up a tolerable con- 
cert, in which our hearts, I hope, are the best 
and most musical performers. After tea we 
sally forth to walk in good earnest. Mrs. 
Unwin is a good walker, and we have gener- 
ally travelled about four miles before we see 
home again. When the days are short, we 
make this excursion in the former part of 
the day, between church-time and dinner. 
At night we read and converse, as before, 
till supper, and commonly finish the evening 
either with hymns or a sermon ; and, last of 
all, the family are called to prayers. I need 
not tell you that such a life as this is con- 
sistent with the utmost cheerfulness : ac- 
cordingly, we are all happy, and dwell to- 
gether in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin 
has almost a maternal affection for me, and I 
have something very like a filial one fo; ier, 
and her son and I are brothers. Blessed be 
the God of our salvation for such compan- 
ions, and for such a life, above all for a heart 
to like it ! 

I have had many anxious thoughts about 
taking orders, and" I believe every rew con- 
vert is apt to think himself called upon for 
that purpose ; but it has pleased Go^, by 



46 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



means which there is no need to particular- 
ize, to give me full satisfaction as to the 
propriety of declining it ; indeed, they who 
have the least idea of what I have suffered 
from the dread of public exhibitions will 
readily, excuse my never attempting them 
hereafter. In the meantime, if it please the 
Almighty, I may be an instrument of turning 
many to the truth, in a private way, and hope 
that my endeavors in this way have not been 
entirely unsuccessful. Had I the zeal of 
Moses, I should want an Aaron to be my 
iv okesman. 

Yours ever, my dear Cousin, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, March 11, 1767. 

My dear Cousin, — To find those whom I 
love, clearly and strongly persuaded of evan- 
gelical truth, gives me a pleasure superior to 
any this world can afford me. Judge, then, 
whether your letter, in which the body and 
substance of a saving faith is so evidently set 
forth, could meet with a lukewarm recep- 
tion at ray hands, or be entertained with in- 
difference ! Would you know the true rea- 
son of ray long silence 1 Conscious that my 
religious principles are generally excepted 
against, and that the conduct they produce, 
wherever they are heartily maintained, is still 
more the object of disapprobation than those 
principles themselves, and remembering that 
I had made both the one sftid the other known 
to you, without having any clear assurance 
that our faith in Jesus was of the same 
stamp and character, I could not help think- 
ing it possible that you might disapprove both 
my sentiments and practice ; that you might 
think the one unsupported by Scripture, and 
the other whimsical, and unnecessarily strict 
and rigorous, and consequently would be 
rather pleased with the suspension of a cor- 
respondence, which a different way of think- 
ing upon so momentous a subject as that we 
wrote upon was likely to render tedious and 
irksome to you. 

I have told you the truth from my heart ; 
forgive me these injurious suspicions, and 
never imagine that I shall hear from you 
upon this delightful theme without a real 
joy, or without prayer to God to prosper you 
in the way of his truth, his sanctifying and 
saving truth. The book you mention lies 
now upon my table. Marshall* is an 
old acquaintance of mine ; I have both read 
him and heard him read, with pleasure and 
edification. The doctrines he maintains are, 

* " Marshall on Sanctification." This book is distin- 
guished by pn found and enlarged views of the subject 
on which it treats. It was strongly recommended by the 

Sious Hervey. whose testimony to its merits is prefixed to 
ie work. 



under the influence of the Spirit of Christ, tin 
very life of my soul and the soul of all my 
happiness ; that Jesus is a present Savioui 
from the guilt of sin, by his most precious 
blood, and from the power of it by his Spirit 
that, coi rupt and wretched in ourselves, in 
Him, and in Him only, we are complete ; that 
being united to Jesus by a lively faith, we 
have a solid and eternal interest in his obe- 
dience and sufferings to justify us before the 
face of our heavenly Father, and that all this 
inestimable treasure, the earnest of which is 
in grace, and its consummation in glory, is 
given, freely given, to us of God ; in short, 
that he hath opened the kingdom of heaven 
to all believers : these are the truths which, 
by the grace of God, shall ever be dearer to 
me than life itself : shall ever be placed next 
my heart, as the throne whereon the Saviour 
himself shall sit, to sway all its motions, and 
reduce that world of iniquity and rebellion to 
a state of filial and affectionate obedience to 
the will of the most Holy. 

These, my dear cousin, are the truths to 
which by nature we are enemies : they de- 
base the sinner, and exalt the Saviour, to a 
degree which the pride of our hearts (till 
almighty grace subdues them) is determined 
never to allow. May the Almighty reveal 
his Son in our hearts, continually, more and 
more, and teach us to increase in love k 
wards him continually, for having given us 
the unspeakable riches of Christ. 

Yours faithfully, W 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

March 14, 1767. 

My dear Cousin, — I just add a line, by way 
of postscript to my last, to apprize you of 
the arrival of a very dear friend of mine at 
the Park, on Friday next, the son of Mr. 
Unwin, whom I have desired to call on you 
in his way from London to Huntingdon. If 
you knew him as well as I do, you would love 
him as much. But I leave the young man to 
speak for himself,' which he is very able to do. 
He is ready possessed of an answer to every 
question you can possibly ask concerning me, 
and knows my whole story from first to last. 
I give you this previous notice, because I 
know you are not fond of strange faces, and 
because I thought it would, in some degree, 
save him the pain of announcing himself. 

I am become a great florist and shrub-doc- 
tor. If the major can make up a small pack- 
et of seeds, that will make a figure in a gar- 
den, where we have little else besides jessa- 
mine and honeysuckle ; such a packet I mean 
as may be put into one's fob, I will promise 
to take great care of them, as I ought to 
value natives of the Park. They must not 
be such, however, as require great skill in th« 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



41 



management, for at present I have no skill to 
B£»are. 

I think Marshall one of the best writers, 
and the most spiritual expositor of Scripture 
I ever read. I admire the strength of his ar- 
gument, and the clearness of his reasonings, 
upon those parts of our most holy religion 
which are generally least understood (even 
by real Christians), as masterpieces of the 
kind. His section upon the union of the soul 
with Christ is an instance of what I mean, in 
which he has spoken of a most mysterious 
truth, with admirable perspicuity and with 
great good sense, making it all the while 
subservient to his main purport, of proving 
holiness to be the fruit and effect of faith. 

I subjoin thus much upon that author, be- 
cause, though you desired my opinion of him, 
I remember that in my last I rather left you 
to find it out by inference than expressed it, 
as I ought to have done. I never met with a 
man who understood the plan of salvation 
better, or was more happy in explaining it. 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, April 3, 1767. 

My dear Cousin, — You sent my friend Un- 
win home to us charmed with your kind re- 
ception of him, and with everything he saw 
at the Park. Shall I once more give you a 
peep into my vile and deceitful heart ? What 
motive do you think lay at the bottom of my 
conduct, when I desired him to call upon 
you ? I did not suspect, at first, that pride 
and vain-glory had any share in it, but quick- 
y after I had recommended the visit to him, 
I discovered in that fruitful soil the very root 
of the matter. You know I am a stranger 
here ; all such are suspected characters, un- 
less they bring their credentials with them. 
To this moment, I believe, it is matter of. 
speculation in the place whence I came and 
to whom I belong. 

Though my friend, you may suppose, be- 
fore I was admitted an inmate here, was sat- 
isfied that I was not a mere vagabond, and 
has, since that time, received more convinc- 
ing proofs of my sponsibility, yet I could not 
resist the opportunity of furnishing him with 
ocular demonstration of it, by introducing 
him to one of my most splendid connections ; 
that when he hears me called, " That fellow 
Cowper" which has happened heretofore, he 
may be able, upon unquestionable evidence, 
to assert my gentlemanhood, and relieve me 
from the weight of that opprobrious appella- 
tion. O Pride ! Pride ! it deceives with the 
subtlety of a serpent, and seems to walk 
erect, though it crawls upon the earth. How 
will i"- twist and twine itself about, to get 
from under the cross, which it is the glorv 
of our Christian calling to be able to bear 



with patience and good will ! They who can 
guess at the heart of a stranger, and you espe- 
cially, who are of a compassionate temper 
will be more ready, perhaps, to excuse me, 
in this instance, than I can be to excuse my- 
self. But, in good truth, it was abominable 
pride of heart, indignation, and vanity, and 
deserves no better name. How should such 
a creature be admitted into those pure and 
sinless mansions, where nothing shall enter 
that defileth, did not the blood of Christ, ap- 
plied by the hand of faith, take away the 
guilt of sin, and leave no spot or stain be- 
hind it? Oh what continual need have I of 
an Almighty, All-sufficient Saviour? I am 
glad you are acquainted so particularly with 
all the circumstances of my story, for I know 
that your secrecy and discretion may be trust- 
ed with anything. A thread of mercy ran 
through all the intricate maze of those afflic- 
tive providences, so mysterious to myself at 
the time, and which must ever remain so to 
all who will not see what was the great de- 
sign of them ; at the judgment-seat of Christ 
the whole shall be laid open. How is the 
rod of iron changed into a sceptre of love ! 

I thank you for the seeds ; I have commit- 
ted some of each sort to the ground, whence 
they will spring up like so many mementoes 
to remind me of my friends at the Park. 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
* June 16, 1767. 

Dear Joe, — This part of the world is not 
productive of much news, unless the coldness 
of the weather be so, which is excessive for 
the season. We expect, or rather experience 
a warm contest between the candidates fo.. 
the county; the preliminary movements of 
bribery, threatening, and drunkenness, being 
already taken. The Sandwich interest seems 
to shake, though both parties are very san- 
guine. Lord Carysfort is supposed to be in 
great jeopardy, though as yet, I imagine, a 
clear judgment cannot be formed ; for a man 
may have all the noise on his side and yet 
lose his election. You know me to be an 
uninterested person, and I am sure I am a 
very ignorant one in things of this kind. I 
only wish it was over, for. it occasions the 
most detestable scene of profligacy and riot 
that can be imagined. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, July 13, 1767. 

My dear Cousin, — The newspaper has told 
you the truth. Poor Mr. Unwin, being flung 
from his horse as he was going to his church 



°rivate cor^eapondpnw 



48 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Dn Sunday morning, received a dreadful frac- 
ture on the back part of the skull, under 
which he languished till Thursday evening, 
and then died. This awful dispensation has 
left an impression upon our spirits which will 
not be presently worn otf. He died in a poor 
cottage, to which he was carried immediately 
^.fter his fall, about a mile from home, and his 
Dody could not be brought to his house till 
the spirit was gone to him who gave it. May 
it be a lesson to us to watch, since we know 
not the day, nor the hour, when our Lord 
cometh ! 

The effect of it upon my circumstances will 
only be a change of the place of my abode. 
For I shall still, by God's leave, continue 
with Mrs. Unwin, whose behavior to me has 
always been that of a mother to a son. We 
know not where we shall settle, but we trust 
that the Lord, whom we seek, will go before 
us and prepare a rest for us. We have em- 
ployed our friend Haweis* Dr. Conyers,f of 
Helmsley, in Yorkshire, and Mr. Newton, of 
Olney, to look out a place for us, but at pres- 
ent are entirely ignorant under which of the 
three we shall settle, or whether under either. 
I have written to my aunt Madan, to desire 
Martin to assist us with his inquiries. It is 
probable we shall stay here till Michaelmas. 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

July 16, 176# 

Dear Joe, — Your wishes that the news- 
paper may have misinformed you are vain. 
Mr. Unwin is dead, and died in the manner 
there mentioned. At nine o'clock on Sun- 
day morning he was in perfect health, and as 

* Dr. Haweis was a leading character in the religious 
world at this time, and subsequently the superintendent 
of Lady Huntingdon's chapels, and of the Seminary for 
Students founded by that lady. His principal works are 
a "Commentary on the Bible," and "History of the 
Church." 

+ Dr. (-onyers. The circumstances attending the death 
of this truly pious and eminent servant of God are too 
affecting not to be deemed worthy of being recorded. 
He h;td ascended the pulpit of St. Paul's, Deptford, of 
which he was rector, and had just delivered his text, 
" Ye shall see my face no more," when he was seized 
with a sudden fainting, and fell back in his pulpit : he re- 
covered, however, sufficiently to proceed with his ser- 
mon, and to give the concluding blessing, when he again 
fainted away, was carried home, and expired without a 
groan, in the sixty-second year of his age, 1786. The 
affecting manner of his death is thus happily adverted to 
in the following beautiful lines : — 

Sent by their Lord on purposes of grace, 
Thus angels do his will, and see his face ; 
With outspread wings they stand, prepar'd to soar, 
Declare their message, and are seen no more. 

Underneath is a Latin inscription, of which the follow- 
jig is the translation. 

I have sinned. 

I repented. I believed. 

I have loved. I rest. 

I shall rise again. 

And, by the grace of Christ, 

However unworthy, 

I shall reign. 



likely to live twenty years as either of us ; 
and before ten was stretched speechless and 
senseless upon a flock bed, in a poor cottage,, 
where (it being impossible to remove him) 
he died on Thursday evening. I heard his 
dying groans, the effect of great agony, for 
he was a strong man, and much convulsed in 
his last moments. The few short intervals 
of sense that were indulged him he spent in 
earnest prayer, and in expressions of a fb*m 
trust and confidence in the only Saviour. To 
that stronghold we must all resort at last, if 
we would have hope in our death; when 
every other refuge fails, we are glad to fly to 
the only shelter to which we can repair to 
any purpose ; and happy is it for us, when, 
the false ground we have chosen for our- 
selves being broken under us, we find our- 
selves obliged to have recourse to the rock 
which can never be shaken ; when this is our 
lot, we receive great and undeserved mercy. 
Our society will not break up, but we shall 
settle in some other place, where, is at present 
uncertain. 

Yours, W. C. 



These tender and confidential letters de- 
scribe, in the clearest light, the singularly 
peaceful and devout life of this amiable writ- 
er, during his residence at Huntingdon, and 
the melancholy accident which occasioned 
his removal to a distant county. Time and 
providential circumstances now introduced 
to the notice of Cowper, the zealous and 
venerable friend who became his intimate 
associate for many years, after having ad- 
vised and assisted him in the important con- 
cern of fixing his future residence. The 
Rev. John Newton, then curate of Olney, in 
Buckinghamshire, had been requested by the 
late Dr. Conyers (who, in taking his degree 
in divinity at Cambridge, had formed a friend- 
ship with young Mr. Unwin, and learned from 
him the religious character of his mother) to ■ 
seize an opportunity, as he was passing 
through Huntingdon, of making a visit to 
that exemplary lady. This visit (so impor- 
tant in its consequences to the future history 
of Cowper) happened to take place within a 
few days after the calamitous death of Mr. 
Unwin. As a change of scene appeared de- 
sirable both to Mrs. Unwin and to the in- 
teresting recluse whom she had generously 
requested to continue under her care, Mr 
Newton offered to assist them in removing 
to the pleasant and picturesque county in 
which he resided. They were willing to. en-' 
ter into the flock of a pious and devoted 
pastor, whose ideas were so much in har 
mony with their own. He engaged for them 
a house at Olney, where they arrived on the 
14th of October, 1767. He thus alludes to 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



49 



his new r< ^dence in the following extract of 
a letter to Mr. Hill. 

TO JOSEPH HTLL, ESQ.* 

Olney, October 20, 1767. 
1 have no map to consult at present, but, 
by what remembrance I have of the situation 
of this place in the last I saw, it lies at the 
northernmost point of the coi.nty. We are 
just five miles beyond Newport Pagnell. I 
am willing to suspect that you make this in- 
quiry with a view to an interview, when time 
shall Pcrve. We may possibly be settled in 
our own house in about a month, where so 
good a friend of mine will be extremely wel- 
come to Mrs. Unwin. We shall have a bed 
and a warm fire-side at yor.» service, if you 
can come before next summer ; and if not, a 
parlor that looks the north wind full in the 
face, where you may be as cool as in the 
groves of Valambrosa. 

Yours, my dear 'Sephus, 

Affectionately eve" W. C. 

It would have been difficult to select a sit- 
uation apparently more suited to the existing 
circumstances and character of Cowper than 
the scene to which he was now transferred. 
Tn Mr. Newton were happily united the quali- 
fications of piety, fervent, rational, and cheer- 
ful — the kind and affectionate feelings that 
inspire friendship and regard — a solid judg- 
ment, and a refined taste — the power to edify 
and please, and the grace that knows how to 
improve it to the highest ends. He lived in the 
midst of a flock who loved and esteemed him, 
and who saw in his ministrations the creden- 
tials of heaven, and in his life the exemplifi- 
cation of the doctrines that he taught. 

The time of Cowper, in his new situation, 
seems to have been chiefly devoted to relig- 
ious contemplation, to social prayer, and to 
active charity. To this first of Christian vir- 
tues, his heart was eminently inclined, and 
Providence very graciously enabled him to 
exercise and enjoy it to an extent far supe- 
rior to what his own scanty fortune allowed 
means. The death of his father, 1756, failed 
to place him in a state of independence, and 
the singular cast of his own mind was such, 
that nature seemed to have rendered it im- 
possible for him either to covet or to acquire 
riches. His happy exemption from worldly 
passions is forcibly displayed in the following 
letter. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, June 16, 1768. 
Dear Joe, — I thank you for so full an an- 
swer to so empty an epistle. If Olney fur- 
nished anything for your amusement, you 
should have it in return, but occurrences 

* Private correspondence. 



here are as scarce as cucumbers at Christ- 
mas. 

I visited St. Alban's about a fortnight since 
in person, and I visit it every day in thought 
The recollection of what passed there, and 
the consequences that followed it, fill my 
mind continually, and make the circumstances 
of a poor, transient, half-spent life, so insipid 
and unaffecting, that I have no heart to think 
or write much about them. Whether the 
nation is worshipping Mr. Wilkes, or any 
other idol, is of little moment to one who 
hopes and believes that he shall shortly stand 
in the presence of the great and blessed God. 
I thank him that he has given me such a deep, 
impressed, persuasion of this awful truth as 
a thousand worlds would not purchase from 
me. It gives me a relish to every blessing, 
and makes every trouble light. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

In entering on the correspondence of the 
ensuing yea*, we find the following impres- 
sive letter addressed to Mr. Hill. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Jan. 21, 1769. 

Dear Joe, — I rejoice with you in your re- 
covery, and that you have escaped from the 
hands of one from whose hands you will not 
always escape. Death is either the most for- 
midable, or the most comfortable thing we 
have in prospect, on this side of eternity. 
To be brought near to him, and to discern 
neither of these features in his face, would 
argue a degree of insensibility, of which I 
will not suspect my friend, whom I know to 
be a thinking man. You have been brought 
down tp the side of the grave, and you have 
been raised again by Him who has the keys 
of the invisible world ; who opens and none 
can shut, who shuts and none can open. I 
do not forget to return thanks to Him on 
your behalf,. and to pray that your life, which 
he has spared, may be devoted to his service. 
"'Behold! I stand at the door and knock," is 
the word of Him, on whom both our mortal 
and immortal life depend, and, blessed be his 
name, it is the word of one who wounds only 
that he may heal, and who waits to be gra- 
cious. The language of every such dispensa- 
tion is, " Prepare to meet thy God." It speaks 
with the voice of mercy and goodness, for, 
without such notices, whatever preparation 
we might make for other events, we should 
make none for this. My dear friend, I desire 
and pray that, when this last enemy shall 
come to execute an unlimited commission 
upon us, we may be found ready, being 
established and rooted in a well-grounded 
faith in His name, who conquered and tri- 
umphed over him upon his cross. 

Yours ever, W. C 

* Private correspondence. 
4 



50 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Jan. 29, 1769. 

My dear Joe, — I have a moment to spare, 
to tell you that your letter is just come to 
hand, and to thank you for it. I do assure 
you, the gentleness and candor of your man- 
ner engages my affection to you very much. 
You answer with mildness to an admonition, 
which would have provoked many to anger. 
I have not time to add more, except just to 
hint that, if I am ever enabled to look for- 
ward to death with comfort, which, I thank 
God, is sometimes the case with me, I do not 
take my view of it from the top of my own 
works and deservings, though God is witness 
that the labor of my life is to keep a con- 
science void of offence towards Him. He is 
always formidable to me, but when I see him 
disarmed of his st'ing, by having sheathed it 
in the body of Christ Jesus. 

Yours, my dear friend, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, July 31, 1769. 

Dear Joe, — Sir Thomas crosses the Alp?, 
and Sir Cowper, for that is his title at Olney, 
prefers his home to any other spot of earth 
in the world. Horace, observing this differ- 
ence of temper in different persons, cried out 
a good many years ago, in the true spirit of 
poetry, " How much one man differs from an- 
other !" This does not seem a very sublime 
exclamation in English, but I remember we 
were taught to admire it in the original. 

My dear friend, I am obliged to you for 
your invitation : but being long accustomed 
to retirement, which I was always fond of, I 
am now more than ever unwilling to revisit 
those noisy and crowded scenes, which I 
never loved, and which I now abhor. I re- 
member you with all the friendship I ever 
professed, which is as much as ever I enter- 
tained for any man. But the strange and un- 
common incidents of my life have given an 
entire new turn to my whole character and 
conduct, and rendered me incapable of re- 
ceiving pleasure from the same employments 
and amusements of which I could readily 
partake in former days. 

I love you and yours, I thank you for your 
continued remembrance of me, and shall not 
cease to be their and your 

Affectionate friend and servant, 

W. C. 

Cowper's present retirement was distin- 
guished by many private acts of beneficence, 
and his exemplary virtue was such that the 
opulent sometimes delighted to make him 
toeir almoner. In his sequestered life at 

* Private correspondence. 



Olney, he ministered abundantly to the want* 
of the poor, from a fund with which he was 
supplied by that model of extensive and 
unostentatious philanthropy, the late John 
Thornton, Esq., whose name he has immor- 
talized in his Poem on Charity, still honoring 
his memory by an additional tribute to his 
virtues in the following descriptive eulogy 
written immediately on hie decease, in the 
year 1790. 

Poets attempt the noblest task they can, 
Praising the Author of all good in man ; 
And next commemorating worthies lost. 
The dead in whom that good abounded most. 

Thee therefore of commercial fame, but more 
Fam'd for thy probity, from shore to shore — ■ 
Thee. Thornton, worthy in some page to shine 
As honest and more eloquent than mine, 
I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee ; 
Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; 
It were to weep that goodness has its meed, 
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, 
And glory for the virtuous when they die. 

What pleasure can the miser's fondled board 
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford, 
Sweet as the privilege of healing woe 
Suffer'd by virtue combating below ! [means 

That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee 
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, fcrlorn 
As midnight, and despairing of a morn. 
Thou hadst an industry in doing good, 
Restless as his who toils and sweats for foi, . 
Av'rice in thee was the desire of wealth 
By rust unperishable, or by stealth. 
And, if the genuine worth of gold depend 
On application to its noblest end, 
Thine had a value in the scales of heaven, 
Surpassing all that mine or mint have given 
And though God made thee of a nature prone 
To distribution, boundless, of thy own ; 
And still, by motives of religious force, 
Impell'd thee more to that heroic course ; 
Yet was thy liberality discreet, 
Nice in its choice, and of a temp'rate heat ; 
And, though in act unwearied, secret still, 
As, in some solitude, the summer rill 
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green, 
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, un 
seen. 

Such was thy charity; no sudden start^ 
After long sleep of passion in the heart, 
But stedfast principle, and in its kind 
Of close alliance with th' eternal mind ; 
Traced easily to its true source above, 
To Him whose works bespeak his nature, love. 
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; 
That the incredulous themselves may see 
Its use and power exemplified in thee. 

This simple and sublime eulogy was a just 
tribute of respect to the memory of this dis- 
tinguished philanthropist ; and, among the 
happiest actions of this truly liberal man, we 
may reckon his furnivshing to a character sj 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



51 



reserved and so retired as Cowper the means 
of enjoying the gratification of active and 
mostly beneficence ; a- gratification in which 
the sequestered poet had delighted to in- 
dulge, before his acquaintance with Mr. 
Newton afforded him an opportunity of be- 
ing concerned in distributing ' the private, 
yet extensive, bounty of an opulent and .ex- 
emplary merchant. 

Cowper, before he quitted St. Alban's, as- 
sumed the charge of a necessitous child, to 
extricate him from the perils of being edu- 
cated by very profligate parents ; he sent 
him to a school at Huntingdon, transferred 
him* on his removal, to Olney, and finally 
settled him as an apprentice at Oundle, in 
Northamptonshire. 

The warm, benevolent, and cheerful piety 
of Mr. Newton, induced his friend Cowper to 
participate so abundantly in his parochial 
plans and engagements, that the poet's time 
and thoughts were more and more engrossed 
by devotional objects. He became a valua- 
ble auxiliary to a faithful parish priest, su- 
perintended the religious exercises of the 
poor, and engaged iii an important undertak- 
ing, to which we shall shortly have occasion 
to advert. 

But in the midst of these pious duties he 
forgot not his distant friends, and particular- 
ly his amiable relation and correspondent, of 
the Park-house, near Hertford. The follow- 
ing letter to that lady has, no date, but it was 
probably written soon after his establish- 
ment at Olney. The remarkable memento 
in the postscript was undoubtedly introduced 
to counteract an idle rumor, arising from the 
circumstance of his having settled himself 
under the roof of a female friend, whose age 
and whose virtues he considered to be suffi- 
cient securities to ensure her reputation as 
well as his own. 

TO MRS. COWPER. 

My dear Cousin, — I have not been behind- 
hand in reproaching myself with neglect, but 
desire to take shame to myself for my un- 
profitableness in this, as well as in all other 
r spects. I take the next immediate oppor- 
tunity, however, of thanking you for yours, 
and of assuring you that, instead of being 
surprised at your, silence, I "rather wonder 
that you or any of my friends have any room 
left for so careless and negligent a corre- 
spondent in your memories. I am obliged to 
vou for the intelligence you send me of my 
kindred, and rejoice to hear of their welfare. 
He who settles the bounds of our habitations 
has at length cast our lot at a great distance 
from each other, but I do not therefore for- 
get their former kindness to me, or cease to 
be interested in their well being. You live 
ji the centre o* a world I know you do not 



delight in. Happy are you, my dear friend, 
in being able to discern the insufficiency of 
all it can afford to fill and satisfy the desires 
of an immortal soul. That God who created 
us for the enjoyment of himself, has deter- 
mined in mercy that it shall fail us here, in 
order that the blessed result of our inquiries 
after happiness in the creature may be a 
warm pursuit and a close attachment to our 
true interests, in fellowship and communion 
with Him, through the name and mediation 
of a dear Redeemer. I bless his goodness 
and grace that I have any reason to hope I 
am a partaker with you in the desire after 
better things than are to be found in a world 
polluted with sin, and therefore devoted to 
destruction. May He enable us both to 
consider our present life in its only true 
light, as an opportunity put into our hands 
to glorify him amongst men by a conduct 
sui ted to his word and will. I am miserably 
defective in this holy and blessed art, but I 
hope there is at the bottom of all my sinful 
infirmities a sincere desire to live just so 
long as I may be enabled, in some poor 
measure, to answer the end of my existence 
in this respect, and then to obey the' sum- 
mons and attend him in a world where they 
who are his servants here shall pay him an 
unsinful obedience forever. Your dear mo- 
ther is too good to me, and puts a more 
charitable construction upon my silence than 
the fact will warrant. I am not better em- 
ployed than I should be in corresponding 
with her. I have that within which hinders 
me wretchedly in everything that I ought to 
do, and is prone to trifle, and let time and 
every good thing run to waste. I hope 
however to write to her soon. 

My love and best wishes attend Mr. Cow- 
per, and all that inquire after me. May God 
be with you, to bless you and to do you 
good by all his dispensations ; do not forget 
me when you are speaking to o iv best 
Friend before his mercy seat. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

N. B. J urn not married. 

In the year 1769, the lady to whom the 
preceding letters, are addressed was involved 
in domestic affliction ; and the following, 
which the poet wrote to her on the occasion, 
is so full of genuine piety and true pathos, 
that it would be an injury to his memory to 
suppress it. 

TO MRS. COWPER. 

Olney, Aug. 31, 1769. 

My dear Cousin, — A letter from your 
brother Frederick brought me yesterday the 
most afflicting intelligence that has reached 
me these many years. I pray to God to 
comfort you, and to enable vou to sustain 



52 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



this heavy stroke with that resignation to his 
will which none but Himself can give, and 
which he gives to none but his own children. 
How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear 
friend, beyond the common lot of the greater 
part of mankind ; that you know what it is 
to draw near to God in prayer, and are ac- 
quainted with a throne of grace ! You have 
resources in the infinite love of a dear Re- 
deemer which are withheld from millions : 
and the promises of God, which are yea and 
amen in Jesus, are sufficient to answer all 
your necessities, and to sweeten the bitterest 
cup which your heavenly Father will ever 
put into your hand. May He now give you 
liberty to drink at these wells of salvation, 
till you are filled with consolation and peace 
in the, midst of trouble. He has said, 
" When thou passest through the waters I 
will be with thee, and through the rivers, 
they shall not overflow thee."* You have 
need of such a word as this, and he knows 
your need of it, and the time of necessity is" 
the time when he will be sure to appear in 
behalf of those who trust in him. I bear 
you and yours upon my heart before him 
night and day, for I never expect to hear of 
distress which shall call upon me with a 
louder voice to pray for the sufferer. I 
know the Lord hears me for myself, vile and 
sinful as I am, and believe, and am sure, that 
he will hear me for you also. He is the 
friend of the widow, and the father of the 
fatherless, even God in his holy habitation ; 
in all our afflictions he is afflicted, and chas- 
tens us in mercy. Surely he will sanctify 
this dispensation to you, do you great and 
everlasting good by it, make the world ap- 
pear like dust and vanity in your sight, as it 
truly is, and open to your view the glories of 
a better country, where there shall be no 
more death, neither sorrow, nor pain : but 
God shall wipe aw r ay all tears from your 
eyes forever. Oh that comfortable word ! 
" I have chosen thee in the furnace of afflic- 
tion ;"f so that our very sorrows are evi- 
dences of our calling, and he cha^u os us be- 
cause we are his children. 

My dear cousin, I commit you to the word 
of his grace, and to the comforts of his Holy 
Spirit. Your life is needful for your family : 
may God, in mercy to them, prolong it, and 
may he preserve you from the dangerous 
effects which a stroke like this might have 
upon a frame so tender as yours. I grieve 
with you, I pray for you ; could I do more I 
would, but God must comfort you. 

Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, 

W. C. 

In the following year the tender feelings 
»f Cowper were called forth by family afflic- 
tion that pressed more immediately on him- 
* Isaiah xliii. 2. t Isaiah xlviii. 10. 



self; he was hurried to Cambridge by the 
dangerous illness of his brother, then resid- 
ing as a fellow at Bene't College. An 
affection truly fraternal had ever subsisted 
between the brothers, and the reader will 
recollect what the poet has said, in one of 
his letters, concerning their social intercourse 
while he resided at Huntingdon. 

In the first two years of his residence at 
Olney, he had been repeatedly visited by Mr. 
John Cowper, and how cordially he returned 
that kindness and attention the following 
letter will testify, which was probably writ- 
ten in the chamber of the invalid. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

March 5, 1770. 

My brother continues much as he was. 
His case is a very dangerous one — an im- 
posthume of the liver, attended by an asthma 
and dropsy. The physician has little hope 
of his recovery, I believe I might say none 
at all, only, being a friend, he does not for- 
mally give him over by ceasing to visit him, 
lest it should sink his spirits. For my own 
part, I have no expectation of his recovery, 
except by a signal interposition of Provi- 
dence in answer to prayer. His ca&e is 
clearly beyond the reach of medicine ; but 
I have seen many a sickness healed, where 
the danger has been equally threatening, by 
the only Physician of value. I doubt not 
he will have an interest in your prayers, as 
he has in the prayers of many. May the 
Lord incline his ear and give an answer of 
peace. I know it is good to be afflicted. I 
trust that you have found it so, and that 
under the teaching of God's own Spirit we 
shall both be purified. It is the desire of 
my soul to seek a better country, where God 
shall wipe away all tears from the eyes of 
his people ; and where, looking back upon 
the ways by which he has led us, we shall 
be filled with everlasting wonder, love, and 
praise. 

I must add no more. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

The sickness and death of his learned, 
pious, and affectionate brother, made a very 
strong impression on the tender heart and 
mind of Cowper — an impression so strong, 
that it induced him to write a narrative 
of the remarkable circumstances which oc- 
curred at the time. He sent a copy of this 
narrative to Mr. Newton. The paper is cu- 
rious in every point of view, and so likely to 
awaken sentiments of piety in minds where 
it may be most desirable to have them awak- 
ened, that Mr. Newton subsequently commu. 
nicated it to the public.* 

Here it is necessary to introduce a brief 

* For this interesting document, see p. 483. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



5J 



wjcount of the interesting person whom the 
poet regarded so tenderly. John Cowper 
*ras born in 1737. Being designed for the 
church, hw was privately educated by a cler- 
gyman, and became eminent for the extent 
and variety of his erudition in the university 
of Cambridge. The remarkable change in 
nis views and principles is copiously displayed 
by his brother, in recording the pious clo.se 
his life. Bene't College, of which he was a 
fellow, was his usual residence, and it be- 
came the scene of his death, on the 20 ch of 
March, 1770. Fraternal affection has exe- 
cuted a perfectly just and graceful descrip- 
tion of his character, both in prose and verse. 
We transcribe both as highly honorable to 
these exemplary brethren, who may indeed 
'>e said to have dwelt together in unity. 

" He was a man" (says the poet in speaking 
of his deceased brother) " of a most candid 
and ingenuous spirit ; his temper remarkably 
sweet, and in his behavior to me he had al- 
ways manifested an uncommon affection. 
His outward conduct, so far as it fell under 
my notice, or I could learn it by the report 
of others, was perfectly decent and unblama- 
ble. There was nothing vicious in any part 
of his practice, but, being of a studious, 
thoughtful turn, he placed his chief delight 
in the acquisition of learning, and made such 
proficiency in it, that he had but few rivals 
in that of a classical kind. He was critically 
skilled in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew lan- 
guages ; was beginning to make himself mas- 
ter of the Syriac, ai d perfectly understood 
the French and Italian, the latter cf which 
he could speak fluently. Learned however 
as he was, he was easy and cheerful in his 
conversation, and entirely free from the stiff- 
ness which is generally contracted by men 
devoted to such pursuits." 

" I had a brother once : 
Peace to the memory of a man of worth ! 
A man of letters, and of manners* too ! 
Of manners sweet, as virtue always wears, 
When gay good humor dresses her in smiles ! 
He grac'd a college, in which order yet 
Was sacred, and was honored, lov'd, and wept 
By m >re than one, themselves conspicuous there !" 

Another interesting tribute to his memory 
Till be found in the following letter. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, May 8, 1770. 

Dear Joe, — Your letter did not reach me 
till the last post, when I had not time to an- 
swer it. I left Cambridge immediately after 
my brother's death. 

I am obliged to you for the particular ac- 
count you have sent me * * * * 
lie, to whom I have surrendered myself and 
ill my concerns has otherwise appointed, and 
et his will be done. He gives me much 



which he withholds from others, and if h« 
was pleased to withhold all that makes an 
outward difference between me and the poor 
mendicant in the street, it would still become 
me to say, his will be done. 

It pleased God to cut short my brother's 
connexions and expectations here, yet not 
without giving him lively and glorious views 
of a better happiness than any he could pro- 
pose to himself in such a world as this. 
Notwithstanding his great learning, (for he 
was one of the chief men in the university 
in thai respect,) he was candid and sincere in 
his inquiries after truth. Though he could 
not come into my sentiments when I first ac- 
quainted him with them, nor, in the many 
conversations which I afterward had with him 
upon the subject, could he be brought to ac- 
quiesce in them as scriptural and true, yet I 
had no sooner left St. Alban's than he began 
to study, with the deepest attention, those 
points in which we differed, and to furnish 
himself with the best writers upon them. 
His mind was kept open to conviction for 
five years, during all which time he labored 
in this pursuit with unwearied diligence, 
as leisure and opportunity were atforded. 
Amongst his dying words were these : " Bro- 
ther, I thought you wrong, yet wanted to be- 
lieve as you did. I found myself not able 
to believe, yet always thought I should be 
one day brought to do so." From the study 
of books he was brought, upon his death- 
tec 1 , to the study of himself, and there learned 
tc renounce his righteousness and his own 
most amiable character, and to submit himself 
to the righteousness which is of God by fait_\. 
With these views he was desirous of death. 
Satisfied of bis interest in the blessing pur- 
chased by the blood of Christ, he prayed for 
death with earnestness, felt the approach of 
it with joy, and died in peace. 

Yours, my dear friend, 
W. C. 

It is this simple yet firm reliance on the 
merits of the Saviour, and on his atoning 
blood and righteousness, that can alone im- 
part true peace to the soul. Such was the 
faith of patriarchs, prophets and apostles ; 
and such will be the faith of all who are 
taught of God. Works do not go before, 
but follow after; they are not the cause, but 
the effect : the fruits of faith, and indispen- 
sable to glorify God, to attest the power and 
reality of divine grace, and to determine the 
measure of our everlasting reward. 

Cowper's feelings on this impressive occa- 
sion are still further disclosed in the follow- 
ing letter. 

TO MKS. COWrEJi. 

Olney, June 1770. 

My dear Cousin,— I am obliged to you foi 



sometimes thinking of an unseen friend, and be- 
stowing a letter upon me. It gives me pleas- 
ure to hear from you, especially to find that 
our gracious Lord enables you to weather 
out the storms you meet with, and to cast 
anchor within the veil. 

You judge rightly of the manner in which 
I have been affected by the Lord's late dis- 
pensation towards my brother. I found in 
it cause of sorrow that I had lost so near a 
relation, and one so deserveely dear to me, 
and that he left me just when our sentiments 
upon the most interesting subject became the j 
same, but much more cause of joy, that it 
pleased God to give me clear and evident | 
proof that he had changed his heart, and ' 
adopted him into the number of his children. 
For this, I hold myself peculiarly bound to 
thank him, because he might have done all 
that he was pleased to do for him, and yet 
have afforded him neither strength nor op- 
portunity to declare it. 1 doubt not that he 
enlightens the understandings, and works a 
gracious change in the hearts of many, in 
their last moments, whose surrounding friends 
are not made acquainted with it. 

He told me that, from the time he was first 
ordained, he began to be dissatisfied with his 
religious opinions, and to suspect that there 
were greater things concealed in the Bible 
than were generally believed or allowed to 
be there. From the time when I first viaited 
him after my release from St. Alban's, he be- 
gan to read upon the subject. It was at that 
time I informed him of the views of divine 
truth which I had received in that school of 
affliction. He laid what I said to heart, and 
began to furnish himself with the best writ- 
ers upon the controverted points, whose 
works he read with great diligence and at- 
tention, comparing them all the while with 
the Scripture. None ever truly and ingenu- 
ously sought the truth, but they found it. 
A spirit of earnest inquiry is the gift of God, 
who never says to any, Seek ye my face in 
vain. Accordingly, about ten days before 
his death, it pleased the Lord to dispel all his 
doubts, to reveal in his heart the knowledge 
of the Saviour, and to give him firm and un- 
shaken peace, in the belief of his ability and 
willingness to save. As to the affair of the 
fortune-teller, he never mentioned it to me, 
nor was there any such paper found as you 
mention. I looked over all his papers before 
I left the place, and had there been such a 
one, must have discovered it. I have heard 
the report from other quarters, but no other 
particulars than that the woman foretold him 
when he should die. I suppose there may 
be some truth in the matter, but, whatever 
he might think of it before his knowledge 
of the truth, and however extraordinary her 
predictions might really be, I am satisfied 
Sat he had then received far other views of 



the wisdom and majesty of God, than t<j 
suppose that he would intrust his secrel 
counsels to a vagrant, who did not mean, 1 
suppose, to be understood to have received 
her intelligence from the fountain of light, 
but thought herself sufficiently honored by 
any who would give her credit for a secret 
intercourse of this kind wit'h the prince of 
darkness". 

Mrs. Unwin is much obliged to you for 
your kind inquiry after her. She is well, I 
thank God, as usual, and sends her respects 
to you. Her son is in the ministry, and has 
the living of Stock in Essex. We were last 
week alarmed with an account of .his being 
dangerously ill; Mrs. Unwin went to see him, 
and in a few days left him out of danger. 

W. C. 

The letters of the poet to this amiable rel- 
ative afford a pleasing insight into the re- 
cesses of his pious and sympathizing mind; 
and, if they have awakened the interest which 
they are so calculated to excite, the reader 
will feel concerned to find a chasm of ten 
years hi this valuable correspondence ; the 
more so as it was chiefly occasioned by a 
cause which it will soon be our painful office to 
detail in the course of the ensuing passages, 
In the autumn of the year in which lie sus- 
tained the loss of his excellent brother, ha 
wrote the following letter to Mr. Hill. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Sept. 25, 1170. 

Dear Joe, — I have not done conversing 

* It is impossible to read this and the four following 
letters of Cowper to Mr. Hill, as well as a preceding one 
in page 49, and not to remark their altered tone and di- 
minished cordiality of feeling. The forgetfuluess of for- 
mer ties and pursuits is often, we know, made a subject 
of reproach against religious characters. How then is 
Cowper to be vindicated : .Lues religion pervert the 
We belle v 



feelings ? 
and exalts ihei 
them on highi 
must bj reiiie 
revoluti m, whi 
pressioi. to hi 
tilings, Mr. Hi 
his return t-> i 
liiations. Hu 
they had lost tl 
now n, .re than 
those noisy an 
which I u >w a 



re, ou the contrary, that it purifies 
at it changes their current, and fixes 
d uubl.-r objects, (,'o.vper's mind, it 
ad, had i-xperk'iiced a great moral 
ml imparted a new and powerful im- 
ws ami principles. In this state of 
in ii in/ p ..-siUy the. change) solicits 
ii, and to- his former habits and asso- 
lso for Ai su enj ynu-nts was gone; 
lower to charm and captivate. "1 am 
,' J says Cowper, "unwilling to revisi 
vded stictu's, which I never loved, anl 
i the incidents of my life have given 
an entire new turn to my while character and conduct, 
and rendered me incapable of receiving pleasure from 
the same empl lymehts and amusements of which I could 
readily partake in former days." (See page 50.) Hill re- 
iterates the invitation, and Cowper his refusal. Thus one 
party was advancing in spirituality, while the other re- 
mained stationary. The bond was therefore necessarily 
weakened, because identity of feeling must ever consti- 
tute the basis of all human friendships and intercourse ; 
and the mind that has received a heavenly impulse can- 
not return with its former ardor to the pursuit of earthly 
objects. It cannot ascend and descend at the same mo- 
ment. Such, however, was the real worth and honestj 
of Mr. Hill, that their friendship still survived, and a 
memorial of it is recorded in lines familiar to every reada 
of Cowper. 

" An honest man, close button'd to the chin. 
Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within." 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



55 



»vith terrestrial objects, though I should be 
lappy were 1 able to hold more continual 
converse with a friend above the skies. He 
'as my heart, but he allows a corner in it for 
all who show me kindness, and therefore on 
for you. The storm of sixty-three made a 
wreck of the friendships I had contracted 
in the course of many years, yours excepted, 
which has survived the tempest. 

I thank you for your repeated invitation. 
Singular thanks are due to you for so sin- 
gular an instance of regard. I could not 
leave Olney, unless in a case of absolute ne- 
cessity, without much inconvenience to my- 
self and others. W. C. 

The next year was distinguished by the 
marriage o£ his friend Mr. Hill, to a lady of 
most estimable character, on winch occasion 
Cowper thus addressed him. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, August 27, 1771. 

Dear Joe, — I take a friend's share in* all 
your concerns, so far as they come to my 
knowledge, and consequently did not receive 
the news of your marriage with indifference. 
I wish you and your bride all the happiness 
that belongs to the state ; and the still greater 
felicity of that state which marriage is only 
a type of. All those connexions shall be dis- 
solved ; but there is an indissoluble bond be- 
tween Christ and his church, the subject of 
derision to an unthinking world, but the glory 
and happiness of all his people. 

I join with your mother and sisters in their 
joy upon the present occasion, and beg my 
affectionate respects to them and to Mrs. Hill 
unknown. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

We do not discover any further traces of 
his correspondence in the succeeding year 
than- the three following letters. The first 
proves his great sense of honor and delicate 
feeling in transactions of a pecuniary nature. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, June 27, 1772. 
My dear Friend, — I only write to return 
you thanks for your kind olfer — Agnoscu ve- 
leris vestigia Jiammce. But 1 will endeavor to 
go on without troubling you. Excuse an 
expression that dishonors your friendship ; 
I should rather say, it would be a trouble to 
myself, and I know you will be generous 
enough to give me credit for the assertion. 
I had rather want many things, anything, in- 
deed, that this world could afford me, than 
buse the affection of a friend. I suppose 
rou are sometimes troubled upon my account. 
But you need not. 1 have no doubt it will 

* Private correspondence. 



be seen, when my days are closed, that 
served a master who would not suffer me ta 
want anything that was good for me. He 
said to Jacob I will surely do thee good : and 
this he said, not for his sake only, but for 
ours also, if we trust in him. This thought 
relieves me from the greatest part of the dis« 
cress I should else suffer in my present cir 
cumstances, and onabies me to sit down 
peacefully upon the wreck of my fortune 
Yours ever, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

. Olney, July 2, 1772. 
My dear friend, — My obligations to you 
sit easy upon me, because I am sure you con- 
fer them in the spirit of a friend. 'Tis pleas- 
ant to some minds to confer obligations, and 
it is not unpleasant to others to be properly 
sensible of them. I hope I have this pleas- 
ure — and can, with a true sense of your 
kindness, subscribe myself, 

Yours, W. C 



TO JOSEPH HELL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov. 5, 1772. 

Believe me, my dear friend, truly sensible 
of your invitation, though I do not accept it 
My peace of mind is of so delicate a consti- 
tution, that the air of London will not agree 
with it. You have my prayers, the only re- 
turn I can make you for your many acts of 
still continued friendship. 

If you should smile, or even laugh, at my 
conclusion, and I were near enough to see it, 
I should not be angry, though I should be 
grieved. Ix is not long since I should have 
laughed at such a recompense myself. But, 
glory be to the name of Jesus, those days 
are past, and, I trust, never to return ! 

I am yours and Mrs. Hill's, 

With much sincerity, W. C. 

The kind and affectionate intercourse which 
subsisted on the part of Cowper and his bo- 
loved pastor has aleady been adverted to in 
the preceding history. It was the commerce 
of two kindred minds, united by a participa- 
tion in the same blessed hope, and seeking 
to improve their union by seizing every op- 
portunity of usefulness. Friendship, to be 
durable, must be pure, virtuous, and holy 
All other associations are liable to the ca- 
price of passion, and to the changing tide of 
human events. It is not enough that there 
be a natural coincidence of character and 
temperament, a similarity of earthly pursuit 
and object ; there must be materials of a 
higher fabric, streams flowing from a pure* 
source. There must be the impress of divin* 
* Private corre jpondence. 



56 



COWPER'S WORKS 



grace stamping the same common image and 
superscription on both hearts. A friendship 
founded on such a basis, strengthened by 
time and opportunity, and nourished by the 
frequent interchange of good offices, is per- 
haps the nearest approximation to happiness 
attainable in this chequered life. 

Such a friendship is beautifully portrayed 
by Cowper, in the following passage in his 
Poem on Conversation ; and it is highly prob- 
able that he alludes to his own feelings on 
this occasion, and to the connexion subsisting 
between himself and Newton. 

True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd 
Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd ; 
And, farewell else all hope of pure delight ! 
Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, up- 
right : 
Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name, 
Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame: 

But souls, that carry on a blest exchange 

Qf joys they meet with in their heavenly range, 

And, with a fearless confidence, make known 

The sorrows sympathy esteems its own ; 

Daily derive increasing light and force 

From such communion in their pleasant course ; 

Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, 

Meet their opposers with united strength,- 

And. one in heart, in interest, and design, 

Gird up each other to the race divine. 

It is to the friendship and intercourse 
formed between these two excellent men, 
that we are indebted for the origin of the 
Olney Hymns. These hymns are too cele- 
brated in the annals of sacred poetry not to 
demand special notice in a life of Cowper, 
who contributed to that collection some of 
the most beautiful and devotional effusions 
that ever enriched this species of composi- 
tion. They were the joint production of the 
divine and the poet, and intended, (as the 
former expressly says in his preface) "as a 
monument to perpetuate the remembrance 
of an intimate and endeared friendship " 
They were subsequently introduced into the 
parish church of Olney, with the view of 
raising the tone and character of church 
psalmody. The old version of Sternhold 
and Hopkins, previously used, and still re- 
tained in many of our churches, was con- 
sidered to be too antiquated in its language, 
and not sufficiently imbued with the char- 
acteristic features of the Gospel dispensa- 
tion, to be adapted to the advancing spirit 
of religion. It was to supply this defect 
that the above work was thus introduced, 
and the acceptance with which it was received 
fully justified the expectation. Viewed in 
this light, it is a kind of epoch in the history 
of the Established Church. Other commu- 
nities of Christians had long employed the 
instrumentality of hymns to embody the feel- 
Jigs of devotion ; but our own church had 
not felt this necessity, or adopted the custom ; 



1 prejudice had even interposed, in some in 

j stances, to resist their introduction, till th« 

I right was fully established by the decision of 

! law.* The prejudices of past times aro 

; however, at length, rapidly giving way to 

' the wishes and demands of modern piety , 

j and we can now appeal to the versions of a 

Stewart, a Noel, a Pratt, a Bickersteth, and 

many others as a most suitable vehicle for 

this devotional exercise. The Olney Hymns 

■ are entitled to the praise of being the precur- 

1 sors of this improved mode of psalmody, 

; jointly with the collection of the Rev. M. Ma- 

dan, at the Lock, and that of Mr. Berridge, 

at Everton. 

But, independently of this circumstance, 
they present far higher claims. They portray 
the varied emotions of the human heart in 
its conflicts with sin, and aspirations after 
holiness. We there contemplate the depres- 
sion of sorrow and the triumph of hope ; the 
terrors inspired by the law and the confidence 
awakened by the Gospel ; and, what may be 
considered as the genuine transcript of the 
poet's own mind, especially in the celebrated 
hymn, (" God move a in a mysterious way," 
&c.,) we see depicted, in impressive language, 
the struggles of a faith trying to penetrate 
into the dark and mysterious dispensations 
of God, and at length reposing on his un- 
changeable faithfulness and love. These 
sentiments and feelings so descriptive of the 
exercises of the soul, find a response in 
every awakened heart ; and the church of 
Christ will never cease to claim its property 
in effusions like these till the Christian war 
fare is ended, and the perceptions of erring 
reason and sense are exchanged for the bright 
visions of eternity. 

The undertaking commenced about the 
year 1771, though the collection was not 
finally completed and published till 1779. 
The total number contributed by Cowper 
was sixty-eight hymns. They are distin- 
guished by the initial letter of his name. It 
was originally stipulated that each should 
bear their proportion' in this jcint labor, till 
the whole work was accomplished. With 
this understanding, the pious design was 
gradually proceeding in its auspicious course 
when, by one of those solemn and mysteri- 
ous dispensations from which neither rank 
nor genius, nor moral excellence can claim 
exemption, it pleased Him whose " way is in 
the deep," and whose "footsteps are not 
known," and of whom it is emphatically said 
" that clouds and darkness ar* 1 round about 
him," though " righteousness and judgment 
are the habitation of his throne," to suspend 
the powers of this interesting sufferer, and 
once more to shroud them in darkness. 



* The Rev. T. Cotterill, formerly of Sheffield, and ia 
much esteem for his piety and usefulness, was the flrai 
who established this right by a judicial proceedinc 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



In contemplating this event, in the pecu- 
jarity of its time, character, and consequen- 
ces, well may we exclaim, "Lord, what is 
man!" and, while the consciousness of the 
infinite wisdom and mercy of God precludes 
as from saying, "What doest Thou?" we 
feel that it must be reserved for eternity to 
develop the mysterious design of these dis- 
pensations. 

It was in the year 1773 that this afflicting 
malady returned. Cowper sank into such 
severe paroxysms of religious despondency, 
that he required an attendant of the most 
gentle, vigilant, and inflexible spirit. Such 
m attendant he found in that faithful guar- 
dian, whom he had professed to love as a 
mother, and who watched over him during 
this long fit of a most depressing malady, ex- 
tended through several years, with that per- 
fect mixture of tenderness and fortitude 
which Constitutes the characteristic feature 
of female services. I wish to pass rapidly 
over this calamitous period, and shall only 
observe that nothing could surpass the suf- 
ferings of the patient or excel the care of the 
nurse. Her unremitting attentions received 
the most delightful of rewards in seeing the 
pure and powerful mind, to whose restoration 
she had so greatly contributed, not only grad- 
ually restored to the common enjoyments of 
life, but successively endowed with new and 
marvellous funds of diversified talents, and a 
vigorous application of them. 

The spirit of Cowper emerged by slow de- 
grees from its deep dejection ; and, before 
his mind was sufficiently recovered to em- 
ploy itself on literary composition, it sought 
and found much relief and amusement in do- 
mesticating a little group of hares. On his 
expressing a wish to divert himself by rear- 
ing a single leveret, the good-nature of his 
neighbors supplied him with three. The va- 
riety of their dispositions became a source 
of great entertainment to his compassionate 
and contemplative spirit. One of the trio he 
has celebrated in the Task, and a very ani- 
mated and minute account of this singular 
family, humanized, and described most admi- 
rably by himself in prose, appeared first in 
the Gentleman's Magazine, and was subse- 
quently inserted in the second volume of Jiis 
poems. These interesting animals had not 
only the honor of being cherished and cele- 
brated by a poet, tut the pencil has also con- 
tributed to their renown. 

His three tame hares, Mrs. Unwin, and Mr. 
Newton, were, for a considerable time, the 
only companions of Cowper; but, as Mr. 
Newton was removed to a distance from his 
afflicted friend by preferment in London,* 
(to which he was presented by that liberal 
tncourager of active piety, Mr. Thornton,) 

* He was presetted to the living of St. Mary Woolnoth, 
a the «ity. — Ed. 



before he left Olney, in 1780, he humanely 
triumphed over the strong reluctance of 
Cowper to see a stranger, and kindly intro- 
duced him to the regard and good offices of 
the Rev. Mr. Bull of Newport-Pagnell. This 
excellent man, so distinguished by his piety 
and wit, and honored by the friendship of 
John Thornton, from that time considered it 
to be his duty to visit the invalid once a fort- 
night, and acquired, by degrees, his cordia. 
and confidential esteem. 

The affectionate temper of Cowper incline 
him particularly to exert his talents at th 
request of his friends, even in seasons whei 
such exertion could hardly have been mad' 
without a painful degree of self-command. 

At the suggestion of Mr. Newton, we hava 
seen him writing a series of hymns : at the 
request of Mr. Bull, he translated several 
spiritual songs, from the poetry of Madame 
de la Mothe Guyon, the tender and mystical 
French writer, whose talents and misfortunes 
drew upon her a long series of persecution from 
many acrimonious bigots, and secured to her 
the friendship of the mild and pious Fenelon ! 

We shall perceive, as we advance, that the 
more distinguished works of Cowper were 
also written at the express desire of persons 
whom he particularly regarded ; and it may 
be remarked, to the honor of friendship, that 
he considered its influence as the happiest in- 
spiration; or, to use his own expressive words, 

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, 

Should be the poet's heart : 
Affection lights a brighter flame 
• Than ever blazed by art. 

The poetry of Cowper is itself an admira- 
ble illustration of this maxim ; and perhaps 
the maxim may point to the principal source 
of that uncommon force and felicity with 
which this most feeling poet commands the 
affection of his reader. 

In delineating the life of an author, it seems 
the duty of biography to indicate the degree 
of influence which the warmth of his heart 
produced on the fertility of his mind. But 
those mingled flames of friendship and poe- 
try, which were to burst forth with the most 
powerful effect in the compositions of Cow- 
per, were not yet kindled. His depressing 
malady had suspended the exercise of his 
genius for several years, and precluded him 
from renewing his correspondence with the 
relation whom he so cordially regarded in 
Hertfordshire, except by brief letters on pe- 
cuniary concerns. 

We insert the following as discovering 
symptoms of approaching convalescence. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov. 12, 177& 

Dear Friend, — One to whom fish is so wel» 

* Private correspou/Ionce. 



58 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



come as it is to me, can have no great occa- 
sion to distinguish the sorts. In general, 
therefore, whatever fish are likely to think 
E jaunt into the country agreeable will be 
sure to find me ready to receive them. 

Having suffered so much by nervous fevers 
myself, I know how to' congratulate Ashley 
upon his recovery. Other distempers only 
batter the walls ; but they creep silently into 
the citadel and put the garrison to the sword. 

You perceive I have not made a squeamish 
use of your obliging offer. The remem- 
brance of past years, and of the sentiments 
formerly exchanged in our evening walks, 
convinces me still that an unreserved accept- 
ance of what is graciously offered is the 
handsomest way of dealing with one of your 
character. 

Believe me yours, W. C. 

As to the frequency, which you leave to 
my choice too, you have no need to exceed 
the number of your former remittances. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, April— I fancy the '20th, 1777. 
My dear Friend, — Thanks for a turbot, a 
lobster, and Captain Brydone ;f a gentleman, 
who relates his travels so agreeably, that he 
deserves always to travel with an agreeable 
companion. I have been reading Gray's 
Works, and think him the only poet since 
Shakspeare entitled to the character of sub- 
lime. Perhaps you will remember that f 
once had a different opinion of him. I was 
prejudiced. He did not belong to our Thurs- 
day society, and was an Eton man, which 
lowered him prodigiously in our esteem. I 
once thought Swift's Letters the best that 
could be written; but I like Gray's better. 
His humor, or his wit, or whatever it is to 
be called, is never ill-natured or offensive, 
and yet, I think, equally poignant with the 
Dean's 

I am yours affectionately, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, May 25, 1777. 

My dear Friend, — We differ not much in 
our opinion of Gray. When I wrote last, I 
was in the middle of the book. His later 
Epistles, I think, are worth little, as such, but 
might be turned to excellent account by a 
young student of taste and judgment. As to 
West's Letters, I think I could easily bring 
your opinion of them to square with mine. 

* Private correspondence. 

t " Brydone," author of Travels in Sicily and Malta. 
I"hey are written with much interest, but he indidges in 
remarks on the subject of Mount Etna which rather mili- 
tate against the Mosaic account of the creation. 



They are elegant and sensible, but have no» 
thing in them that is characteristic, or thai 
discriminates them from the letters of any 
other young man of taste and learning. As 
to the book you mention, I am in doubt 
whether to read it or not. I should like the 
philosophical part of it, but the political, 
which, I suppose, is a detail of intrigues car- 
ried on by the Company and their servants,* 
a history of rising and falling nabobs, I should 
have no appetite to at all. I will not, there- 
fore, give you the trouble of sending it at 
present. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Olney, July 13, 1777. 

My dear Friend, — You need not give your- 
self any further trouble to procure me the 
South Sea Voyages. Lord Dartmouth, who 
was here about a month since, and was so 
kind as to pay me two visits, has furnished 
me with both Cook's and Forster's. 'Tis 
well for the poor natives of those distant 
countries that our national expenses cannot 
be supplied by cargQes of yams and bananas. 
Curiosity, therefore, being once satisfied, they 
may possibly be permitted for the future to 
enjoy their riches of that kind in peace. 

If, when you are most at leisure, you can 
find out Baker upon the Microscope, or Vin- 
cent Bourne's Latin Poems, the last edition, 
and send them, I shall be obliged to you, — 
either, or both, if they can be easily found. 
I am yours affectionately, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, 



ESQ.f 



Olney, Jan. 1, 1778. 
My dear Friend, — Your last packet waa 
doubly welcome, and Mrs. Hill's kindness 
gives me peculiar pleasure, not as coming 
from a stranger to me, for I do not account 
her so, though I never saw her, but as com- 
ing from one so nearly connected with your- 
self. I shall take care to acknowledge the 
receipt of her obliging' letter, when I return 
the books. Assure yourself, in the mean 
time, that I read as if the librarian was at 
my elbow, continually jogging it, and growl- 
ing out, Make haste. But, as I read aloud, 
I shall not have finished before the end ol 
the week, and will return them by the dili- 
gence next Monday. 

* Cowper here alludes to the celebrated work of the 
Abbe Raynal, entitled "Philosophical and Political His- 
tory of the Establishments and Commerce of Europeans 
in the two Indies." This book created a very powerful 
sensation, being written with great freedom of sentiment 
and boldness of remark, conveyed in an eloquent though 
rather declamatory style. Sach was the alarm excited in 
France by this publication, that a decree passed the Par- 
liament of Paris, by which the work was rwdered to tx 
burnt. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



c* 



I shall be glad if you will let me know whe- 
ther 1 am to understand by the sorrow you 
express that any part of my former supplies 
is actually cut off, or whether they are only 
more tardy in coming- in than usual. It is 
useful, even to the rich, to know, as nearly 
as may be, the exact amount of their income ; 
but how much more so to a man of my small 
dimensions ! If the former should be the 
case, I shall have less reason to be surprised 
than I have to wonder at the continuance of 
them so long". Favors are favors indeed, 
when laid out upon so barren a soil, where 
the expense of sowing is never accompanied 
by the smallest hope of return. What pain 
there is in gratitude, I have often felt ; hut 
the pleasure of requiting an obligation has 
always been out of my reach. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. . 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, April 11, 1778. 

My dear Friend, — Poor Sir Thomas !f I 
knew that I had a place in his affections, and, 
from his own information many years ago, a 
place in his will ; but little thought that after 
a lapse of so many years I should still retain 
it. His remembrance of me after so long a 
season of separation, has done me much 
honor, and leaves me the more reason to re- 
gret his decease. 

I am reading the Abbe with great satisfac- 
tion,;}; and think him the most intelligent 
writer upon so extensive a subject I ever met 
with ; in every respect superior to the Abbe 
in Scotland. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, May 7, 1778. 

My dear Friend, — I have been in continual 
fear lest every post should bring a summons 
for the Abbe Ray mil, and am glad that I have 
finished him before my fears were realized. 
I have kept him long, but not through neg- 
lect or idleness. I read the five volumes to 
Mrs. Unwin ; and my voice will seldom serve 
me with more than an hour's reading at a 
time. I am indebted to hkn for much infor- 
mation upon subjects which, however inter- 
esting, are so remote from those with which 
country folks in general are .conversant, that, 
had not his works reached me at Olney, I 
should have been forever ignorant of them. 

I admire him as a philosopher, as a writer, 
as a man of extraordinary intelligence, and 
no less extraordinary abilities to digest it. 

* Private correspondence. 

t Sir Thomas Hesketh, Baronet, of Rufford Hall, in 
,iancashire. 
t Raynal. 



He is a true patriot. But then the world ia 
his country. The frauds and tricks of th« 
cabinet and the counter seem to be equally 
objects .of his aversion. And, if he had not 
found that religion too had undergone a mix- 
ture of artifice, in its turn, perhaps he would 
have been a Christian. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, June 18, 1778. 

My dear Friend, — I truly rejoice that the 
Chancellor has made you such a present, that 
he has given such an additional lustre to it 
by his manner of conferring it, and that all 
this happened before you went to Wargrave, 
because it made your retirement there the 
more agreeable This is just according to 
the character of the man. He will give grudg- 
ingly in answer to solicitaton, but delights 
in surprising those he esteems with his boun- 
ty. May you live to receive still further 
proofs that I am not mistaken in my opinion 
of him ! 

Yours affectionately, W. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, June 18, 1778. 

Dear Unwin, — I feel myself much obliged 
to you for your intimation, and have given 
the subject of it all my best attention, both 
before I received your letter and since. The 
result is, that I am persuaded it will be bet- 
ter not to write. I know the man and his 
disposition well ; he is very liberal in his way 
of thinking, generous, and discerning. He 
is well aware of the tricks that are played 
upon such occasions, and, after fifteen years' 
interruption of all intercourse between us, 
would translate my letter into this language 
— pray remember the poor.f This would 
disgust him, because he would think our for- 
mer intimacy disgraced by such an oblique 
application. He has not forgotten me, and, 
if he had, there are those about him who 
cannot come into his presence without re- 
minding him of me, and he is also perfectly 
acquainted with my circumstances. It would 
perhaps give him pleasure to surprise me 
with a benefit, and if he means me such a 
favor, I should disappoint him by asking it. 

I repeat my thanks for your suggestion ; 
you see a part of my reasons for thus con- 
ducting myself; if we were together I couli 
give you more. 

Yours affectionately, W. C 

* Private correspondence. 

t Mr. Unwin had suggested to Cowper the propriety of 
an application to Lord Thurlow for some mark of favor ; 
which the latter never conferred, and which Cowper wai 
resolved never to solicit. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 26, 1779. 

I am obliged to you for the Poets, and, 
though I little thought that I was translating 
so much money out of your pocket into the 
bookseller's, when I turned Prior's poem into 
Latin, yet I must needs say that, if you think 
it worth while to purchase the English Clas- 
sics at all, you cannot possess yourself of 
them upon better terms. I have looked into 
some of the volumes, but, not having yet 
finished the Register, have merely looked 
into them. A few things I have met with, 
which, if they had been burned the moment 
they were written, it would have been better 
for the author, and at least as well for his 
readers. There is not much of this, but a 
little is too much. I think it a pity the editor 
admitted any ; the English muse would have 
lost no credit by the omission of such trash. 
Some of them, again, seem to me to have 
but a very disputable right to a place among 
the Classics, and I am quite at a loss, when 
I see them in such company, to conjecture 
what is Dr. Johnson's idea or definition of 
classical merit. But, if he inserts the Poems 
'of some who can hardly be said to deserve 
such an honor, the purchaser may comfort 
himself with the hope that he will exclude 
none that do. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 

Olney, July, —79. 
My dear Friend, — When I was at Margate, 
it was an excursion of pleasure to go to see 
Ramsgate. The pier, I remember, was ac- 
counted a most excellent piece of stone- 
work, and such I found it. By this time, I 
suppose, it is finished, and surely it is no 
small advantage that you have an opportu- 
nity of observing how nicely those great 
stones are put together, as often as you 
please, without either trouble or expense. 

There was not at that time, much to be 
seen in the Isle of Thanet, besides the beauty 
of the country and the fine prospects of the 
sea, which are nowhere surpassed, except in 
the Isle of Wight, or-upon some parts of the 
coast of Hampshire. One sight, however, I 
remember, engaged my curiosity, and I went 
to see it — a fine piece of ruins, built by the 
late Lord Holland at a great expense, which, 
the day after I saw it, tumbled down for no- 
thing. Perhaps, therefore, it is still a ruin ; 
and, if it is, I would advise you by all means 
to visit it, as it must have been much im- 
proved by this fortunate incident. It is hardly 
possible to put stones together with that air 
•f wild aid magnificent disorder which they 
* Private correspondence. 



are sure to acquire by falling of their owr, 
accord. 

I remember (the last thing i mean to re- 
member upon this occasion) that Sam Cox, 
the counsel, walking by the sea-side, as if 
absorbed in deep contemplation, was ques- 
tioned about what he was musing on. He 
replied, " I was wondering that such an al- 
most infinite and unwieldly element should 
produce a sprat." 

Our love attends your whole party. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN* 

Olney, July 17, 1779 
My dear Friend, — we envy you your sea- 
breezes. In the garden we feel nothing but 
the reflection of the heat from the walls, and 
in the parlor, from the opposite houses. 1 
fancy Virgil was so situated when he wrote 
those two beautiful lines : 

.... Oh quis me gelidis in vallibus Haemi 
Sistat, et ingenti ramorum pfotegat umbra ! 

The worst of it is that, though the sun- 
beams strike as forcibly upon my harp-strings 
as they did upon his, they elicit no such 
sounds, but rather produce such groans as 
they are said to have drawn from those of 
the statue of Memnon. 

As" you have ventured to make the experi- 
ment, your own experience will be your best 
guide in the article of bathing. An infe- 
rence will hardly follow, though one should 
pull at it with all one's might, from Smol- 
lett's case to yours. He was . corpulent, 
muscular, and strong ; whereas, if you were 
either stolen or strayed, such a description 
of you in an advertisement would hardly 
direct an inquirer with sufficient accuracy 
and exactness. But, if bathing does not 
make your head ache, or prevent you sleep- 
ing at night, I should imagine it could not 
hurt you. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Sept. 21, 1779. 
Amico mio, be pleased to buy me a gla- 
zier's diamond pencil. I have glazed the 
two frames, designed to receive my pine 
plants. But I cannot mend the kitchen win- 
dows, till, by the help of that imple-aent, I 
can reduce the glass to its proper dimen- 
sions. If I were a plumber, I should be a 
complete -glazier, and possibly the happy 
time may come, when I shall be seen trudg 
ing away to the neighboring towns with a 
shelf of glass hanging at my back. Jf gov- 
ernment should impose another tax vpon 
* Private correspondence. 



that commodity, I hardly know a business 
in which a gentleman might more success- 
fully employ himself. A Chinese, of ten 
times my fortune, would avail himself of 
such an opportunity without scruple ; and 
why should not I, who want money as much 
as any mandarin in China ? Rousseau would 
have been charmed to have seen me so occu- 
pied, and would have exclaimed with rapture 
" that he had found the Umilius who, he sup- 
posed, had subsisted only in his own idea." 
I would recommend it to you to follow my 
example. You will presently qualify your- 
self for the task, and may not only amuse 
yourself at home, but may even exercise* 
your skill in mending the church windows ; 
which, as it would save money to the parish, 
would conduce, together with your other 
ministerial accomplishments, to make you 
extremely popular in the place. 

I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When 
I first enter the garden in the morning, I 
find them perched upon the wall, waiting for 
their breakfast, for I feed them always upon 
the gravel walk. If your wish should be 
accomplished, and you should find yourself 
furnished with the wings of a dove, I shall 
undoubtedly find you amongst them. Only 
be so good, if that should be the case, to an- 
nounce yourself by some means or other. 
For I imagine your crop will require some- 
thing better than tares to fill it. 

Your mother and I, last week, made a trip 
in a post-chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. 
Wright, about four miles off. He under- 
stood that I did not much affect strange 
faces, and sent over his servant, on purpose 
to inform me that he was going into Leices- 
tershire, and that if I chose to see the gar- 
dens I might gratify myself without danger 
of seeing the proprietor. I accepted the in- 
vitation, and was delighted with all I found 
there. The situation is happy, the gardens 
elegantly disposed, the hot-house in the most 
flourishing state, and the orange-trees the 
most captivating creatures of the kind I ever 
saw. A man, in short, had need have the 
talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, 
to do the whcle scene justice. 

Our love attends you all. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Oct. 2, 1779. 
My dear Friend, — You begin to count the 
remaining days of the vacation, not with im- 
patience, but through unwillingness to see 
the end of it. For the mind of man, at least 
of most men, is equally busy in anticipating 
the evil and the good. That word anticipa- 
ion puts me in remembrance of the pamphlet 
* Private correspondence. 



of that name, which, if you purchased, J 
should be glad to borrow. I have seen only 
an extract from it in the Review, which 
made me laugh heartily and wish to peruse 
the whole. 

The newspaper informs me of the arrival 
of the Jamaica fleet. I hope it imports some 
pine-apple plants for me. I have a good 
frame, and a good bed prepared to receive 
them. I send you annexed a fable, in which 
the pine-apple makes a figure, and shall be 
glad if you like the taste of it. Two pair of 
soles, with shrimps, which arrived last night, 
demand my acknowledgments. You have 
heard that when Arion performed upon the 
harp the fish followed him. I really have no 
design to fiddle you out of more fish ; but, 
if you should esteem my verses worthy of 
such a price, though I shall never be so re- 
nowned as he was, I shall think myself 
equally indebted to the Muse that helps mo 

THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE. 

"The pine-apples," &c.* 

My affectionate respects attend Mrs. Hill. 
She has put Mr. Wright to the expense of 
building a new hot-house : the plants pro- 
duced by the seeds she gave me having 
grown so large as to require an apartment 
by themselves. 

, Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Olney, Oct. 31, J779. 

My dear Friend, — I wrote my last letter 
merely to inform you that I had nothing to 
say, in answer to which you have said no- 
thing. I admire the propriety of your con- 
duct, though I am a loser by it. I will en- 
deavor to say something now, and shall hope 
for something in return. 

I have been well entertained with John- 
son's biography, for which I thank you : with 
one exception, and that a swingeing one, I 
think he has not acquitted himself with his 
usual good sense and sufficiency. His treat- 
ment of Milton is unmerciful to the last de- 
gree. He has belabored that great poet's 
character with the most industrious cruelty. 
As a man, he has hardly left him the shadow 
of one good quality. Churlishness in his 
private life, and a rancorous hatred of every- 
thing royal in his public, are the two colors 
with which he has smeared all the canvas 
If he had any virtues, they are not to be 
found in the Doctor's picture of him ; and it 
is well for Milton that some sourness in his 
temper is the only vice with which his mem- 
ory has been charged ; it is evident enough 
that, if his biographer could have discovered 
more, he would not have spared him. As & 
* Vide Cowper's Poems. 



62 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



poet, he has treated him with severity 
enough, and has plucked one or two of the 
most beautiful feathers out of his Muse's 
wing, and trampled them under his great 
foot. He has passed sentence of condem- 
nation upon Lycidas, and has taken occasion, 
from that charming poem, to expose to ridi- 
cule (what is indeed ridiculous enough) the 
childish prattlement of pastoral compositions, 
as if Lycidas was the prototype and pattern 
of them all. The liveliness of the descrip- 
tion, the sweetness of the numbers, the clas- 
sical spirit of antiquity that prevails in it, go 
for nothing. I am convinced, by the way, 
that he has no ear for poetical numbers, or 
that it was stopped, by prejudice, against the 
harmony of Milton's. Was there ever any- 
thing so delightful as the music of the Para- 
dise Lost ? It is like that of a fine organ ; 
has the fullest and deepest tones of majesty, 
with all the softness and elegance of the 
Dorian flute, variety without end, and never 
equalled, unless, perhaps, by Virgil. Yet 
the Doctor has little or nothing to say upon 
this copious theme, but talks something 
about the unfitness of the English language 
for blank verse, and how apt it is, in the 
mouth of some readers, to degenerate into 
declamation. 

I could talk a good while longer, but I 
have no room. Our loves attends you. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov. 14, J779. 

My dear Friend, — Your approbation of my 
last Heliconian present encourages me to 
send you another. I wrote it, indeed, on 
purpose for you ; for my subjects are not 
always such as I could hope would prove 
agreeable to you. My mind has always a 
melancholy cast, and is like some pools I 
have seen, which, though filled with a black 
and putrid water, will nevertheless, in a 
bright day, reflect the sunbeams from their 
surface. 

ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, &C.f 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Dec. 2, 1779. 

My dear Friend, — How quick is the suc- 
cession of human events ! The cares of to- 
day are seldom the cares of to-morrow : and 
when we lie down at. night, we may safely 
Bay to most of our troubles — " Ye have done 
your worst, and we shall meet no more." 

This observation was suggested to me by 
'eading your last letter, which, though I 

r riv;ife ci respondcuice. f Vide Cowper's Poems. 



have written since I received it, I have nevej 
answered. When that epistle passed under 
your pen, you were miserable about youi 
tithes, and your imagination was hung round 
with pictures, that terrified you to such a 
degree as made even the receipt of money 
burthensome. But it is all over now. You 
sent away your farmers in good humor, (for 
you can make people merry whenever you 
please,) and now you have nothing to do but 
to chink your purse and laugh at what is 
past. Your delicacy makes you groan under 
that which other men never feel, or feel but 
lightly. A fly that settles upon the tip of 
the nose is troublesome ; and this is a com- 
parison adequate to the most that mankind 
in general are sensible of upon such tiny 
occasions. But the flies that pester you al- 
ways get between your eye-lids, where the 
annoyance is almost insupportable. 

I would follow your advice, and endeavor 
to furnish Lord North with a scheme of sup- 
plies for the ensuing year, if the difficulty J 
find in answering the call of my own emer- 
gencies did not make me despair of satisfy- 
ing those of the nation. I can say but this : 
if I had ten acres of land in the world, 
whereas I have not one, and in those teD 
acres should discover a gold mine, richf> 
than all Mexico and Peru, when I had re- 
served a few ounces for my own annual 
supply I would willingly give the rest to 
government. My ambition would be more 
gratified by annihilating the national incum- 
brances than by going daily down to the 
bottom of a mine, to wallow in my own 
emolument. This is patriotism — you will 
allow; but, alas! this virtue is for the most 
part in the hands of those who can do no 
good with it ! He that has but a single 
handful of it catches so greedily at the first 
opportunity of growing rich, that his patriot- 
ism drops to the ground, and he grasps the 
gold instead of it. He that never meets 
with such an opportunity holds it fast in his 
clenched fists, and says — "Oh, how much 
good I would do if I could !" 

Your mother says — "Pray send my dear 
love." There is hardly room to add mine, 
but you will suppose it. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Feb. 27, 1780. 
My dear Friend,— -As you are pleased to 
desire my letters, I am the more pleased with 
writing them; though at the same time, I 
must needs testify my surprise that you 
should think them worth receiving, as I sel- 
dom send one that I think favorably of my- 
self. This is not to be understood as an 
imputation upon your/taste or judgment/but 



as an encomium upon my. own modesty and 
numility, which I desire you to remark well. 
It is a just observation of Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, that, though men of ordinary talents 
may be highly satisfied with their own pro- 
ductions, men of true genius never are. 
Whatever be their subject, they always seem 
to themselves to fall short of it. even when 
they seem to others most to excel ; and for 
this reason — because they have a certain 
sublime sense of perfection, which other 
men are strangers to, and which they them- 
selves in their performances are not able to 
exemplify. Your servant, Sir Joshua ! I lit- 
tle thought of seeing you when I began, but 
as you have popped in you are welcome. 

When I wrote last, I was a little inclined 
to send you a copy of verses, entitled the 
Modern Patriot, but was not quite pleased 
with a line or two, which I found it difficult 
to mend, therefore did not. At night I read 
Mr. Burke's speech in the newspaper, and 
was so well pleased with his proposals for a 
reformation, and the temper in which he made 
them, that I began to think better of his 
cause, and burnt my verses. Such is the lot 
of the man who writes upon the subject of 
the day; the aspect of affairs changes in an 
hour or two, and his opinion with it ; what 
was just and well-deserved satire in the morn- 
ing, in the evening becomes a libel : the au- 
thor commences his own judge, and, while 
he condemns with unrelenting severity what 
he so lately approved, is sorry to find that he 
nas laid his leaf gold upon touchwood, which 
crumbled away under .his fingers. Alas! 
what can I do with my wit? I have not 
enough to do great things with, and these 
little things are so fugitive, that, while a man 
catches at the subject, he is only filling his 
hand with smoke. I must do with it as I do 
with my linnet: I keep him for the most 
part in a cage, but now and then set open 
the door, that he may whisk about the room 
a little, and then shut him up again. My 
whisking wit has produced the following, the 
subject of which is more important than the 
manner in which I have treated it seems to 
imply, but a fabl may speak truth, and all 
truth is sterling ; I only premise that, in the 
philosophical tract in the Register, I found it 
assei ted that the glow-worm is the nightin- 
gale's food.* 

An officer of a regiment, part of which is 
quartered here, gave one of the soldiers leave 
to be drunk six weeks in hopes of curing him 
by satiety ; he was drunk six weeks, and is 
so still, as often as he can find an opportunity. 
One vice may swallow up another, but no 
coroner, in the state of Ethics, ever brought 
in his verdict, when a "ice died, that it was — 
felo de se. 

This letter contained the oeautiful fable of the Night- 
6k*ale and the "Jlow worm. 



Thanks for all you have done, and all you 
intend; the biography will be particularly 
welcome. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. NEWTON.* 

Olney, March 4, 1780. 

Dear Madam, — To communicate surprise 
is almost, perhaps quite, as agreeable as to 
receive it. This is my present motive for 
writing to you rather than to Mr. Newton. 
He would be pleased with hearing from me, 
but he would not be surprised at it; you see, 
therefore, I am selfish upon the present occa- 
sion, and principally consult my own gratifi- 
cation. Indeed, if I consulted yours, I should 
be silent, for I have no such budget as the 
minister's, furnished and stuffed with ways 
and means for every emergency, and shall 
find it difficult; perhaps, to raise supplies even 
for a short epistle. 

You have observed, in common conversa- 
tion, that the man who coughs the oftenesl 
(I mean if he has not a cold), does it be- 
cause he has nothing to say. Even so it is 
in letter-writing: a long preface, such as 
mine, is an ugly symptom, and always fore 
bodes great sterility in the following pages. 

The vicarage-house became a melancholy 
object as soon as Mr. Newton had left it; 
when you left it, it became more melancholy 
now it is actually occupied by another fam- 
ily, even I cannot look at it without being 
shocked. As I walked in the garden this 
evening, I saw the smoke issue from the 
study chimney, and said to myself, That used 
to be a sign that Mr. Newton was there ; but 
it is so no longer. The walls of the house 
know nothing of the change that has taken 
place : the bolt of the chamber-door sounds 

just as it used to do ; and when Mr. P 

goes up stairs, for aught I know* or ever 
shall know, the fall of his foot could hardly, 
perhaps, be distinguished from that of* Mr. 
Newton. But Mr. Newton's foot will never 
be heard upon that staircase again. These 
reflections, and such as these, occurred to me 
upon the occasion. ... If I were in a con- 
dition to leave Olney too, I certainly would 
not stay in it. It is no attachment to the 
place that binds me here, but an unfitness for 
every other. I lived in it once, but now I am 
buried in it, and have no business with the 
world on the outside of my sepulchre ; my 
appearance would startle them, and theirs 
would be shocking to me. 

Such are my thoughts about the matter. 
Others are more deeply affected, and by more 
weighty considerations, having been many 
years the objects of a ministry which they 
had reason to account themselves happy iv 
the possession of. . . . 

* Private correspondence. 



V4 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



We were concerned at your account of 
Robert, and have little doubt but he will 
shuffle himself out of his place. Where he 
will find another is a question not to be re- 
solved by those who recommended him to 
this. I wrote him a long letter a day or two 
after the receipt of yours, but I am afraid it 
was only clapping a blister upon the crown 
of a wig-block. 

My respects attend Mr. Newton and your- 
self, accompanied with much affection for 
you both. 

Yours, dear Madam, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, March 16, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — If I had had the horns 
of a snail, I should have drawn them in the 
moment I saw the reason of your epistolary 
brevity, because I felt it too. May your seven 
reams be multiplied into fourteen, till your 
letters become truly Lacedaemonian, and are 
reduced to a single syllable. . Though I shall 
be a sufferer by the effect, I shall rejoice in 
the cause. You are naturally formed for 
business, and such a head as yours can never 
have too much of it. Though my predictions 
have been fulfilled in two instances, I do not 
plume myself much upon my sagacity; be- 
cause it required but little to foresee that 
Thurlow would be Chancellor, and that you 
would have a crowded office. As to the rest 
ef my connexions, there too I have given 
proof of equal foresight, with not a jot more 
reacon for vanity. 

To use the phrase of all who ever wrote 
upon the state of Europe, the political hori- 
zon is dark indeed. The cloud has been 
thickening, and the thunder advancing many 
years. The storm now seems to be vertical, 
and threatens to burst upon the land, as if 
with the next clap it would, shake all to 
pieces. — As for me, I am no Quaker, except 
where military matters are in question, and 
there I am much of the same mind with an 
honest man, who, when ne was forced into 
the service, declared he would not fight, and 
gave this reason — because he saw nothing 
worth fighting for. You will say, perhaps, 
is not liberty worth a struggle ? True : but 
will success ensure it to me ? Might I not, 
.ike the Americans, emancipate myself from 
one master only to serve a score, and with 
laurels upon my brow sigh for my former 
chains again? 

Many thanks for your kind invitation. 
Ditto to Mrs. Hill, for the seeds — unexpected, 
and therefore the more welcome. 

* Private correspondence. 



You gave me great pleasure by what yo* 
said of my uncle.* His motto shall be 

Hie ver perpetuum atque alienis mensibus aestas 

I remember the time when I have beer 
kept waking by the fear that he would dk 
before me; but now I think I shall grow 
old first. 

Yours, my dear friend, affectionately, 

W. C, 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 18, 1780. 

I am obliged to you for the communica- 
tion of your correspondence with . It 

was impossible for any man, of any tempei 
whatever, and however wedded to his own 
purpose, to resent so gentle and friendly an 
exhortation as you sent him. Men of lively 
imaginations are not often remarkable for 
solidity of judgment. They have generally 
strong passions to bias it, and aiv led far 
away from their proper road, in pursuit of 
petty phantoms of their own creating. No 
law ever did or can effect what he has as- 
cribed to that of Moses : it is reserved for 
mercy to subdue the corrupt inclinations of 
mankind, which threatenings and penalties, 
through the depravity of the heart, have al- 
ways had a tendency rather to inflame. 

The love of power seems as natural to 
kings as the desire of liberty is to their sub- 
jects; the excess of either is vicious and 
tends to the ruin of .both. There are many, 
I believe, who wish the present corrupt state 
of things disolved, in hope that the pure 
primitive constitution will spring up from the 
ruins. But it is not for man, by himself man, 
to bring order out of confusion : the prog- 
ress from one to the other is not natural, 
much less necessary, and, without the inter- 
vention of divine aid, impossible ; and they 
who are for making the hazardous experi- 
ment would certainly find themselves disap- 
pointed. 

Affectionately you*s, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. 

Olney, March 28, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — I have heard nothing 
more from Mr. Newton, upon the subject you 
mention : but I dare say, that, having been 
given to expect the benefit of your nomina- 
tion in behalf of his nephew, he still depends 

upon it. His obligations to Mr. have 

been so numerous and so weighty, that, 
though he has in a few instances prevailed 
upon himself to recommend an object now 
and then to his patronage, he has veiy spar- • 

* Ashley Cowper, Es<i. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



65 



tagly, if at all, exercised his interest with him 
in behalf of his own relations. 

With respect to the advice you are required 
to give a young lady, that she may be properly 
instructed in the manner of keeping the sab- 
bath, I just subjoin a few hints that have oc- 
cured to me upon the occasion, not because 
I think you want them, but because it would 
seem unkind to withhold them. The sabbath 
then, I think, may be considered, first, as a 
commandment no less binding upon aiodern 
Christians, than upon ancient Jews, because 
the spiritual people amongst them did not 
think it enough to abstain from manual occu- 
pations upon that day, but, entering more 
deeply into the meaning of the precept, al- 
lotted those hours they took from the world 
to the cultivation of- holiness in their o-* 7 n 
souls, which ever was, and ever will be, a duty 
incumbent upon all who ever heard of a sab- 
bath, and is of perpetual obligation both upor* 
Jews and Christians; (the commandment, 
therefore, enjoins it ; the prophets have also 
enforced it; and in many instances, bot>: 
scriptural and modern, the breach of it has 
been punished with a providential and judicial 
severity, that may make v y-standers trem- 
ble :) secondly, as a privilege, which you 
well know how to dilate upon, better than I 
can tell you ; thirdly, as a sign of that cove- 
nant, by which believers are entitled to a rest 
that yet remaineth ; fourthly, as a sine qua 
non of the Christian character ; and, upon this 
head, I should guard against being misunder- 
stood to mean no more than two attendances 
upon public worship, which is a form complied 
with by thousands who never kept a sabbath 
in their lives. Consistence is necessary to 
give substance and solidity to the whole. To 
sanctify the day at church, and to trifle it 
away out of church, is profanation, and 
vitiates all. After all could I ask my cate- 
chumen one short question — " Do you love 
the day, or do you not 1 If you love it, you 
will never inquire how far you may safely 
deprive yourself of the enjoyment of it. If 
you do not love it, and you find yourself 
obliged in conscience to acknowledge it, that 
is an alarming symptom, and ought to make 
you tremble. If you do not love it, then it is 
a weariness to you, and you wish it was over. 
The ideas of labor and rest are not more 
opposite to each other than the idea of a 
sabbath and that dislike and disgust with 
which it fills the souls of. thousands to be 
obliged to keep it. It is worse than bodily 
labor." 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, April 6, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — I never was, any more 
than yourself, a friend to pluralities ; they 



are generally found in the hands of the ava- 
ricious, whose insatiable hunger after prefer- 
ment proves them unworthy of any at all. 
They attend much to the regular payment of 
their dues, but not at all to the spirits, .h, 
terests of their parishioners. Having forgot 
their duty, or never known it, they differ 
in nothing from the laity, except their out- 
ward garb and their exclusive right to the 
desk and pulpit. But when pluralities seek 
the man instead of being sought by him, 
and when the man is honest, conscientious, 
and pious, careful to employ a substitute, in 
those respects, like himself; and, not con- 
tented with this, will see with his own eyes 
that the concerns of his parishes are decently 
and diligently administered ; in that case, con- 
sidering the present dearth of such characters 
in the ministry, I think it an event advanta- 
geous to the people, and much to be desired 
by all who regret the great and apparent 
want of sobriety and earnestness among the 
clergy.* A man who does net seek a living 
merely as a pecuniary emolument has no 
need, in my judgment, to refuse one because 
it is 30. He means to do his duty, and by 
doixig it he earns his wages. The two recto- 
ries being contiguous to each other, and fol- 
lowing easily under the care of one pastor, 
and both so near to Stock that you can visit 
them without difficulty as often as you please, 
I see no reasonable objection, nor does your 
mother. As to the wry-mouthed sneers and 
illiberal misconstructions of the censorious, I 
know no better shield to guard you against 
them than what you are already furnished 
with — a clear and unoffended conscience. 

I am obliged to you for what you said upon 
the subject of book-buying, and am very fond 
of availing myself of another man's pocket, 
when I can do it creditably to myself and 
without injury to him. Amusements are 
necessary in a retirement like mine, espe- 
cially in such a sable state of mind as I labor 
under. The necessity of amusement makes 
me sometimes write verses — it made me a 
carpenter, a bird-cage maker, a gardener — 
and has lately taught me to draw, and to 
draw too with such surprising *proficiency in 
the art, considering my total ignorance of it 
two months ago, that, when I show your 
mother my productions, she is all admiration 
and applause. 

You need never fear the communication of 
what you entrust to us in confidence. You 
know your mother's delicacy on this point 
sufficiently, and as for me, I once wrote a 
Connoisseurf upon the subject of secret- 
keeping, and from that day to this I believe 
I have never divulged one. 

* A happy change has occurred since this period, and 
the revival of piety in the Church of England must be 
perceptible lo every observer. — Ed. 

t His meaning is, he contributed to the " Connoisseur" 
an essay or letter on this subject. 
5 



66 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



We were much pleased with Mr. Newton's 
application to you for a charity sermon, and 
what he said upon that subject in his last 
letter, " that he was glad of an opportunity to 
give you that proof of his regard." 

Believe me yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, April 16, 1780. 

Since I wrote last, we have had a visit from 
. I did not feel myself vehemently dis- 
posed to receive him with that complaisance 
from which a stranger generally infers that 
he is welcome. By his manner, which was 
rather bold than easy, I judged that there was 
no occasion for it, and that it was a trifle 
which, if he did not meet with, neither would 
he feel the want of. He has the air of a 
travelled man, but not of a travelled gentle- 
man : is quite delivered from that reserve 
which is so-common an ingredient in the Eng- 
lish character, yet does not open himself 
gently and gradually, as men of polite behav- 
ior do, but bursts upon you all at once. He 
talks very loud, and when our poor little 
robins hear a great noise, they are immedi- 
ately seized with an ambition to surpass it — 
the increase of their vociferation occasioned 
an increase of his, and his in return acted as 
a stimulus upon theirs — neither side enter- 
tained a thought of giving up the contest, 
which became continually more interesting 
to our ears during the whole visit. The birds 
however survived it, and so did we. They 
perhaps flatter themselves they gained a 

complete victory, but I believe Mr. could 

have killed them both in another hour. 

W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, May 3, 1780. 

Dear Sir, — You indulge me in such a vari- 
ety of subjects, and allow me such a latitude 
of excursion in this scribbling employment, 
that I have no excuse for silence. I am 
much obliged to you for swallowing such 
boluses as I send you, for the sake of my 
gilding, and verily believe I am the only man 
alive, from whom they would be welcome to 
a palate like yours. I wish I could make 
them more splendid than 'they are, more 
alluring to the eye, at least, if not more 
pleasing to the taste ; but my leaf-gold is 
tarnished, and has received such a tinge from 
the vapors that are ever brooding over my 
mind, that I think it no small proof of your 
partiality to me that you will read my letters. 
I am not fond of long-winded metaphors ; I 
have always observed that they halt at the 
'after eir.d of their progress, and so does 
nine. deal much in ink, indeed, but not 



such ink as is employed by poets and writers 
of essays. Mine is a harmless fluid, and 
guilty of no deceptions but such as may pre- 
vail, without the least injury, to the person 
imposed on. I draw mountains, valleys, 
woods, and streams, and ducks, and dab- 
chicks. I admire them myself, and Mrs. Un- 
win admires them, and her praise and my 
praise put together are fame enough for me. 
Oh ! I could spend whole days and moon- 
light nights in feeding upon a lovely pros- 
pect ! My eyes drink the rivers as they flow. 
If every human being upon earth could think 
for one quarter of an hour as I have done for 
many years, there might, perhaps, be many 
miserable men among them, but not an un- 
awakened one would be 'found from the arc- 
tic to the antarctic circle. At present, the 
difference between them and me is greatly to 
their advantage. I delight in baubles, and 
know them to be so ; for, viewed without a 
reference to their author, what is the earth, 
what are the planets, what is the sun itself, 
but a bauble'? Better for a man never to 
have seen them, or to see them with the eyes 
of a brute, stupid and unconscious of what 
he beholds, than not to be able to say, " The 
Maker of all these wonders is my friend !" 
Their eyes have never been opened to see 
that they are trifles ; mine have been, and 
will be till they are closed forever. They 
think a fine estate, a large conservatory, a 
hothouse, rich as a West Indian garden, 
things of consequence, visit them with pleas- 
ure, and muse upon them with ten times 
more. I am pleased with a frame of four 
lights,- doubtful whether the few pines it 
contains will ever be worth a farthing; 
amuse myself with a green-house, which 
Lord Bute's gardener could take upon his 
back, and walk away with ; and when I have . 
paid it the accustomed visit, and watered it, 
and given it air, I say to myself— 2" This is 
not mine, 'tis a plaything lent me for the 
present, I must leave it soon." W. C. 



TO JOSEPH *ILL, ESQ. 

Olney, May 6, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — I am much obliged to 
you for your speedy answer to my queries. 
I know less of the law than a country attor- 
ney, yet sometimes I think I have almost aa 
much business. My former connexion with 
the profession has got wind, and though I 
earnestly profess, and protest, and proclaim 
it abroad, that I know nothing of the matter, 
they cannot be persuaded to believe, that a 
head once endowed with a legal periwig can 
ever be deficient in those natural endowments 
it is supposed to cover. I have had the good 
fortune to be once- or twice in the right, 
which, added to the cheapness of a gratui- 



LIFE OR COWPER. 



67 



ious counsel, has advanced my credit to a de- 
gree I never expected to attain in the capacity 
of a lawyer. Indeed, if two of the wisest 
in the scien ;.e of jurisprudence may give op- 
posite opinions on the same point, which 
!oes not unfrequently happen, it seems to 
be a matter of indifference, whether a man 
answers by rule or at a venture. He that 
stumbles upon the right side of the question, 
is just as useful to his client as he that ar- 
rives at the same end by regular approaches, 
and is conducted to the mark he aims at by 
the greatest authorities. 

These violent attacks of a distemper so of- 
ten fatal are very alarming to all who esteem 
and respect, the Chancellor as he deserves. 
A life f confinement and of anxious atten- 
tion to important objects, where the habit is 
bilious to such a terrible degree, threatens to 
be but a short one ; and I wish he may not 
be made a text for men of reflection to mor- 
alize upon ; affording a conspicuous instance 
of the transient and fading nature of all 
human accomplishments and attainments. • 
Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 8, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — My scribbling humor has 
of late been entirely absorbed in the passion 
for landscape-drawing. It is a most amusing 
art, and, like every other ' art, requires much 
practice and attention. 

Nil sine multo 
Vita labore dedit mortalibus. 

Excellence is providentially placed beyond 
the reach of indolence, that success may be 
the reward of industry, and that idleness may 
be punished with obscurity and disgrace. So 
long as I am pleased with an employment I 
am capable of unwearied application, because 
my feelings are all of the intense kind: I 
never received a little pleasure from anything 
in my life ; if I am delighted, it is in the ex- 
treme. The unhappy consequence of this 
temperament is, that my attachment to any 
occupation seldom outlives the novelty of it. 
That nerve of my imagination, that feels the 
touch of any particular amusement, twangs 
under the energy of the pressure with so 
much vehemence, that it soon becomes sen- 
sible of weariness and fatigue. Hence I draw 
an unfavorable prognostic, and expect that I 
shall shortly be constrained to look out for 
something else. Thru perhaps I may string 
the harp again, and be able to comply with 
four demand. 

N )\v for the visit you propose to pay us, 
*nd propos* not to pay us, the hope of which 



plays upon your paper, like a jack-o-lanterc 
upon the ceiling. This is no mean simile, 
for Virgil (you remember) uses it. 'Tis here, 
'tis there, it vanishes, it returns, it dazzles you, 
a cloud interposes, and it is gone. However 
just the comparison, I hope you will contrive 
to spoil it, and that your final determination 
will be to come. As to the masons you ex- 
pect, bring them with you — bring brick, bring 
mortar, bring everything, that would oppose 
itself to your journey — all shall be welcome. 
I have a green-house that is too small, come 
and enlarge it ; build me a pinery ; repair the 
garden-wall, that has great need of your as- 
sistance; do anything, you cannot do too 
much ; so far from thinking you and your 
train troublesome, we shall rejoice to see 
you, upon these or upon any other terms 
you can propose. But, to be serious — you 
will do well to consider that a long summer 
is before you— that the party will not have 
such another opportunity to meet this great 
while — that you may finish your masonry 
long enough before winter, though you 
should not begin this month, but that you 
cannot always find your brother and sister 
Powley at Olney. These and some other 
considerations, such as the desire we have to 
see you, and the pleasure we expect from 
seeing you all together, may, and I think 
ought, to overcome your scruples. • 

From a general recollection of Lord Claren- 
don's History of the Rebellion, I thought, (and 
I remember I told you so,) that there was a 
striking resemblance between that period and 
the present. But I am now reading, and have 
read three volumes of, Hume's History, one 
of which is engrossed entirely by that sub- 
ject. There I see reason to alter my opinion, 
and the seeming resemblance has disappeared 
upon a more particular information. Charles 
succeeded to a long train of arbitrary princes, 
whose subjects had tamely acquiesced in the 
despotism of their masters till their privileges 
were all forgot. He did but tread in their 
steps, and exemplify the principles in which 
he had been brought up, when he oppressed 
his people. But, just at that time, unhappily 
for the monarch, the subject began to see, 
and to see that he had a right to property 
and freedom. This marks a sufficient differ- 
ence between the disputes of that day and 
the present. But there was another main 
cause of that rebellion, which at this time 
does not operate at all. The king was de- 
voted to the hierarchy; his subjects were 
puritans and would not bear it. Every cir- 
cumstance of ecclesiastical order and disci- 
pline was an abomination to them, and, in his 
esteem, an indispensable duty ; and, though 
at last he was obliged to give up many things, 
he would not abolish episcopacy, and till that 
were done his concessions could have no con- 
ciliating effect. These two concurring cauaoa 



68 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



were, indeed, sufficient to set three kingdoms 
in a flame. But they subsist not now, nor 
any other, I hope, notwithstanding the bustle 
nade by the patriots, equal to the production 
of such terrible events.* 

Yours, my dear friend, 

W. C. 

The correspondence of the poet with his 
cousin Mrs. Cowper was at this time resumed, 
after an interval of ten years. She was 
deeply afflicted by the loss of her brother, 
Frederick Madan, an officer who died in 
America, after havirig distinguished himself 
by poetical talents as well as by military 
virtues. 



TO MRS. COWFER. 

OIney, May 10, 1780. 

My dear Cousin, — I do not write to com- 
fort you ; that office is not likely to be well 
performed by one who has no comfort for 
himself; nor to comply with an impertinent 
ceremony, which in general might well be 
spared upon such occasions ; but because I 
would not seem indifferent to the concerns 
of those I have so much reason to esteem 
and love. If I did not sorrow for your 
brother's death, I should expect that nobody 
would ftfr mine ; when I knew him, he was 
much beloved, and I doubt not continued to 
be so. To live and die together is the lot 
of a few happy families, who hardly know 
what a separation means, and one sepulchre 
serves them all; but the ashes of our kin- 
dred are dispersed indeed. Whether the 
American Gulf has swallowed up any other 
of my relations, I know not; it has made 
many mourners. 

Believe me, my dear cousin, though after 
a long silence, which, perhaps, nothing less 
than the present concern could have prevailed 
with me to interrupt, as much as ever, 
Your affectionate kinsman, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, May 10, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — If authors could have 
lived to adjust and authenticate their own 
text, a commentator would have been a use- 
less creature. For instance — if Dr. Bentley 
had found, or opined that he had found, the 
word tube, where it seemecHo present itself 
to you, and had judged the subject worthy 
of his critical acumen, he would either have 
justified the corrupt reading, or have substi- 

* To those who contemplate *he course of modern 
events, and the signs of the times, there may be a doubt 
whether the sentiment here expressed is equally applica- 
ble in the present age. May the union of good and wise 
men be the means, under the Providence of God, of 
averting e/ery threatening danger. 



tuted some invention of his own, in defence 
of which he f would have exerted all his po- 
lemical abilities, and have quarrelled with 
half the literati in Europe. Then suppose 
the writer himself, as in the present case, to 
"interpose, with a gentle whisper, thus — " If 
you look again, doctor, you will perceive, 
that what appears to you to be tube is neither 
more nor less than the monosyllable ink,hui 
I wrote it in great hast% and the want of suf- 
ficient precision in the character has occa- 
sioned your mistake; you will be satisfied, 
especially when you see the sense elucidate* 1 , 
by the explanation." — But I question whether 
the doctor would quit his ground, or allow 
any author to be a competent judge in his 
own case. The world, however, would ac- 
quiesce immediately, and vote the critic use- 
less. 

James Andrews, who is my Michael **n- 
gelo, pays me many compliments on my suc- 
cess in the art of drawing, but I have not yet 
the vanity to think myself qualified to fur- 
nish your apartment. If I should ever attain 
to the degree of self-opinion requisite to such 
an undertaking, I shall labor at it with pleas- 
ure. I can only say, though I hope not with 
the affected modesty of the above-mentioned 
Dr. Bentley, who said the same thing, 

Me quoque dicunt 
Vatem pastores ; sed non ego credulus illis. 

A crow, rook, or raven, has built a nest in 
one of the young elm-trees at the side of 
Mrs. Aspray's orchard. In the violent storm 
that blew yesterday morning, I saw it agi- 
tated to a degree that seemed to threaten its 
immediate destruction, and versified the fol- 
lowing thoughts upon the occasion.* 

W. C. 



TO MRS. NEWTiN.f 

Olney, June 2, 1780. 
Dear Madam, — When I write to Mr. .New- 
ton, he answers me by letter ; when I write 
to you, you answer me in fish. I return you 
many thanks for the mackerel and lobster. 
They assured me, in terms as intelligible as 
pen and ink could have spoken, that you still 
remember OrcharcUside ; and, though they 
never spoke in their lives, and it was still less 
to be expected from them that they should 
speak being dead, they gave us an assurance 
of your affection that corresponds exactly 
with that which Mr. Newton expresses tow- 
ards us in all his letters. — For my own part, 
I never in my life began a letter more at a 
venture than the present. It is possible that 
I may finish it, but perhaps more than proba- 
ble that I shall not. I have had several in 
different nights, and the wind is easterly 

* Cowper's fable of the Raven concluded this letter. 
t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



6? 



two circumstances so unfavorable to me in 
all my occupations, but especially that of 
writing', that it was with the greatest diffi- 
culty I could even bring myself to attempt it. 

You have never yet perhaps been made ac- 
quainted with the unfortunate Tom F — 's 
misadventure. He and his wife, returning 
from Hanslope fair, were coming down Wes- 
ton-iane ; to wit, themselves, their horse, and 
their great wooden panniers, at ten o'clock 
at night. The horse having a lively imagi- 
nation and very weak nerves, fancied he either 
saw or heard something, but has never been 
able to say what. A sudden fright will im- 
part activity and a momentary vigor even to 
lameness itself. Accordingly he started and 
sprang from the middle of the road to the 
side of it, with such surprising alacrity, that 
he dismounted the gingerbread baker and his 
gingerbread wife in a moment. Not con- 
tented with this effort, nor thinking himself 
yet out of danger, he proceeded as fast as he 
could to a full gallop, rushed against the gate 
at the bottom of the lane, and opened it for 
himself, without perceiving that there was 
any gate there. Still he galloped, and with 
a velocity and momentum continually increas- 
ing, till he arrived in Olney. I had been in 
bed about ten minutes, when I heard the 
most uncommon and unaccountable noise that 
can be imagined. It was, in fact, occasioned 
by the clattering of tin pattypans and a Dutch 
oven against the sides of the panniers. Much 
gingerbread was picked up in the street, and 
Mr. Lucy's windows were broken all to 
pieces. Had this been all, it would have been 
a comedy, but we learned the next morning 
that the poor woman's collar-bone was broken, 
and she has hardly been able to resume her 
occupation since. 

What is added on the other side, if I could 
have persuaded myself to write sooner, would 
have reached you sooner; 'tis about ten days 
old. . . . 

THE DOVES.* 

The male dove was smoking a pipe, and 
the female dove was sewing, while she de- 
livered herself as above. This little circum- 
stance may lead you perhaps to guess what 
pair I had in my eye. 

Yours, dear madam, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, June 8, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — It is possible I might 
nave indulged myself in the pleasure of writ- 
ing to you, without waiting for a letter from 
you, but for a reason which you will not 
easily guess. Your* mother communicated 
to me the satisfaction you expressed in my 
wirespondence, that you thought me enter- 
* Vide Cowper's Poems. 



taining, and clever, and so forth. Now yon 
must know, I love praise dearly, especially 
from the judicious, and those who have so 
much delicacy themselves as not to offend 
mine in giving it. But then, I found this 
consequence attending, or likely to attend, 
the eulogium you bestowed — if my friend 
thought me witty before, he shall think me 
ten times more witty hereafter — where I joked 
once, I will joke five times, and, for one sen- 
sible remark, I will send him a dozen. Now 
this foolish vanity would hav spoiled me 
quite, and would have made me as disgusting 
a letter- writer as Pope, who seems to have 
thought that unless a sentence was well 
turned, and every period pointed with some 
conceit, it was not worth the carriage. Accord- 
ingly he is to me, except in a very few in- 
stances, the most disagreeable maker of epis- 
tles that ever I met with. 1 was willing 
therefore to wait till the impassion your 
commendation had made upon the foolish 
part of me was worn off that i might scrib- 
ble away as usual, and write my uppermost 
thoughts, and those only. 

You are better skilled in ecclesiastical law 
than I am. — Mrs. P. desires me to inform 
her, whether a parson can be obliged to take 
an apprentice. For some of her husband's 

opposers, at D , threaten to clap one upon 

him. Now I think it would be rather hard 
if clergymen, who are not allowed to exer- 
cise any handicraft whatever, should be sub- 
ject to such an imposition. If Mr. P. was a 
cordwainer or a breeches-maker all the week 
and a preacher only on Sundays, it would 
seem reasonable enough in that case that he 
should take an apprentice if e chose it. But 
even then, in my poor judgment, he ought to 
be left to his option. If they mean by an 
apprentice a pupil whom they will oblige him 
to hew into a parson, and, after chipping 
away the block that hides the minister within, 
to qualify him to stand erect in a pulpit — 
that, indeed, is another consideration. But 
still we live in a free country, and I cannot 
bring myself even to suspect that an English 
divine can possibly be liable to such compul- 
sion. x\sk your uncle, however; for he is 
wiser in these things than either cf us. 

1 thank you for your two inscriptions, and 
like the last the best ; the thought is just and 
fine — but the two last lines are sadly dam 
aged by the monkish jingle of peperit ana 
reperit. I have not yet translated them, nor 
do I promise to do it, though at some idle 
Tiour perhaps I may. In return, I send you 
a translation of a simile in the Paradise Lost. 
Not having that poem at hand, I cannot refer 
you to the book and page, but you may hunt 
for it, if you think it worth your while. It 
begins — 

" So when from mountain tops the dusky cloud* 
Asoending," &c. 



70 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



lu'.les aerii montis de vertice nubes, 
Cum surgunt. et jam Boreae tuinida ora quierunt, 
CaeJtm hilares abdit. spissa caligine, vultus: 
Tur i si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore. 
Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat, 
Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros, 
'Balatuque ovium colles, valesque resultant. 

Tf you spy any fault in my Latin, tell me, 
for I am sometimes in doubt ; but, as I told 
you when you was here, I have not a Latin 
book in the world to consult, or correct a 
mistake by, and some years have passed since 
I was a school-boy. 

AN ENGLISH VERSIFICATION OP A THOUGHT THAT 
POPPED INTO MY HEAD ABOUT TWO MONTHS 
SINCE. 

Sweet stream ! that winds through yonder glade — 

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid ! — 

Silent, and chaste, she steals along, 

Far from the world's gay, busy throng, 
With gentle yet prevailing force, 
Intern upon her destin'd course : 
Graceful am', useful all she does, 
Blessing and blest where'er she goes; 
Pure bosom "d, as that watery glass, 
And heav'n reflected in her face. 

Now this i.s not so exclusively applicable 
to a maiden as to be the sole property of 
your sister Shuttleworth. If you look at 
Mrs. Unwin, you will see that she has not 
lost her right to this just praise by marrying 
you. 

Your mother sends her love to all, and mine 
comes jogging along by the side of it. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, June 12, 1780. 
Dear Sir. — We accept it as an effort of 
your friendship, that you could prevail with 
yourself, in a time of such terror and dis- 
tress, to send us repeated accounts of yours 
and Mrs. Newton's welfare. You supposed, 
with reason enough, that we should be ap- 
prehensive for your safety, situated as you 
were, apparently within the reach of so much 
danger. We rejoice that you have escaped 
it all, and that, except the anxiety which you 
must have felt both for yourselves and 
others, you have suffered nothing upon this 
dreadful occasion. A metropolis in flames, 
and a nation in ruins, are subjects of con- 
templation for such a mind as yours, that 
will leave a lasting impression behind them.* 
It is well that the design died in the execu- 

* The event here alluded to was a crisis of great' na- 
tional danger. It originated in the concessions granted 
by Parliament to the Roman Catholics, in consequence 
of which a licentious mob assembled in great multitudes 
In St. George's Fields, and excited the greatest alarm by 
their unbridled fury. They proceeded to destroy all the 
Romish chapels in London and its vicinity. The prisons 
of Newgate, the Fleet, and King's Bench, were attacked, 



tion, and will be buried, I hope, never to ris« 
again, in. the ashes of its own combustion. 
There is a melancholy pleasure in looking 
back upon such a scene, arising from a com- 
parison of possibilities with facts ; the enor- 
mous bulk of the intended mischief, with the 
abortive and partial accomplishment of it* 
much was done, more indeed than could have 
been supposed practicable in a well-regulated 
city, not unfurnished with a military force for 
its protection. But surprise and astonish- 
ment seem, at first, to have struck every nerve 
of the police with a palsy, and to have dis- 
armed government of all its powers.* 

I congratulate you upon the wisdom that 
withheld you from entering yourself a member 
of the Protestant Association. Your friends 
who did so have reason enough to regret their 
doing it, even though they should never be 
called upon. Innocent as they are, and they 
who know them cannot doubt of their being 
perfectly so, it is likely to bring an odium on 
the profession they make that will not soon 
be forgotten. Neither is it possible for a 
quiet, inoffensive man to discover on a sud- 
den that his zeal has carried him into such 
company, without being to the last degree 
shocked at his imprudence. Their religion 
was an honorable mantle, like that of Elijah, 
but the majority wore cloaks of Guy Fawkes's 
time, and meant nothing so little as what 
they pretended. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, June 18, 1780. 
Reverend and dear William, — The affairs 
of kingdoms and the concerns of individuals 
are variegated alike with the chequer-work of 
joy and sorrow. The news of a great ac- 
quisition in Americaf has succeeded to terri- 

and exposed to the devouring flame. The Bank itself 
was threatened with an assault, when a well-disciplined 
baud, called the London Association, aided by the regu- 
lar troops, dispersed the multitude, but not without the 
slaughter of about two hundred and twenty of the most 
active ringleaders. The whole city presented a melan- 
choly scene of riot and devastation ; and the houses of 
many private individuals were involved in the ruin. The 
house of Lord Chief Justice Mansfield was the particular 
object of popular fury. Lord George Gordon, who acted 
a prominent part on this occasion, was afterwards brought 
to trial. a»d his defence undertaken by Mr. Kenyon, af- 
terwards well known by the title of Lord Kenyon. Vari- 
ous facts and circumstances having been adduced in fa- 
vor of Lord George Gordon, his lordship was acquitted. 
It is instructive to contemplate the tide of human pas- 
sions and events, and to contrast this spirit of religious 
persecution with the final removal of Catholic disabilities 
at a later period. 

* Cowper alludes to this afflicting page in our domes 
tic history, in his Table Talk : — 

When tumult lately burst his prison door, 

And set plebeian thousands in a roar ; 

When he usurp'd authority's just place, 

And dared to look his rhtster in the face. 

When the rude rabble's watchword was— Destroy 

And blazing London seem'd a second Troy. 

* The surrender of Charles-Town, in South Carolina, to 
Admiral Arbuthnot and General Sir Henry Clinton. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



We tumults in London, and the beams of 
prosperity are now playing upon the smoke 
of that conflagration which so lately terrified 
the whole land. Th^se sudden changes, 
which are matter of every man's observation, 
and may therefore always be reasonably ex- 
pected, serve to hold up the chin of despond- 
ency above water, and preserve mankind in 
general from the sin and misery of account- 
ing existence a burden not to be endured — 
an evil we should be sure to encounter, if 
we were not warranted to look for a bright 
reverse of our most afflictive experiences. 
The Spaniards were sick of the war at the 
very commencement of it ; and I hope that 
by this time the French themselves begin to 
find themselves a little indisposed, if not de- 
sirous of peace, which that restless and med- 
dling temper of theirs is incapable of desiring 
for its own sake. But is it true that this 
detestable plot was an egg laid in France, 
and hatched in London, under the influence 
of French corruption 1 — Nam te scire, deos 
quoniam propius contingis, oportet. The off- 
spring has the features of such a parent, and 
yet, without the clearest proof of the fact, I 
would not willingly charge upon a civilized 
nation what perhaps the most barbarous 
would abhor the thought of. I no sooner 
Baw the surmise, however, in the paper, than 
I immediately began to write Latin verses 
upon the occasion. "An odd effect," you 
will say, " of such a circumstance ;" — but an 
effect, nevertheless, that whatever has at any 
time moved my passions, whether pleasantly 
or otherwise, has always had upon me. 
Were I to express what I feel on such oc- 
casions in prose, it would be verbose, inflated, 
and disgusting. I therefore have recourse 
to veKse, as a suitable vehicle for the most 
vehement expressions my thoughts suggest 
to me. What I have written, I did not write 
so much for the comfort of the English as 
for the mortification of the French. You 
will immediately perceive therefore that I 
have been laboring in vain, and that this 
bouncing explosion is likely to spend itself 
in the air. For I have no means of circu- 
lating what follows through all the French 
territories; and unless that, or something 
like it, can be done, my indignation will be 
entirely fruitless. Tell me how I can convey 
it into Sartine's pocket, or who will lay it 
upon his desk for me. But read it first, and, 
unless you think it pointed enough to sting 
Jhe Gaul to the quick, burn it. 



IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM, CORRUPTELIS GALLI- 
CIS, UT FERTUR, LONDINI NUPER EXORTAM. 

t'erfida, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore, 
Non armis, laurum Gallia fraude petit. 

Tenalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit 
Undique privatas patriciasque domos. 



Nequicquam conata sua, foedissima sperat 
Posse tamen nostra nos superare manu. 

Gallia, vanastruis! Precibusnuncutere! Vincea 
Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus. 

I have lately exercised my ingenuity in 
contriving an exercise for yours, and have 
composed a riddle which, if it does not make 
you laugh before you have solved it, will 
probably do it afterwards. I would tran- 
scribe it now, but am really so fatigued with 
writing, that, unless I knew you had a quinsy 
and that a fit of laughter might possibly 
save your life, I could not prevail with my 
self to do it. * 

What could you possibly mean, slender aa 
you are, by sallying out upon your two 
walking sticks at two in the morning, in the 
midst of such a tumult ? We admire your 
prowess, but cannot commend your priu 
dence. 

Our love attends you all, collectively and 
individually. % * 

Yours, W. C 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNW1N. 

Olney, June 22, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — A word or two in an- 
swer to two or three questions of yours, 
which I have hitherto taken no notice of. 
I am not in a scribbling mood, and shall 
therefore make no excursions to amuse 
either myself or you. The needful will be 
as much as I can manage at present — the 
playful must wait another opportunity. 

I thank you for your offer of Robertson, 
but I have more reading upon my hands at 
this present writing than I shall get rid of in 
a twelvemonth, and this moment recollect 
that I have seen it already. He is an author 
that I admire much, with one exception, that 
I think his style is too labored Hume, as an 
historian, pleases me more. 

I have just read enough of the Biograpnia 
Britannica to say that I have tasted it, and 
have no doubt but I shall like it. I am 
pretty much in the garden at this season of 
the year, so read but little. In summer-time 
I am as giddy-headed as a boy, and can set- 
tle to nothing. Winter condenses me, ami 
makes me lumpish and sober: and then 
can read all day long. 

For the same reasons, I have no need oi 
the landscapes at present; when I warn 
them I will renew my application, and repeal 
the description, but it will hardly be before 
October. 

Before I rose this morning, I composed the 
three following stanzas ; I send them because 
I like them pretty well myself; and, 'f you 
should not, you must accept this handsome 
comoliment as an amends for their deficien- 



72 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



cies. You may print the lines, if you judge 
them worth it * 

I have only time to add love, &c, and my. 
two initials. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, June 23, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — Your reflections upon 
the state of London, the sins and enormities 
of that great city, while you had a distant 
view of it from Greenwich, seem to have 
been prophetic of the heavy stroke that fell 
upon it just after. Man often prophesies 
* without knowing it — a spirit speaks by him, 
which is not his own, though he does not at 
that time suspect that he is under the influ- 
ence of any other. Did he foresee what is 
always foreseen by Him who dictates, what 
he supposes to be his own, he would suffer 
by anticipation as well as by consequence, 
and wish perhaps as ardently for the happy 
ignorance to which he is at present so much 
indebted, as some have foolishly and incon- 
siderately done for a knowledge that would 
be but another name for misery. 

And why have I said all this, especially to 
you who have hitherto said it to me ? not be- 
cause I had the least desire of informing a 
wiser man than myself, but because the ob- 
servation was naturally suggested by the 
recollection of your letter, and that letter, 
though not the last, happened to be upper- 
most in my mind. I can compare this mind 
of mine to nothing that resembles it more 
than to a board that is under the carpenter's 
plane, (I mean while I am writing to you,) 
the shavings are my uppermost thoughts ; 
after a few strokes of the tool it acquires a 
new surface ; this again upon a repetition of 
his task he takes off, and a new surface still 
succeeds : whether the shavings of the pre- 
sent day will be worth your acceptance, I 
know not ; I am unfortunately made neither 
of cedar nor mahogany, but Truncus ficul- 
rtus. inutile lignum — consequently, though I 
should be planed till I am as thin as a wafer, 
it will be but rubbish to the last. 

It is not strange that you should be the 
subject of a false report, for the sword of 
slander, like that of war, devours one as well 
as another ; and a blameless character is par- 
ticularly delicious to its unsparing appetite. 
But that you should be the object of such a 
report, you who meddle less with the designs 
of government than almost any man that 
lives under it, this is strange indeed. It is 
Tell, however, when they who account it 
good sport to traduce the reputation of an- 
other invent a story that refutes itself. I 
wonder they do not always endeavor to ac- 
commodate their fiction to the real character 

v Verges on the burning of Lord Chief Justice Mans- 
field's house, during the riots in London. 



of the person ; their tale would then, at least 
have an air of probability, and it might cost 
a peaceable good man much more trouble to 
disprove it. But perhaps it would not be 
easy to discern what part of your conduct 
lies more open to such an attempt than an- 
other, or what it is that you either say or do, 
at any time, that presents a fair opportunity 
to the most ingenious slanderer to slip in a 
falsehood between your words or actions, 
that shall seem to be of a piece with either. 
You hate compliment. I know, but, by your 
leave, this is not one — it is a truth — worse 
and worse — now I have praised you indeed 
— well you must thank yourself for it, it was 
absolutely done without the least intention 
on my part, and proceeded from a pen, that, 
as far as I. can remember, was never guilty 
of flattery, since I knew how. to hold it. He 
that slanders me, paints me blacker than I 
am, and he that flatters me, whiter--they 
both daub me, and when I look in the glass 
of conscience, I see myself disguised by both 
— I had as lief my tailor should sew ginger- 
bread-nuts on my coat instead of buttons as 
that any man should call my Bristol stone a 
diamond. The tailor's trick would not at all 
embellish my suit, nor the flatterer's make 
me at all the richer. I never make a present 
to my friend of what I dislike myself. Ergo, 
(I have reached the conclusion at last,) I did 
not mean to flatter you. 

We have sent a petition to Lord Dart- 
mouth, by this post, praying him to interfere 
in parliament in behalf of the poor lace- 
makers. I say we, because I have signed it. 

— Mr. G. drew it up. Mr. did not think 

it grammatical, therefore would not sign it. 
Yet I think, Priscian himself would have 
pardoned the manner for the sake of the 
matter. I dare say if his lordship does not 
comply with the prayer of it, it will not be 
because he thinks it of more consequence to 
write grammatically than that the poor should 
eat, but for some better reason. 

My love to all under your roof. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, July 2, 1780. 
Carissime, I am glad of your confidence, 
and have reason to hope I shall never abuse 
it. If you trust me with a secret, I am her- 
metically sealed ; and if you call for the ex- 
ercise of my judgment, such as it is, I am 
never freakish or wanton in the use of it, 
much less mischievous and malignant. Crit- 
ics, I believe, do not often stand so clear of 
those vices as I do. I like your epitaph, ex- 
cept that I doubt the propriety of the word 
immaturus ; which, I think, is rather ap] tlica- 
ble to fruits than flowers ; and except the last 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



73 



pentameter, the assertion it contains being 
rather too obvious a thought to finish with ; 
not that 1 think an epitaph should be pointed 
like an epigram. But still* there is a close- 
ness of thought and expression necessary in 
the conclusion of all these little things, that 
they may leave an agreeable flavor upon the 
palate. Whatever is short should be nerv- 
ous, masculine, and compact. Little men are 
so ; and little poems should be so ; because, 
where . the work is short, the author has no 
right to the plea of weariness, and laziness 
is never admitted as an available excuse in 
anything. Now you know my opinion, you 
will very likely improve upon my improve- 
ment, and alter my alterations for the better. 
To touch and retouch is, though some writ- 
ers boast of negligence, and others would be 
ashamed to show their foul copies, the secret 
of almost all good writing, especially in verse. 
I am never weary of it myself, and, if you 
would take as much pains as I do, you would 
have no need to ask for my corrections. 

HIC SEPULTUS EST 
INTER SUORUM LACRYMAS 

GULIELMUS NORTHCOT, 

GULIELMI ET MaRI^J FILIUS 
UNICUS, UNICE DILECTUS, 

&UI FLORIS RITU succisus est semihiantis, 
aprilis die septimo, 
1780, jet. 10. 
Care, vale ! Sed non aeternum, care, valeto ! 

Nam que iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero. 
Turn nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros, 
Nee tu marcesces, nee lacrymabor ego.* 

Having an English translation of it by me, 
I send it though it may be of no use. 

Farewell ! " But not forever," Hope replies. 
Trace but his steps, and meet him in the skies ! 
There nothing shall renew our parting pain, 
Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again. 

The stanzas that I sent you are maiden 
ones, having never been seen by any eye but 
your mother's and your own. 

If you send me franks, I shall write longer 
letters. — Valete, sicut et nos valemus ! A.mate, 
sicut et nos amamus / W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Olney, June 3, 1780. 
Mon Ami, — By this time, I suppose, you 
have ventured to take your fingers out of 

* These lines of Mr. Unwin, and here retouched by 
Cowper's pen, bear a strong resemblance to the beautiful 
Epitaph, composed by Bishop Lowth, on the death of 
his beloved daughter, which seem to have suggested 
lome hints, in the composition of the above epitaph to 
Nbrthcote. 

Cara, vale, ingenio praestans, pietate, pudore, 

Et plus quam natae nomine cara, vale. 
Cara Maria, vale: at veniet felicius aevum, 

Quando iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero. 
Cara redi, laeta turn dicam voce, paternos 
Eja age in amplexus, cara Maria, redi. 
> Private correspondence. 



your ears, being delivered from the deafening 
shouts of the most zealous mob that ever 
strained their lungs in the cause of religion. 
I congratulate you upon a gentle relapse into 
the customary sounds of a great city, which, 
though we rustics abhor them, as noisy and 
dissonant, are a musical and sweet murmur, 
compared with what you have lately heard. 
The tinkling of a kennel may be distinguished 
now, where the roaring of a cascade would 
have been sunk and lost. I never suspected, 
till the newspapers informed me of it, a few 
days since, that the barbarous uproar had 
reached Great Queen Street. I hope Mrs. 
Hill was in the country, and shall rejoice to 
hear that, as I am sure you did not take up 
the protestant cudgels* upon this hair-brained 
occasion, so you have not been pulled in 
pieces as a pxpist. W. C. 

The next letter to Mr. Hill affords a strik- 
ing proof of Cowper's compassionate feelings 
towards the poor around him. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, July 8, 1780. 

Mon Ami, — If you ever take the tip of 
the chancellor's ear between your finger and 
thumb, you can hardly improve the oppor- 
tunity to better purpose, than if you should 
whisper into it the voice of compassion and 
lenity to the lace-makers. I am an eye-wit- 
ness to their poverty, and do know that hun- 
dreds in this little town are upon the point 
of starving; and that the most unremitting 
industry is but barely sufficient to keep them 
from it. I know that the bill by which they 
would have been so fatally affected is thrown 
out, but Lord Stormont threatens them with 
another ; and if another like it should pass, 
they are undone. We lately sent a petition 
to Lord Dartmouth ; I signed it, and am sure 
the contents are true. The purport of it was 
to inform him, that there are very near one 
thousand two hundred lace-makers in this 
beggarly town, the most of whom had reason 
enough, while the bill was in agfo-.tion, to 
look upon every loaf they bought as the last 
they should ever be able to earn. I can never 
think it good policy to incur the certain in- 
convenience of ruining thirty thousand, in 
order to prevent a remote and possible dam- 
age, though to a much greater number. The 
measure is like a scythe, and the poor lace- 
makers are the sickly crop, that trembles 
before the edge of it. The prospect of a . 
peace with America is like the streak of dawn 
in their horizon ; but this bill is like a black 
cloud behind it, that threatens their hope of 
a comfortable day with utter extinction. 

* The alarm taken at the concessions made in favor ol 
the Catholics was such, that many persons formed them- 
selves into an association, for the defence of Protestant 
principles. — Ed. 



I did not perceive, till this moment, that I 
bad tacked two si tiles together, a practice 
which, though warranted by the example of 
Homer, and allowed in an Epic Poem, is 
rather luxuriant and licentious in a letter; 
lest I should add another, I conclude. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, July 11, 1780. 

I account myself sufficiently commended 
for my Latin exercise, by the number of 
translations it has undergone. That which 
you distinguished in the margin by the title 
of " better" was the production of a friend, 
and, except that, for a modest reason, he 
omitted the third couplet, I think it a good 
one. To finish the group, I have translated 
it myself; and, though I would not wish you 
to give it to the world, for more reasons than 
one, especially lest some French hero should 

§all me to account for it, I add it on the other 
ide. An author ought to be the best judge 
of his own meaning; and, whether I have 
succeeded or not, I cannot but wish, that 
where a translator is wanted, the writer was 
always to be his own. 

False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, 
France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part ; 
To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys, 
Bids the low street, and lofty palace blaze. 
Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone. 
She hires the worst and basest of our own. 
Kneel, France ! a suppliant conquers us with ease, 
We always spare a coward on his knees.* 

I have often wondered that Dryden's illus- 
trious epigram on Milton,f (in my mind the 
second best that ever was made) has never 
been translated into Latin, for the admiration 
of the learned in other countries. I have at 
last presumed to venture upon the task my- 
self. The great closeness of the original, 
which is equal, in that respect, to the most 
compact Latin I ever saw, made it extremely 
difficult. 

Tres tria, sed longe distantia, ssecula vates 
Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximios. 

Greciae sublimem, cum majestate disertum 
Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. 

Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est, 
Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos. 

I have not one bright thought upon the 
chancellor's recovery ; nor can I strike off so 
much as one sparkling atom from that bril- 

* These lines are founded on the suspicion, prevalent 
at that time, that the fires in London were owing to 
French gold, circulated for the purposes of corruption, 
t Three poets in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thoxight surpass'd ; 
The next in majesty, in both the last. 
The force of Nature could no further go, 
To make a third she joined the other two. 



liant subject. It is not when I will, no! 
upon what I will, but as a thought happens 
to occur to me ;, and then I versify, whether 
I will or not. I never write but for my 
amusement ; and what I write is sure to an- 
swer that end, if it answers no other. If, 
besides this purpose, the more desirable one 
of entertaining you be effected, I then receive 
double fruit of my labor, and consider this 
produce of it as a second crop, the more val- 
uable because less expected. But when I 
have once remitted a composition to you, 1 
have done with it. It is pretty certain that I 
shall never read it or think of it again. From 
thatmomentl have constituted you sole judge 
of its accomplishments, if it has any, and of 
its defects, which it is sure to have. 

For this reason I decline answering the 
question with which you concluded your last, 
and cannot persuade myself to enter into a 
critical examen of the two pieces upon Lord 
Mansfield's loss,* either with respect to their 
intrinsic or comparative merit, and, indeed, 
after having rather discouraged that use of 
them which you had designed, there is no 
occasion for it. W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney, July 12, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — Such nights as I fre- 
quently spend are but a miserable prelude to 
the succeeding day, and indispose me above 
all things to the business of writing. Yet, 
with a pen in my hand, if I am a'ole to write 
at all, I find myself gradually relieved ; and 
as I am glad of any employment that may 
serve to engage my attention, so especially I 
am pleased with an opportunity of convers- 
ing with you, though it be but upon paper. 
This occupation above all others assists me 
in that self-deception to which I am indebted 
for all the little comfort I enjoy ; things seem 
to be as they were, and I almost forget that 
they never can be so again. 

We are both obliged to you for a sight of 

Mr. 's letter. - The friendly and obliging 

manner of it will much enhance the difficulty 
of answering it. I think I can see plainly 
that, though he does not hope for your ap- 
plause, he would gladly escape your censure. 
He seems to approach you smoothly and 
softly, and to take you gently by the hand, 
as if* he bespoke your lenity, and entreated 
you at least to spare him. You have such 
skill in the management of your pen that I 
doubt not you will be able to send him a 
balmy reproof, that shall give him no reason 
to complain of a broken head. How delu- 

* Lord Chief Justice Mansfield incurred the loss, on 
this occasion, of one of the most complete and valuable 
collections of law books ever known, together with man 
uscripts and legal remarks, the result of his own indus- 
try and professional knowledge. 

f Private correspondence. 



give is the wildest speculation, when pursued 
with eagerness, and nourished with such ar- 
guments as the perverted ingenuity of such 
a mind as his can easily furnish ! Judgment 
falls asleep upon the bench, while Imagina- 
tion, like a smug, pert counsellor, stands 
chattering at the bar, and, with a deal of fine- 
spun, enchanting sophistry, carries all before 
him. 

If I had strength of mind, I have not 
strength of body for the task which, you say, 
some would impose upon me. I cannot bear 
much thinking. The meshes of that fine net- 
work, the brain, are composed of such mere 
spinners' threads in me, that when a long 
thought finds its way into them, it buzzes, 
and twangs, and bustles about at such a rate 
as seems to threaten the whole contexture. 
No — I must needs refer it again to you. 

My enigma will probably find you out, 
and you will find out my enigma, at some 
future time. I am not in a humor to tran- 
scribe it now. Indeed I wonder that a sport- 
ive thought should ever knock at the door 
of my intellects, and still more that it should 
gain admittance. It is as if harlequin should 
intrude himself into the gloomy chamber 
where a corpse is deposited in state. His 
antic gesticulations would be unseasonable 
at any rate, but more especially so if they 
should distort the features of the mournful 
attendants into laughter. But the mind, long 
wearied with the sameness of a dull, dreary 
prospect, will gladly fix its eyes on anything 
that may make a little variety in its contem- 
plations, though it were but a kitten playing 
with her tail. 

You would believe, though I did not say it 
at the end of every letter, that we remember 
you and Mrs. Newton with the same affec- 
tion as ever: but I would not therefore ex- 
cuse myself from writing what it gives you 
pleasure to read. I have often wished in- 
deed, when writing to an ordinary corre- 
spondent, for the revival of the Roman cus- 
tom — salutis at top, and vale at bottom. But 
as the French have taught all Europe to 
enter a room and to leave it with a most 
ceremonious bow, so they have taught us to 
begin and conclude our letters in the same 
manner. However, I can say to you, 
Sans ceremonie, 

Adieu, mon ami ! W. C. 

The poet's affectionate effort in renewing 
his correspondence with Mrs. Cowper, to 
whom he had been accustomed to pour forth 
his heart without reserve, appears to have 
had a beneficial effect on his reviving spirits. 
His pathetic letter to that lady was followed, 
«x the course of two months, by a letter of a 
more lively cast, in which the reader will 
find some touches of his native humor, and 

vein of pleasantry peculiar to himself. 



TO MRS. COWTEK. 

July 20, 1780. 

My dear Cousin, — Mr. Newton having de. 
sired me to be of the party, I am come to 
meet him. You see me sixteen years older, 
at the least, than when I saw you last ; but 
the effects of time seem to have taken place 
rather on the outside of my head than with- 
in it. What was brown is become grey, but 
what was foolish remains foolish still. Green 
fruit must rot before it ripens, if the season is 
such as to afford it nothing but cold winds 
and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray of 
sunshine. My days steal away silently, and 
march on (as poor mad Lear would have 
made his soldiers march) as if they were 
shod with felt ; not so silently but that I 
hear them : yet were it not that I am always 
listening to their flight, having no infirmity 
that I had not when I was much younger, I 
should deceive myself with an imagination 
that I am still young. 

I am fond of writing as an amusement, but 
do not always find it one. Being rather 
scantily furnished with subjects that are good 
for anything, and corresponding only with 
those who have no relish for such as are 
good for nothing, I often find myseif re- 
duced to the necessity, the disagreeable ne- 
cessity, of writing about myself. This does 
not mend the matter much, for, though in a 
description of my own condition, I discover 
abundant materials to employ my pen upon, 
yet as the task is not very agreeable to me, 
so I am sufficiently aware, that it is likely to 
prove irksome to others. A painter who 
should confine himself, in the exercise of his 
art, to the drawing of his own picture, must 
be a wonderful coxcomb if he did not soon 
grow sick of his occupation, and be peculiar- 
ly fortunate if he did not make others as sick 
as himself. 

Remote as your dwelling is from the late 
scene of riot and confusion, I hope that, 
though you could not but hear the report, 
you heard no more, and that the roarings of 
the mad multitude did not reach you. That 
was a day of terror to the innocent, and the 
present is a day of still greater terror to the 
guilty. The law was, for a few moments, 
like an arrow in the quiver, seemed to be> of 
no use, and did no execution ; now it is an 
arrow upon the string, and many who de- 
spised it lately are trembling as they stand 
before the point of it. 

I have talked more already than I have 
formerly done in three visits — you remem- 
ber my taciturnity, never to be forgotten by 
those who knew me ; not to depart entirely 
from what might be, for aught I know, the 
most shining part of my character, I here 
shut my mouth, make my bow, and return to 
Olney. 

W. C. 



76 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, July 27, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — As two men sit silent, 
after having exhausted all their topics of con- 
versation ; one says, " It is very fine weather," 
and the other says, "Yes;" — one blows his 
nose, and the other rubs his eye-brows ; (by 
the way, this is very much in Homer's man- 
ner;) such seems to be the case between 
you and me. After a silence of some days, 
I wrote you a long something, that (I sup- 
pose) was nothing to the purpose, because it 
has not afforded you materials for an answer. 
Nevertheless, as it often happens in the case 
above stated, one of the distressed parties, 
being deeply sensible of the awkwardness of 
a dumb duet, breaks silence again, and re- 
solves to speak, though he has nothing to 
say, so it feres with me. I am with you 
again in the form of an epistle, though, con- 
sidering my present emptiness, I have reason 
to fear that your only joy upon the occasion 
will be, that it is conveyed to you in a frank. 

When I began, I expected no interruption. 
But, if I had expected interruptions without 
end, I should have been less disappointed. 
First came the barber ; who, after having 
embellished the outside of my head, has left 
the inside just as unfurnished as he found it. 
Then came Olney bridge, not into the house, 
but into the conversation. The cause relat- 
ing to it was tried on Tuesday at Bucking- 
ham. The Judge directed the jury to find a 
verdict favorable to Olney. The jury con- 
sisted of one knave and eleven fools. The 
last-mentioned followed the afore-mentioned 
as sheep follow a bell-wether, and decided in 
direct opposition to the said judge : then a 
flaw was discovered in the indictment : — the 
indictment was quashed, and an order made 
for a new trial. The new trial will be in the 
King's Bench, where said knave and said 
fools will have nothing to do with it. So the 
men of Olney fling up their caps, and assure 
themselves of a complete victory. A victory 
will save me and your mother many shillings, 
perhaps some pounds, which, except that it 
has afforded me a subject to write upon, was 
the only reason why I said so much about it. 
I know you take an interest in all that con- 
cerns us, and will consequently rejoice with 
us in the prospect of an event in which we 
are concerned so nearly. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, July 30, 1780. 
My dear Sir, — You may think perhaps that 
£ deal more liberally with Mr. Unwin, in the 
way of poetical export, than I do with you, 
and I bolieve you have reason. The truth is 
this: if I walked the streets with a fiddle 



under my arm, I should never think of per 
forming before the window of a privy coun. 
cillor or a chief justice, but should rathe! 
make free with ears more likely to be open 
to such amusement. The trifles I produce 
in this way are indeed such trifles that I can- 
not think them seasonable presents for you. 
Mr. Unwin himself would not be offended if 
I was to tell him that there is this difference 
between him and Mr. Newton ; that the latter 
is already an apostle, while he himself is only 
undergoing the business of incubation, with 
a hope that he may be hatched in time. 
When my muse comes forth arrayed in sa- 
bles, at least in a robe of graver cast, I make 
no scruple to direct her to my friend at Hox- 
ton. This has been one reason why I have 
so long delayed the riddle. But lest I should 
seem to set a value upon it that I do not, by 
making it an object of still further inquiry 
here it comes. 

I am just two and two, I am warm. I am cold, 
And the parent of numbers that cannot be told, 
I am lawful, unlawful — a duty, a fault. 
I am often sold dear — good for nothing when 

bought, 
An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, 
And yielded with pleasure — when taken by force 

W. c. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Aug. 6, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — You like to hear from 
me — this is a very good reason why I should 
write — but I have nothing to say — this seems 
equally a good reason why I should not ; yet 
if you had alighted from your horse at our 
door this morning, and, at this present writ- 
ing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had 
found occasion to say to me — "Mr. Cowper, 
you have not spoke since I came in ; have 
you resolved never to speak again ?" — it 
would be but a poor reply, if, in answer to 
the summons, I should plead inability as my 
best and only excuse. And this, by the way, 
suggests to me a seasonable piece of instruc- 
tion, and reminds me of what I am very apt 
to forget when I have any epistolary busi- 
ness in hand ; that a letter may be written 
upon anything or nothing, just as that any- 
thing or nothing happens to occur. A man 
that has a journey before him twenty miles 
in length, which he is to perform on foot, 
will not hesitate and doubt whether he shall 
set out or not, because he does not readily 
conceive how he shall ever reach the end of 
it ; for he knows that, by the simple opera- 
tion of moving one foot forward first and 
then the other, he shall be sure to accom- 
plish it. So it is in the present case, and so 
it is in every similar case. A letter is writ- 
ten, as a conversation is maintained or a 
journey performed, not by preconcerted or 






premeditated means, a new contrivance, or 
an invention never heard of before ; but 
merely by maintaining* a progress, and re- 
solving, as a postilion does, having once set 
out, never to stop till we reach the appointed 
end. If a man may talk without thinking, 
why may he not write upon the same terms ? 
A grave gentleman of the last century, a tie- 
wig, square-toe, Steinkirk figure, would say, 
"My good sir, a man has no right to do 
either." But it is to be hoped that the pres- 
ent century has nothing to do with the 
mouldy opinions of the last ; and so, good 
Sir Launcelot, or St. Paul, or whatever be 
your name, step into your picture-frame 
again, and look as if you thought for another 
century, and leave us moderns in the mean 
time to think when we can, and to write 
whether we can or not, else we might as 
well be dead as you are. 

When we look back upon our forefathers, 
we seem to look back upon the people of 
another nation, almost upon creatures of an- 
other species. Their vast rambling mansions, 
spacious halls, and painted casements, the 
gothic porch, smothered with honeysuckles, 
their little gardens, and high walls, their box- 
edgings, balls of holly, and yew-tree statues, 
are become so entirely unfashionable now, 
that we can hardly believe it possible that a 
people who resembled us so little in their 
taste should resemble us in anything else. 
But in everything else I suppose they were 
our counterparts exactly, and time, that has 
sewed up the slashed sleeve, and reduced the 
large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk stock- 
ings, has left human nature just where it 
found it. The inside of the man at least 
has undergone no change. His passions, 
appetites, and aims, are just what they ever 
were. They wear perhaps a handsomer dis- 
guise than they did in the days of yore, for 
philosophy and literature will have their ef- 
fect upon the exterior; but in every other 
respect a modern is only an ancient in a dif- 
ferent dress. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Aug. 10, 1780. 

My dear Sir, — I greet you at your castle 
oi Buen Retiro, and wish you could enjoy 
the unmixed pleasures of the country there. 
But it seems you are obliged to dash the cup 
with ' a portion of those bitters you are al- 
ways swallowing in town. Weil — you are 
lonorably and usefully employed, and ten 
times more beneficially to society than if you 
were piping to a few sheep under a spread- 
ing beech, or listening to a tinkling rill. Be- 
tides, by the effect of long custom and ha- 
* Private correspondence. 



bitual practice, you are not only enabled to 
endure your occupation, but even find it 
agreeable. I remember the time when it 
would not have suited you so well to have 
devoted so large a part of your vacation to 
the objects of your profession ; and you, I 
dare say, have not forgot what a seasonable 
relaxation you found, when lying at full 
stretch upon the ruins of an old wall, by the 
sea side, you amused yourself with Tasso's 
Jerusalem and the Pastor Fido. I recollect 
that we both pitied Mr. De Grey, when we 
called at his cottage at Taplow, and found, 
not the master indeed, but his desk, with his 
white-leaved folio upon it. which bespoke 
him as much a man of business in his retire- 
ment as in Westminster Hall. But by these 
steps he ascended the bench.* Now he may 
read what he pleases, and ride where he will, 
if the gout will give him leave. And you, 
who have no gout, and probably never will, 
when your hour of dismission comes, # wUl, 
for that reason, if for no other, be a happier 
man than he. 

I am, my dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

P. S. — Mr. has not thought proper to 

favor me with his book, and having no inter- 
est in the subject, I have not thought proper 
to purchase it. Indeed I have no curiosity 
to read what I am sure must be erroneous 
before I read it. Truth is worth everything 
that can be given for it ; but a mere display 
of ingenuity, calculated only to mislead, is 
worth nothing. 

The following letter shows the sportive- 
ness of his imagination on the minutest sub 
jects. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Aug. 21, 1780. 
The following occurrence ought not to be 
passed over in silence, in a place where so 
few notable ones are to be met with. Last 
Wednesday night, while we were at supper, 
between the hours of eight and nine, I heard 
an unusual noise in the back parlor, as if one 
of the hares was entangled and endeavoring 
to disengage herself. I was just going to 
rise from table when it ceased. In about 
five minutes a voice on the outside of the 
parlor door inquired if one of my hares had 
got away. I immediately rushed into the 
next room, and found that my poor favorite 
puss had made her escape. She had gnawed 
in sunder the strings of a lattice work, with 
which I thought I had sufficiently secured 

* This distinguished lawyer was o, connexion of Cow- 
per's, having married Mary, daughter of William Cowper 
of the Park, near Hertford, Esq. After having succes- 
sively passed through the office of Solicitor and Attorney 
General, he was advanced to the dignity of Chief Justice 
of the Court of Common Pleas, and subseqi.ently elevated 
to the Peerage by the title of Uaron Walsinghain. 



78 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the window, and which I preferred to any 
other sort of blind, because it admitted 
plenty of air. From thence I hastened to 
the kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable 
Thomas Freeman, who told me that, having 
seen her just after she dropped into the street, 
he attempted to cover her with his hat," but 
she screamed out, and leaped directly over 
his head. I then desired him to pursue as 
fast as possible, and added Richard Coleman 
fco the chase, as, being nimbler, and carrying 
less weight than Thomas ; not expecting to 
see her again, but desirous to learn, if possi- 
ble, what became of her. In something less 
than an hour, Richard returned, almost breath- 
less, with the following account: that, soon 
after he began to run, he left Tom behind him, 
and came in sight of a most numerous hunt 
of men, women, children, and dogs ; that he 
did his best to keep back the dogs, and pres- 
ently outstripped the crowd, so that the race 
was at last disputed between himself and 
puss : she ran right through the town, and 
down the lane that leads to Dropshot. A 
little before she came to the house, he got 
the start and turned her ; she pushed for the 
town again, and soon after she entered it 
sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's tan-yard, 
adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's har- 
vest men were at supper, and saw her from 
the opposite side of the way. There she en- 
countered the tan-pits full of water, and, 
while she was struggling out of one pit, and 
plunging into another, and almost drowned, 
one of the men drew her out by the ears, and 
secured her. She was then well washed in 
a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and 
brought home in a sack at ten o'clock. 

This frolic cost us four shillings, but you 
may believe that we did not grudge a far- 
thing of it. The poor creature received only 
a little hurt in one of her claws and one of 
aer ears, and is now almost as well as ever. 

I do not call this an answer to your letter, 
but such as it is I send it, presuming upon 
that interest which I know you take in my 
minutest concerns, which I cannot express 
better than in the words of Terence, a little 
varied — Nihil mei a te alienum putas. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Olney, Aug. 31, 1780. 

My dear Cousin, — I am obliged to you for 
your long letter, which did not seem so, and 
for your short one, which was more than I 
had any reason to expect. Short as it was, 
it conveyed to me two interesting articles of 
intelligence, — an account of your recovering 
from a fever, and of Lady Cowper's death. 
The latter was, I suppose, to be expected, for, 
Sy what remembrrnce I have of her Ladyship, 



who was never much acquainted with hei 
she had reached those years that are always 
found upon the borders of another world. 
As for you, your time of life is comparatively 
of a youthful date. You may think of death 
as much as you please, (you cannot think of 
it too much,) but I hope you will live to think 
of it many years. 

It costs me not much difficulty to suppose 
that my friends, who were already grown old 
when I saw them last, are old still, but it 
costs me a good deal sometimes to think of 
those who were at that time young as being 
older than they were. Not having been an 
eye-witness of the change that time has made 
in them, and my former idea of them not 
being corrected by observation, it remains 
the same ; my memory presents me with this 
image unimpaired, and, while it retains the 
resemblance of what they were, forgets that 
by this time the picture may have lost much 
of its likeness, through the alteration that 
succeeding years have made in the original. 
I know not what impressions Time may have 
made upon your person, for while his claws 
(as our grannams called them) strike deep 
furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath 
them with much tenderness, as if fearful of 
doing injury, to others. But, though an ene- 
my to the person, he is a friend to the mind, 
and you have found him so ; though even in 
this respect his treatment of us depends upon 
what he meets with at our hands : if we use 
him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is 
a friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of 
enemies, who takes from us daily something 
that we valued, and gives us nothing better 
in its stead. It is well with them, who, like 
you, can stand a-tiptoe on the mountain-top 
of human life, look down with pleasure upon 
the valley they have passed, and sometimes 
stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy 
flight into eternity. Yet a little while, and 
your hope will be accomplished. 

When you can favor me with a little ac- 
count of your own family, without incon- 
venience, I shall -be glad to receive it, for, 
though separated from my kindred by little 
more than half a century of miles, I knew as 
little of their concerns as if oceans and con- 
tinents were interposed between us. 

Yours, my dear cousin, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Sept. 3, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — I am glad you are so 
provident, and that, while you are young, ycu 
have furnished yourself with the means of 
comfort in old age. Your crutch and your 
pipe may be of use to you, (and may they be 
so !) should your years be extended to an 
antediluvian date ; and, for your perfect ac- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



71 



commodation, you seem to want nothing but 
a clerk called Snuffle, and a sexton of the 
name of Skeleton, to make your ministerial 
equipage complete. 

I think I have read as much of the first 
'olume of the Biographia as I shall ever read. 
f find it very amusing ; more so, perhaps^ than 
it would have been, had they sifted their 
sharacters with more exactness, and admitted 
none but those who had in some way or other 
entitled themselves to immortality by deserv- 
ing well of the public. Such a compilation 
would perhaps have been more judicious, 
fchough I confess it would have afforded less 
variety. The priests and monks of earlier 
and the doctors of later days, who have sig- 
nalized themselves by nothing but a contro- 
versial pamphlet, long since thrown by and 
never to be perused again, might have been 
forgotten, without injury or loss to the na- 
tional character for learning or genius. This 
observation suggested to me the following 
lines, which may serve to illustrate my mean- 
ing, and at the same time to give my criticism 
a sprightlier air. 

O fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
In vain recorded in historic page. 
They court the notice of a future age ; 
Those twinkling, tiny lustres of the land, 
Drop one by one, from Fame's neglecting hand ; 
Lethean gulphs receive them as they fall, 
And dark Oblivion soon absorbs them all. 
So when a child (as playful children use) 
Has burnt to cinder a stale last year's news, 
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire, 
There goes my lady, and there goes the 'squire, 
There goes the parson — O illustrious spark ! 
And there — scarce less illustrious — goes the clerk ! 

Virgil admits none but worthies into the 
Elysian fields ; I cannot recollect the lines in 
which he describes them all, but these in par- 
ticular I well remember : 

Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo, 
Inventas aut qui vitam excoluere per artes. 

A chaste and scrupulous conduct like this 
would well become the writer of national 
biography. But enough of this. 

Our respects attend Miss Shuttleworth, 
with many thanks for her intended present. 
Some purses derive all their value from their 
contents, but these will have an intrinsic 
value of their own; and, though mine should 
be often empty, which is not an improbable 
supposition, I shall still esteem it highly on 
its own account. 

If you could meet with a second-hand 
Virgil, ditto Homer, both Iliad and Odyssey, 
together with a Claris, for I have no Lexicon, 
and all tolerably cheap> I shall be obliged to 
you if vr>u will make the purchase. 

Yours, W. C. 



The three following letters are interesting 
as containing Cowper's sentiments on the 
subject of education. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Sept. 7, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — As many gentlemen as 
there are in the world, who have children, 
and heads capable of reflecting upon \ he im- 
portant subject of their education, so many 
opinions there are about it, and many of them 
just and sensible, though almost all differing 
from each other. With respect to the educa- 
tion of boys, I think they are generally made 
to draw in Latin and Greek trammels too 
soon. It is pleasing no doubt to a parent to 
see his child already in some sort a proficient 
in those languages, at an age when most 
others are entirely ignorant of them ; but 
hence it often happens that a boy, who could 
construe a fable of ^Esop at six or seven 
years of age, having exhausted his little stock 
of attention and diligence in making that not- 
able acquisition, grows weary of his task, con- 
ceives a dislike for study, and perhaps make? 
but a very indifferent progress afterwards. 
The mind and body have, in this respect, a 
striking resemblance to each other. In child- 
hood they are both nimble, but not strong ; 
they can skip and frisk about with wonder- 
ful agility, but hard labor spoils them both. 
In maturer years they become less active, but 
more vigorous, more capable of a fixed ap- 
plication, and can make themselves sport 
with that which a little earlier would have 
affected them with intolerable fatigue. I 
should recommend it to you, therefore, (but 
after all you must judge for yourself,) to allot 
the two next years of little John's scholar- 
ship to writing and arithmetic, together with 
which, for variety's sake, and because it is 
capable of being formed into an amusement, 
I would mingle geography, (a science which, 
if not. attended to betimes, is seldom made 
an object of much consideration,) essentially 
necessary to the accomplishment of a gentle- 
man, yet, as I know (by sad experience) im- 
perfectly, if at all, inculcated in the schools. 
Lord Spencer's son, when he was four years 
of age, knew the situation of every kingdom, 
country, city, river, and remarkable mountain 
in the world. For this Attainment, which I 
suppose his father had never made, he was 
indebted to a play-thing ; having been accus- 
tomed to amuse himself with those maps 
which are cut into several compartments, so 
as to be thrown into a heap of confusion, that 
they may be put together again with an exact 
coincidence of all their angles and bearings, 
so as to form a perfect whole. 

If he begins Latin and Greek at eight, or 
even at nine years of age, it is surely soon 
enough. Seven vears, the usual allowance 



so 



COWFER'S WORKS 



for these acquisitions, are more than suffi- 
cient for the purpose, especially with his 
readiness in learning ; for you would hardly 
wish to have him qualified for the university 
before fifteen, a period in my mind much too 
early for it, and when he could hardly be 
trusted there without the utmost danger to 
nis morals. Upon the whole you will per- 
ceive that, in my judgment, the difficulty, as 
well as the wisdom, consists more in bridling 
in and keeping back a boy of his parts than 
in pushing him forward. If therefore at the 
end of the two years, instead of putting a 
grammar into his hand, you should allow him 
to amuse himself with some agreeable writers 
upon the subject of natural philosophy for 
another year, I think it would answer well. 
There is a book called Cosmotheoria Pueri- 
lis, there are Derham's Physico and Astro- 
theology, together with several others in the 
same manner, very intelligible even to a child, 
and full of useful instruction. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Sept. 17, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — You desire my further 
thoughts on the subject of education. I send 
you such as had for the most part occurred 
to me when I wrote last, but could not be 
comprised in a single letter. They are in- 
deed on a different branch of this interesting 
theme, but not less important than the for- 
mer. 

I think it your happiness, and wish you to 
think it so yourself, that you are in every 
respect qualified for the task of instructing 
your son, and preparing him for the univer- 
sity, without committing him to the care of a 
stranger. In my judgment, a domestic edu- 
cation deserves the preference to a public 
one, on a hundred accounts, which I have 
neither time nor room to mention. I shall 
only touch upon two or three, that I cannot 
but consider as having a right to your most 
earnest attention. 

In a public school, or indeed in any school, 
his morals are sure to be but little attended 
to, and his religion not at all. If he can 
catch the love of virtue from the fine things 
that are spoken of it in the classics, and the 
love of holiness from the customary attend- 
ance upon sucli preaching as he is likely to 
hear, it will be well ; but I am sure you have 
had too many opportunities to observe the 
inefficacy of such means to expect any such 
advantage from them. In the meantime, the 
more powerful influence of bad example and 
perhaps bad company, will continually coun- 
terwork these only preservatives he can meet 
with, and may possibly send him home to 
you, at the end of five or six years, such as 
i70u will be sorry to see him. You escaped 



indeed the contagion yourself, but a few in. 
stances of happy exemption from a general 
malady are not sufficient warrant to conclude 
that it is therefore not infectious, or may be 
encountered without danger. 

You have seen too much of the world, and 
are a man of too much reflection, not to have 
observed, that in proportion as the sons of 
a family approach to years of maturity they 
lose a sense of obligation to their parents, 
and seem art, last almost divested of that ten- 
der affection which the nearest of all relations 
seems to demand from them. I have often 
observed it myself, and have always thought 
I could sufficiently account for it, without 
laying all the blame upon the children. While 
they continue in their parents' house, they 
are every day obliged, and every day remind- 
ed how much it is to their interest as well as 
duty, to be obliging and affectionate in re- 
turn. But at eight or nine years of age, the 
boy goes to school. From that moment he 
becomes a stranger in his father's house. 
The course of parental kindness is inter- 
rupted. The smiles of his mother, those len- 
der admonitions, and the solicitous care of 
both his parents, are no longer before his 
eyes — year after year he feels himself more 
and more detached from them, till at last he 
is so effectually weaned from the connexion, 
as to find himself happier anywhere than in 
their company. 

I should have been glad of a frank for this 
letter, for I have said but little of what I 
could say upon the subject, and perhaps I 
may not be able to catch it by the end again. 
If I can, I shall add to it hereafter. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Oct. 5, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — Now for the sequel— 
you have anticipated one of my arguments 
in favor of a private education, therefore 1 
need say but little about it. The folly of 
supposing that the mother-tongue, in some 
respects the most difficult of all tongues, 
may be acquired without a teacher, is pre- 
dominant in all the public schools that I 
have ever heard of. To pronounce it well, 
to speak and to write it with fluency and ele- 
gance, are no easy attainments ; not one in 
fifty of those who pass through Westmin- 
ster and Eton arrives at any remarkable pro- 
ficiency in these accomplishments ; and they 
that do, are more indebted to their own study 
and application for it'than to any instruction 
received there. In general, there is nothing 
so pedantic as the style of a schoolboy, if he 
aims at any style at all ; and if he does not, 
he is of course inelegant and perhaps un- 
grammatical — a defect, no doubt, in great 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



81 



measure owing to want of cultivation, for 
the same lad that is often commended for his 
Latin frequently would deserve to be whipped 
tor his English, if the fault were not more 
nis master's than his own. I know not where 
this evil is so likely to be prevented as at home 
— supposing* always, nevertheless, (which is 
the case in your instance,) that the boy's pa- 
rents and their acquaintance are persons of 
elegance and taste themselves. For, to con- ,' 
verse with those who converse with propriety, | 
and to be directed to such authors as have re- ! 
fined and improved the language by their j 
productions, are advantages which he cannot 
elsewhere enjoy in an equal degree. And 
though it requires some time to regulate the 
taste and fix the judgment, and these effects 
must be gradually wrought even upon the 
best understanding, yet I suppose much less 
time will be necessary for the purpose than 
could at first be imagined, because the oppor- 
tunities of improvement are continual. 

A public education is often recommended 
as the most effectual remedy for that bashful j 
and awkward restraint, so epidemical among j 
the youth of our country. But I verily be- j 
lieve that, instead of being a cure, it is ofcen I 
the cause of it. For seven or eight years of 
his" life, the boy has hardly seen or conversed j 
with a man, or a woman, except the maids at i 
his boarding-house. A gentleman, or a lady, j 
are consequently such novelties to him that j 
he is perfectly at a loss to know what sort j 
of behavior he should preserve before them, j 
He plays with his buttons or the strings of 
nis hat ; he blows his nose, and hangs down 
his head, is conscious of his own deficiency 
to a degree that makes him quite unhappy, 
and trembles lest any one should speak to 
him, because that would quite overwhelm 
him. Is not all this miserable shyness the 
effect of bis education ? To me it appears 
to be so. If he saw good company every 
day, he would never be terrified at the sight 
of it, and a room full of ladies and gentlemen 
would alarm him no more than the chairs they 
sit on. Such is the effect of custom. 

I need add nothing further on this subject, j 
because I believe little; John is as likely to be j 
exempted from this weakness as most young 
gentlemen we shall meet with. He seems to | 
have his father's spirit in this respect, in whom j 
I could never discern the least traee of bash- 
fulness, though I have often heard him com- 
plain of it. Under your management and the 
influence of your example, I think he can 
hardly fail to escape it. If he does, ne es- 
capes that which has made many a man un- 
comfortable for life, and ruined not a few, by 
forcing them into mean and dishonorable 
company, where only they could be free and 
cheerful. 

Connexions formed at school are said to 
be lasting and often beneficial. There are 



two or three stories of this kind upon record, 
which would not be s*o constantly cited a? 
they are, whenever this subject happens to 
be mentioned, if the chronicle that preserves 
their remembrance had many besides to boast 
of. For my own part, I found such friend- 
ships, though warm enough in»their commence- 
ment, surprisingly liable to extinction; and 
of seven or eight, whom I had selected for 
intimates, out of about three hundred, in ten 
years' time not one was left me. The truth 
is, that there may be, and often^s, an attach- 
ment of one boy to another that looks very 
like a friendship, and, while they are in cir- 
cumstances that enable them mutually to 
oblige and to assist each other, promises well 
and bids fair to be lasting. But they are iKs 
sooner separated from each other, by enter- 
ing into the world at large, than other con- 
nexions and new employments, in which 
they no longer share together, efface the re- 
membrance of what passed in earlier days, 
and they become strangers to each other for- 
ever. Add to this, the man frequently dif- 
fers so much from the boy; his principles, 
manners, temper, and conduct, undergo so 
great an alteration, that we no longer recog- 
nize in him our old playfellow, but find him 
utterly unworthy, and unfit for the place he 
once held in our affections. 

To close this article, as I did the last, by 
applying myself immediately to the present 
concern — little John is happily placed above 
all occasion for dependence on all such pre- 
carious hopes, and need not be sent to school 
in quest of some great men in embryo, whr 
may possibly make his fortune. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C 



TO MRS. NEWTON. 

Olney, Oct. 5, 1780. 
Dear Madam, — When a lady speaks, it is 
not civil to make her wait a week for an an- 
swer. I received your letter within this hour, 
and, foreseeing that the garden will engross 
much of my time for some days to come, 
have seized the present opportunity to ac- 
knowledge it. I congratulate you on Mr. 
Newton's safe arrival at Ramsgate, making 
no doubt but that he reached that place with- 
out difficulty or danger, the road thither from 
Canterbury being so good as to afford room 
for neither. He has now a view of the ele- 
ment with which he was once familiar, but 
which, I think, he has not seen for many 
years. The sight of his old acquaintance 
will revive in his mind a pleasing recollection 
of past deliverances, and when he looks at 
him from the beach, he may say — " You have 
formerly given me trouble enough, but I have 
cast anchor now where your billows can 
never reach me." — It is happy for him tha* 
he can say so 

6 



82 



COWPER'S WORKo. 



Mrs. Unwin returns you many thanks for 

your anxiety on her account. Her health is 

considerably mended upon the whole, so a- 

to afford us a hope that it. will be established. 

Our love attends you. 

Y ours, dear madf ir. . 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 9, 1780. 

I wrote the following last summer. The 
tragical occasion of it really happened at the 
next house to ours. I am glad when I can 
find a subject to work upon; a lapidary, I 
suppose, accounts it a laborious part of his 
business to rub away the roughness of the 
stone : but it is my amusement, and if, after 
all the polishing I can give it, it discovers 
some little lustre, I think myself well re- 
warded for my pains.* 

I shall charge you a halfpenny a-piece for 
every copy I send you, the short as well. as 
the long. This is a sort of afterclap you 
little expected, but I cannot possibly afford 
them at a cheaper rate. If this method of 
raising money had occurred to me sooner, I 
should have made the bargain sooner; but 
am glad I have hit upon it at last. It will be 
a considerable encouragement to my Muse, 
and act as a powerful stimulus to my indus- 
try. If the American war should last much 
longer, I may be obliged to raise my price ; 
but this I shall not do without a real occasion 
for it — it depends much upon Lord North's 
conduct in the article of supplies — if he im- 
poses an additional tax on anything that I 
deal in, the necessity of this measure on my 
part will be so apparent that I dare say you 
will not dispute it. W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Olney, Dec 10, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — I am sorry that the book- 
seller shuffles off the trouble of package upon 
anybody that belongs to you. I think I could 
cast him upon this point in an action upon 
the case, grounded upon the terms of his 
own undertaking. He engages to serve 
country customers. Ergo, as it would be 
unreasonable to expect that, when a country 
gentleman wants a book, he should order 
his chaise, and bid the man drive to Exeter 
Change ; and as it is not probable that the 
book would find the way to him of itself, 
though it were the wisest that ever was writ- 
ten, 1 should suppose the law would compel 
him. For I recollect it is a maxim of good 
authority in the courts, that there is no right 
without a remedy. And if another, or third 
person, should not be suffered to interpose 

♦ Verses on a Goldfinch, starved to death in a cage. 
1 Frivau correspondence. 



between my right and the remedy the law 
gives me, where the right is invaded, much 
less, I apprehend, shall the man himself, who 
of his own mere motion gives me that right, 
be suffered to do it. 

I never made so long an argument upon a 
j law case before. I ask your pardon for do- 
! ing it now. You have but little need of such 
entertainment. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 1 * 

Olney, Dec. 21, 1780. 
I thank you for your anecdote of Judge 
Carpenter. If it really happened, it is one 
of the best stories I ever heard ; and if not, 
it has at least the merit of being ben trovato. 
We both very sincerely laughed at it, and 
think the whole Livery of London must have 
done the same ; though I have known some 
persons, whose faces, as if they had been 
cast in a mould, could never be provoked 
to the least alteration of a single feature ; so 
that you might as well relate a good story to 
a barber's block. 

Non equidem invideo, miror magis. 

Your sentiments w T ith respect to me are 
exactly Mrs. Unwin's. She, like you, is per- 
fectly sure of my deliverance, and often tells 
me so. I make but one answer, and some- 
times none at all. That answer gives her no 
pleasure, and would give you as little ; there- 
fore at this time I suppress it. It is better, 
on every account, that they who interest 
themselves so deeply in that event should 
believe the certainty of it, than that they 
should not. It is a comfort to them at least, 
if it is none to me ; and as I could not if I 
would, so neither would I if I could, deprive 
them of it. 

I annex a long thought in verse for youl 
perusal. It was produced about last mid- 
summer, but I never could prevail with my* 
self, till now, to transcribe it.f You have 
bestowed some commendations on a certain 
poem now in the press, and they, I suppose, 
have at least animated me to the task. It 
human nature may be compared to a piece of 
tapestry, (and why not ?) then human nature, 
as it subsists in me, though it is sadly faded 
on the right side, retains all its color on the 
wrong. 1 am pleased with commendation, 
and though not passionately desirous of in- 
discriminate praise, or what is generally 
i called popularity, yet when a judicious friend 
I claps me on the back, I own I find it an en- 
j couragement, At this season of the year, 
! and in this gloomy uncomfortable climate, it 
I is no easy matter for the owner of a mind 

* Private correspondence. 

t Hit- Vei-sea alluded to appear to have been separated 
I fron rhe letter. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



83 



like mine to divert it from sad subjects, and 
fix it upon such as may administer to its 
amusement. Poetry, above all things, is 
useful to me in this respect. While I am 
held in pursuit of pretty images, or a pretty 
way of expressing them, I forget everything 
that is irksome, and, like a boy that plays 
truant, determine to avail myself of the pres- 
ent opportunity to be amused, and to put by 
the disagreeable recollection that I must, after 
all, go home and be whipped again. 

It will not be long, perhaps, before you 
will receive a poem called " The Progress of 
Error." That will be succeeded by another, 
in due time, called " Truth." Don't be 
alarmed, I ride Pegasus with a curb. He 
will never run away with me again. I have 
even convinced Mrs. Unwin that I can man- 
age him, and make him stop when I please. 
Yours, W. C. 

The following letter, to Mr. Hill, contains 
a poem already printed in the works of Cow- 
per ; but the reader will be probably gratified 
in finding the sporthieness of Cowper's wit 
presented to him, as it was originally de- 
spatched by the author for the amusement of 
a friend. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Dec. 25, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — Weary with rather a 
long walk in the snow, I am not likely to 
write a very sprightly letter, or to produce 
anything that may cheer this gloomy season, 
unless I have recourse to my pocket-book, 
where, perhaps, I may find something to 
transcribe; something that was written be- 
fore the sun had taken leave of our hemi- 
sphere, and when I was less fatigued than I 
am at present. 

Happy is the man who knows just so much 
of the law as to make himself a little merry 
now and then with the solemnity of juridical 
proceedings. I have heard of common law 
Judgments before now; indeed have been 
present at the delivery of some, that, accord- 
ing to my poor apprehension, while they paid 
the utmost respect to the letter of the stat- 
ute, have departed widely from the spirit of 
it, and, being governed entirely by the point 
of law, have left equity, reason, and common 
sense behind them, at an infinite distance. 
You will judge whether the following report 
of a case, drawn up by myself, be not a 
proof and illustration of this satirical as- 
sertion. 

Nose, Plaintif. — Eyes, Defendants. 

Between Nose and Eyes a sad contest arose ; 
The Spectacles, set them unhappily wrong : 
The point in dispute vfras, as all the vorld knows, 
To which the said Spectacles ougl to belong. 



So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the 

cause, 
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of 

learning, 
While Chief Baron Ear sat to balance the laws. 
So fam'd for his talents at nicely discerning. 

" In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, 
And your lordship," he said, " will undoubtedly 

find. 
That the Nose has had Spectacles always in wear. 
Which amounts to possession time out of mind." 

Then holding the Spectacles up to the court, 
" Your lordship observes, they are made with a 

straddle, 
As wide as the ridge of the nose is, in short, 
Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 

" Again, would your lordship a moment suppose, 
('Tis a case that has happened, and may be 

again,) 
That the visage, or countenance, had not a nose 
Pray who would, or who could, wear Spectacles 

then 1 

" On the whole it appears, and my argument 

shows, 
With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 
That the Spectacles plainly were made for the 

Nose, 
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.'' 

Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how, 
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : 
But v\ tiat were his arguments few people know, 
For the court did not think they were e A ually 
wise. 

So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn ton , 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but, 
i; That whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on — 
By day-light, or candle-light — Eyes should be 
shut I" 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Dec, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — Poetical report, of law- 
cases are not very common, yet it seei;: ; A o mo 
desirable that they should be so. Many ad- 
vantages would accrue from such a rneasu, \ 
They would, in the first place, be more com- 
monly deposited in the memory, just as linen, 
grocery, or other such matters, when neatly 
packed, are known to occupy less room, and 
to lie more conveniently in any trunk, chest, 
or box, to which they may be committed. 
In the next place, being divested of that in 
finite circumlocution, -and the endless embar- 
rassment in which they are involved by it, 
they would become surprisingly intelligible, 
in comparison with their present obscurity. 
And, lastly, they would by this means be 
rendered susceptible of musical embellish- 
ment ; and, instead of being quoted in the 
country, with that dull monotony which is sc 
wearisome to by-standers, and freqiienth 
lulls even the judges themselves to sleep 
might be rehearsed in lecitation; whit.. 



would have an admirable effect, in keeping 
I he attention fixed and lively, and could not 
fail to disperse that heavy atmosphere of sad- 
ness and gravity, which hangs over the juris- 
prudence of oar country. I remember, many 
years ago, being informed by a relation of 
mine, who, in his youth, had applied himself 
to the study of the law, that one of his fel- 
low-students, a gentleman of sprightly parts, 
and very respectable talents of the poetical 
kind, did actually engage in the prosecution 
of such a design; for reasons, I suppose, 
somewhat similar to, if not the same, with 
those I have now suggested. He began with 
Coke's Institutes ; a book so rugged in its 
style, that an attempt to polish it seemed an 
Herculean labor, and not less arduous and 
difficult than it would be to give the smooth- 
ness of a rabbit's fur to the prickly back of a 
hedgehog. But he succeeded to admiration, 
as you will perceive by the following speci- 
men, which is all that my said relation could 
recollect of the performance. 

Tenant in fee 

Simple is he, 
And need neither quake nor quiver, 

Who hath his lands 

Free from demands, 
To him and his heirs forever. 

You have an ear for music, and a taste for 
verse, which saves me the trouble of pointing 
out, with a critical nicety, the advantages of 
such a version. I proceed, therefore, to what 
I at first intended, and to transcribe, the re- 
cord of an adjudged case thus managed, to 
which, indeed, what I premised was intended 
merely as an introduction.* W. 0. 

The following year commences by a letter 
to his friend Mr. Newton, and alludes to his 
two poems entitled " The Progress <5f Error," 
and " Truth." 

TO THE REV. JOHN JXF.WTON.f 

Jan. 21, 1781. 

My dear Sir, — I am glad that the " Pro- 
gress of Error" did not err in its progress, 
as I feared it had, and that it has reached 
you safe [ and still more pleased that it has 
met with your approbation ; for, if it had not, 
I should have wished it had miscarried, and 
have been sorry that the bearer's memory 
md served him so well upon the occasion. 
J knew him to be that sort of genius, which, 
being much busied in making excursions of 
the imaginary kind, is not always present to 
its own immediate concerns, much less to 
those of others; and, having reposed the 
trust in him, began to regret that I had done 
bo when it was too late. But I did it to 

* This letter concluded with the poetical law-case of 
Nose, plaintiff— Eyes, defendants, already inserted, 
t Private correspondence. 



save a frank, and as the affair has turned out 
that end was very we'll answered. This ij 
committed to the hands of a less volatile 
person, and therefore more to be depended on. 

As to the poem called " Truth," which is 
already longer than its elder brother, and ia 
yet to be lengthened by the addition of per- 
haps twenty lines, perhaps more, I shrink 
from the thought of transcribing it at pres- 
ent. But as there is no need to be in any 
hurry about it, I hope that, in some rainy 
season, which the next month will probably 
bring with it, when perhaps I may be glad of 
employment, the undertaking will appear less 
formidable. 

You need not withhold from us any intel- 
ligence relating to yourselves, upon an ap- 
prehension that Mr. R has been before- 
hand with you upon those subjects, for we 
could get nothing out of him. I have known 
such travellers in my time, and Mrs. Newton 
is no stranger to one of them, who. keep all 
their observations and discoveries to them- 
selves, till they are extorted from them by 
mere dint of examination and cross-examina- 
tion. He told us, indeed, that some invisible 
agent supplied you every Sunday with a 
coach, which we were pleased with hearing; 
and this, I think, was the sum total of his 
i information. 

We are much concerned for Mr. Bar- 
ham's loss ;* but it is well for that gentle- 
man, that those amiable features in his char- 
acter, which most incline one to sympathize 
with him, are the very graces and virtues 
that will strengthen him to bear it with equa- 
nimity and patience. People that have neither 
his light nor experience will wonder that a 
disaster, which would perhaps have broken 
their hearts, is not heavy : enough to make 
any abatement in the cheerfulness of his. 

Your books came yesterday. I shall not 
repeat to you what I said to Mrs. Unwin, 
after having read two or three of the letters. 
I admire the preface, in which you have given 
an air of novelty to a worn-out topic, and 
have actually engaged the favor of the reader 
by saying those things in a delicate and un- 
common way, which in general are disgusting. 

I suppose you know that Mr. Scottf will 
be in town on Tuesday. He is likely to 

* The loss of his excellent, wife. Mr. Barham was the 
intimate friend of Newton, and Cowper, and of the pious 
Lord Dartmouth, whose naniy is occasionally introduced 
in these letters in connexion with Oluey, where his lord- 
ship's charity was liberally dispensed. Mr. Barham sug- 
gested the subject of many of the hymns that are in- 
serted in the Olney collection, and particularly the one 
entitled " What think ye of Christ?* He was father of 
the late Jos. Foster Barham, Esq., many years M.P. for 
the borough of Stockbridge. The editor is happy in 
here bearing testimony to the profound piety and en 
dearing virtues of a man, with whose family he became 
subsequently connected. He afterwards married the 
widow of Sir Rowland Hill, Bart., and lived at Hawke* 
stone in Shropshire. I 

| The late Rev. Thomas Scott, so well known and dia 
tinguished by his writings. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



SI 



lake possession of the vicarage at last, with 
the best grace possible ; at least, if he and 
Mr. Browne can agree upon the terms. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 

Olney, Feb. 6, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — Much good may your 
humanity do you, as it does so much good 
to others.f You can nowhere find objects 
more entitled to your pity than where your 
pity seeks them. A man whose vices and 
irregularities have brought his liberty and 
life into danger will always be viewed with 
an eye of compassion by those who under- 
stand what human nature is made of. And, 
while we acknowledge the severity of the 
law to be founded upon principles of neces- 
sity and justice, and are glad that there is 
such a barrier provided for the peace of so- 
ciety, if we consider that the difference be- 
tween ourselves and the culprit is not of our 
own making, we shall be, as you are, tender- 
ly affected with the view of his misery, and 
not the less so because he has brought it 
upon himself. I look upon the worst man 
in Chelmsford gaol with a more favorable 

eye than upon , who claims a servant's 

wages from one who never was his master. 

I give you joy of your own hair. No 
doubt you are a considerable gainer in your 
appearance by being disperiwigged. The 
best wig is that which most resembles the 
natural hair; why then should he -that has 
hair enough of his own have recourse to imi- 
tation ? I have little doubt but that, if an 
arm or a leg could have been taken off with 
as little pain as attends the amputation of a 
curl or a lock of hair, the natural limb would 
have been thought less becoming or less con- 
venient by some men than a wooden one, and 
been disposed of accordingly. 

Yours ever, W C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Feb. 8, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — It is possible that Mrs. 
Hill may not be herself a sufferer by the late 
terrible catastrophe in the Islands ; but I 
should suppose, by her correspondence with 
those parts, she may be connected with some 
that are. In either case, I condole with her ; 
for it is reasonable to imagine that, since the 
first tour that Columbus made into the West- 
ern world, it never before experienced such a 
convulsion, perhaps never since the founda- 
tion of the globe.J You say the state grows 

* Private correspondence. 

| This alludes to his attendance on a condemned male- 
fector in the jail at (Chelmsford. 

t This season was remarkable for the most destructive 
lumcanes ever- remem bered in the West Indies. 



old, and discovers many symptoms of decline. 
A writer possessed of a genius for hypothe* 
sis, like that of Burnet, might construct a 
plausible argument to prove^hat the world 
itself is in a state of superannuation,' if there 
be such a word. If not, there must be such 
a one as superannuity. When that just 
equilibrium that has hitherto supported all 
things seems to fail, when the elements burst 
the chain that had bound them, the wind 
sweeping away the works of man, and man 
himself together with his works, and the 
ocean seeming to overleap the command, 
" Hithejtfo shalt thou come, and no further, 
and here shall thy proud waves be stayed," 
these irregular and prodigious vagaries seemed 
to bespeak a decay, and forebode, perhaps, 
not a very distant dissolution. This thought 
has so run away with my attention, that I 
have left myself no room for the little poli- 
tics that have only Great Britain for their ob- 
ject. Who knows but that while a thousand 
and ten thousand tongues are employed in 
adjusting the scale of our national concerns, 
in complaining of new taxes, and funds load- 
ed with a debt of accumulating millions, the 
consummation of all things may discharge it 
in a moment, and the scene of all this bustle 
disappear, as if it had never been ? Charles 
Fox would say, perhaps, he thought it very 
unlikely. I question if he could prove even 
that. I am sure, however, he could not 
prove it to be impossible. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Feb. 15, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I am glad you were 
pleased with my report of so extraordinary 
a case.* If the thought of versifying the de- 
cisions of our courts of justice had struck me 
while I had the honor to attend them, it 
would perhaps have been no difficult matter 
to have compiled a volume of such amusing 
and interesting precedents ; which, if they 
wanted the eloquence of the Greek or Ro- 
man oratory, would have amply compensated 
that deficiency by the harmony of rhyme and 
metre. 

Your account of my uncle and your mo- 
ther gave me great pleasure. I have long 
been afraid to inquire after some in whose 
welfare I always feel myself interested, lest 
the question should produce a gainful an- 
swer. Longevity is the lot of so few, and is 
so seldom rendered comfortable by the asso- 
ciations of good health and good spirits, that 
I could not very reasonably suppose either 
your relations or mine so happy in those re- 
spects as it seems they are. May they con- 
tinue to enjoy those blessings so long as the 

* He alludes to the humorous verses vn the Nose as 
the Eyes, inserted in a preceding letter. 



86 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



date of life shall last. I do not think that in 
these costermonger days, as I have a notion 
Falstaff calls them, an antediluvian age is at 
all a desirable filing, but to live comfortably 
while we do livl is a great matter, and com- 
prehends in it every tiling that can be wished 
for on this side the curtain that hangs be- 
tween Time and Eternity ! 

Farewell, my better friend than any I have 
to boast of, either among the Lords or gen- 
tlemen of the House of Commons. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. w 

Olney, Feb. 18, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I send you " Table 
Talk." It is a medley of many things, some 
that may be useful, and some that, for aught 
I know, may be very diverting. I am merry 
that I may decoy people into my company, 
an \ grave that they may be the better for it. 
Now and then I put on the garb of a philoso- 
pher, and take the opportunity that disguise 
procures me to drop a word in favor of re- 
ligion. In short, there is some froth, and 
here and there a bit of sweatmeat, which 
seems to entitle it justly to the name of a 
certain dish the ladies call a trifle. I do not 
choose to be more facetious, lest I should 
consult the taste of my readers at the ex- 
pense of my own approbation ; nor more 
serious than I have been, lest I should forfeit 
theirs. A poet in my circumstances has a 
difficult part to act : one minute obliged to 
bridle his humor, if he has. any; and the 
next, to clap a spur to the sides of it : now 
ready to weep from a sense of the import- 
ance of his subject, and on a sudden con- 
strained to laugh, lest his gravity should be 
mistaken for dulness. If this be not violent 
exercise for the mind, I know not what is ; 
and if any man doubt it, let him try. Whe- 
ther all this management and contrivance be 
necessary I do not know, but am inclined to 
suspect that if my Muse was to go forth clad 
in Quaker color, without one bit of riband to 
enliven her appearance, she might walk from 
one end of London to the other as little no- 
ticed as if she were one of the sisterhood 
indeed. 

You had been married thirty-one years last 
Monday. When you married I was eighteen 
years of age, and had just left Westminster 
school. At that time, I valued a man accord- 
ing to his "proficiency and taste in classical 
literature, and had the meanest opinion of 
all other accomplishments unaccompanied by 
that. I lived to see the vanity of what I had 
made my pride, and in a few years found that 
there were other attainments which would 
carry a man more handsomely through life 
than a mere knowledge of what Homer and 
* Private correspondence. 



Virgil had left behind them. In measure a* 
my attachment to these gentry wore off, ] 
found a more welcome reception among those 
whose acquaintance it was more my interest 
to cultivate. But all this time was spent in 
painting a piece of wood that had no life in 
it. At last I began to think indeed; I found 
myself in possession of many baubles, but 
not one grain of solidity in all my treasures. 
Then I learned the truth, and then I lost it, 
and there ends my history. I would no more 
than you wish to live such a life over again, 
but for one reason. He that is carried to 
execution, though through the roughest road, 
when he arrives at the destined spot would 
be glad, notwithstanding the many jolts he 
met with, to repeat his journey. 

Yours, my dear Sir, with our joint love, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. HILL.* 

Olney, Feb. 19, 1781. 
Dear Madam, — When a man, especially a 
man that lives altogether in the country, un- 
dertakes to write to a lady he never saw, he 
is the awkwardest creature in the world. He 
begins his letter under the same sensations 
he would have if he was to accost her in per- 
son, only with this difference, — that he may 
take as much time as he pleases for consider- 
ation, and need not write a single word that 
he has not well weighed and pondered be- 
forehand, much less a sentence that he does 
not think supereminently clever. In every 
other respect, whether he be engaged in an 
interview or in a letter, his behavior is, for 
the most part, equally constrained and un- 
natural. He resolves, afe they say, to set th< 
best leg foremost, which often proves to be 
what Hudibras calls— 

Not that of bone, 
But much its better — th' wooden one. 

His extraordinary effort oniy serves, as in the 
case of that hero, to. throw him on the other 
side of his horse ; and he owes his want of 
success, if not to absolute stupidity, to his 
most earnest endeavor to secure it. 

Now I do assure you, madam, that all these 
sprightly effusions of mine stand entirely clear 
of the charge of premeditation, and that I 
never entered upon a business of this kind 
with more simplicity in my life. I deter- 
mined, before I began, to lay aside all attempts 
of the kind I have just mentioned ; and, being 
perfectly free from the fetters that self-con 
ceit, commonly called bashfulness, fastens 
upon the mind, am, as you see, surprisingly 
brilliant. 

My principal design is to thank you in the 
plainest terms, which always afford the best 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFt OF COWPER, 



31 



proof of a man's sincerity, for your obliging- 
present. The seeds will make a figure here- 
after in the stove of a much greater man than 
myself, who am a little man, with no stove at 
all. Some of them however, I shall raise 
for my own amusement, and keep them as 
long as they can be kept in a bark heat, 
which I give them all the year ; and, in ex- 
change for those I part with, I shall receive 
such exotics as are not too delicate for a 
greenhouse. 

I will not omit to tell you, what no doubt 
you have heard already, though perhaps you 
have never made the experiment, that leaves 
gathered at the fall are found to hold their 
leat much longer than bark, and are prefer- 
able in every respect. Next year, I intend to 
use them myself. I mention it, because Mr. 
Hill told me some time since, that he was 
building a stove, in which I suppose they will 
succeed much better than in a frame. 

I beg to thank you again, madam, for the 
very fine salmon you were so kind as to favor 
me. with, which has all the sweetness of a 
Hertfordshire trout, and resembles it so much 
in flavor, that blindfold I should not have 
known the difference. 

I beg, madam, you will accept all these 
thanks, and believe them as sincere as they 
really are. Mr. Hill knows me well enough 
to be able to vouch for me that I am not 
over-much addicted to compliments and fine 
speeches ; nor do I mean either the one or 
the other, when I assure you that I am, dear 
madam, not merely for his sake, but your own, 
Your most obedient 

and affectionate servant. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOFN JEWTON.* 

Jlney, Feb. 25, 1731. 
My dear Friend,— J J s +h> t tells a long story 
should take care tha* h be not made a long 
story by his manner of telling it. His ex- 
pression should be natural, and his method 
clear ; the incidents should be interrupted by 
very few reflections, and parentheses should 
be entirely discarded. I do not know that 
poor Mr. Teedon guides himself in the affair 
of story-telling by any one of these rules, or 
by any rule indeed that I ever heard of. He 
has just left us after a long visit, the greatest 
part of which he spent in the narration of a 
certain detail of facts that might have been 
compressed into a much smaller compass, 
and. my attention to which has wearied and 
worn out all my spirits. You know how 
scrupulously nice he is in the choice of his 
expression ; an exactness that soon becomes 
very inconvenient both to speaker and hearer, 
where there is not a great variety to choose 
out of. But Saturday evening is come, the 
* Private correspondence. 



time I generally devote to my correspondence 
with you ; and Mrs. Ilnwin will not allow me 
to let it pass without writing, though, having 
done it herself, both she and you might well 
spare me upon the present occasion. 

Notwithstanding my purpose to shake hands 
with the Muse, and take my leave of her for 
the present, we have already had a tete-a-tete 
since I sent you the last production. I am as 
much or rather more please * with my new 
plan than with any of the foregoing. I mean 
to give a short summary of the Jewish story, 
the miraculous interpositions in behalf of that 
people, their great privileges, their abuse of 
them, and their consequent destruction ; and 
.hen, by way of comparison, such another 
display of the favors vouchsafed to this coun- 
try the similar ingratitude with which they 
have requited them, and the punishment they 
have therefore reason to expect, unless re- 
formation interpose to prevent it. ' ; Expos- 
tulation " is its present title: but I have not 
yet found in the writing it that facility and 
readiness Without which 1 shall despair to 
finish it well, or indeed to finish it at all. 

Believe me, ray- deal' sir, with love to Mrs. N . 
Your ever affectionate, 

w. c. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, March 5, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — Since writing is be- 
come one of my principal amusements, and I 
have already produced so many verses on 
subjects that entitle them to a hope that they 
may possibly be useful, I should be sorry to 
suppress them entirely, or to publish them to 
no purpose, for want of that cheap ingredient, 
the name of the author. If my name there- 
fore will serve them in any degree as a pass- 
port into the public notice, they are welcome 
to it : and Mr. Johnson will, if he pleases, 
announce me to the world by the style and 
title of 

WILLIAM COWPER, ESO, 
OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 

If you are of my mind, I think " Table Talk " 
will be the best to begin with, as the subjects 
of it are perhaps more popular; and one 
would wish, at first setting out, to catch the 
public by the ear, and hold them by it as fast 
as possible, that they may be willing to hear 
one on a second and a third occasion. 

The passage you object to I inserted merely 
by way of catch, and think that it is not 
unlikely to answer the purpose. My design 
was to say as many serious things as I could, 
and yet to be as lively as was compatiblo 
with such a purpose. Do not imagine that T 
mean to stickle for it, as a pretty creature Oj 
* Private correspondence. 



68 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



my own that I am loath to part with ; hut I 
am apprehensive that, without the sprightli- 
ness of that passage to introduce it, the {bl- 
owing paragraph would not show to advan- 
tage. — If the world had been filled with men 
like yourself, I should never have written it ; 
but, thinking myself in a measure obliged to 
tickle if I meant to please, I therefore affected 
a jocularity I did not feel. As to the rest, 
wherever there is war there is misery and 
outrage ; notwithstanding which it is not only 
lawful to wish, but even a duty to pray, for 
the success of one's country. And as to the 
neutralities, I really think the Russian virago 
an impertinent puss for meddling with us, 
and engaging half a score kittens of her ac- 
quaintance to scratch the poor old lion, who, 
if .ie has been insolent in his day, has proba- 
bly acted no otherwise than they themselves 
would have acted in his circumstances, and 
with his power to embolden them. 

I am glad that the myrtles reached yru 
safe, but am persuaded from past experience 
that no management will keep them long 
alive in London, especially in the city. Our 
own English Trots, the natives of the coun- 
try, are for the most part too delicate to 
thrive there, much more the nice Italian. To 
give them, however, the best chance they can 
have, the lady must keep them well watered, 
giving them a moderate quantity in summer 
time every other day, and in winter about 
twice a week; not spring- water, for that 
would kijl them. At Michaelmas, as much 
of the mould as can be taken out without 
disturbing the roots must be evacuated, and 
its place supplied with fresh, the lighter the 
better. And once in two years the plants 
must be drawn out of their pots, with the 
entire ball of earth about them, and the mat- 
ted roots pared off with a sharp knife, when 
they must be planted again with an addition 
of rich light earth as before. Thus dealt 
with, they will grow luxuriantly in a green- 
house, where they can have plenty of sweet 
air, which is absolutely necessary to their 
health. I used to purchase them at Covent 
Garden almost every year when I lived in the 
Temple : but even in that airy situation they 
were sure to lose their leaf in winter, and 
seldom recovered it again in spring. I wish 
them a better fate at Hoxton. 

Olney has seen this day what it never saw 
before, and what will serve it to talk of, I 
suppose, for years to come. At eleven o'clock 
this morning, a party of soldiers entered the 
town, driving before them another party, who, 
after obstinately defending the bridge for 
some time, were obliged to quit it and run. 
They ran in very good order, frequently faced 
about and fired, but were at last obliged to 
eurr nder prisoners of war. There has been 
much drumming and shouting, much scamper- 
ing about in the dirt, but not an inch of lace 



made in the town, at least at the Silver End 
of it. 

It is our joint request that you will not 
again leave us unwritten to for a fortnight 
We are so like yourselves in this particular, 
that we cannot help ascribing so long a si- 
lence to the worst cause. The longer your 
letters the better, but a short one is better 
than none. 

Mrs. Unwin is pretty well, and adds the 
greetings of her love to mine. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* ' 

Olney, March 18, i781 

My dear Friend, — A slight disorder in my 
eye may possibly prevent my writing you a 
long letter, and would perhaps have pre- 
vented my writing at all, if I had not known 
that you account a fortnight's silence a week 
too long. 

I am sorry that I gave you the trouble to 
write twice upon so trivial a subject as the 
passage in question. I did not understand by 
your first objections to it that you thought it 
so exceptionable as you do ; but, being better 
informed, I immediately resolved to expunge 
it, and subjoin a few lines which you will 
oblige me by substituting in its place. I am 
not very fond of weaving a political thread 
into any of my pieces, and that for two rea- 
sons ; first, because I do not think myself 
qualified, in point of intelligence, to form a 
decided opinion on any such topics; and, 
secondly, because I think them, though per- 
haps as popular as any, the most useless of 
all. The following verses are designed to 
succeed immediately after 

fights with justice on his side. 

Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, 
Reward his mem'ry, dear to every muse, &c.f 

I am obliged to you for your advice with 
respect to the manner of publication, and feel 
myself inclined to be determined by it. So 
far as I have proceeded on the subject of 
" Expostulation," I have written with tolera- 
ble ease to myself, and in my own opinion 
(for an opinion I am obliged to have about 
what I write, whether I will or no), with more 
emphasis and energy than in either of the 
others. But it seems to open. upon me with 
an abundance of matter that forebodes a con- 
siderable length: and the time of year is 
come when, what with walking and garden 
ing, I can find but little leisure for the pen. 
I mean however, as soon as I have engrafted 
a new scion into the " Progress of Error" 
instead of * * * *, and when I have tran 

* Private correspondence. 

t Vide Poems, where, in the next line, the epitbet un 
shaken is substituted for the iwblest, in the letter. 



scribed " Truth," and sent it to you, to apply 
myself to the composition last undertaken 
with as much industry as I can. * If, there- 
fore, the first three are put into the press 
while I am spinning and weaving the last, 
the whole may perhaps be ready for publica- 
tion before the proper season will be past. I 
mean at present that a few select smaller 
pieces, about seven or eight perhaps, the best 
I can find in a bookful that I have by me, 
shall accompany them. All together they 
will furnish, I should imagine, a volume of 
tolerable bulk, that need not be indebted to 
an unreasonable breadth of margin for the 
importance of its figure. 

If a board of inquiry were to be estab- 
lished, at which poets were to undergo an 
examination respecting the motives that in- 
duced them to publish, and I were to be sum- 
moned to attend, that I might give an account 
of mine, I think I could truly say, what per- 
haps few poets could, that, though I have no 
objection to lucrative consequences, if any 
such should follow, they are not my aim ; 
much less is it my ambition to exhibit myself 
to the world as a genius. What then, says 
Mr. President, can possibly be your motive ? 
I answer with a bow — amusement. There 
is nothing but this — no occupation within 
the compass of my small sphere, poetry ex- 
cepted, that can do much towards diverting 
that train of melancholy thoughts, which, 
when I am not thus employed, are forever 
pouring themselves in upon me. And if I 
did not publish what I write, I could not in- 
terest myself sufficiently in my own success 
to make an amusement of it. 

In my account of the battle fought at Ol- 
.iiey, I laid a snare for your curiosity and suc- 
ceeded. I supposed it would have an enig- 
matical appearance, and so it had ; but like 
most other riddles, when it comes to be 
solved, you will find that it was not worth 
the trouble of conjecture. There are soldiers 
quartered at Newport and at Olney. These 
met, by order of their respective officers, in 
Emberton Marsh, performed all the manoeu- 
vres of a deedy battle, and the result was 
that this town was taken. Since I wrote, they 
have again encountered with the same inten- 
tion ; and Mr. R kept a room for me 

and Mrs. Unwin, that we might sit and view 
them at our ease. We did so, but it did not 
answer our expectation ; for, before the con- 
test could be decided, the powder on both 
sides being expended, the combatants were 
obliged to leave it an undecided contest. If 
it were possible that, when two great armies 
spend the night in expectation of a battle, a 
„hird could silently steal away their ammuni- 
tion and arms of every kind, what a comedy 
fc ould it make of that which always has such 
t tragical conclusion ! 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Olney, April 2, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — Fine weather, and a va- 
riety of extra-foraneous occupations, (starch 
Johnson's dictionary for that word, and if 
not found there, insert it — for it saves a deal 
of circumlocution, and is very lawfully com- 
pounded,) make it difficult, (excuse the length 
of a parenthesis, which I did not foresee the 
length of when I began it, nd which may 
perhaps a little perplex the sense of what I 
am writing, though, as I seldom deal in that 
figure of speech, I have the less need to make 
an apology for doing it at present,) make it 
difficult (I say) for me to find opportunities 
for writing. My morning is engrossed by 
the garden ; and in the afternoon, till I have 
drunk tea, I am fit for nothing. At five 
o'clock we walk, and when the walk is over 
lassitude recommends rest, and again I be- 
come fit for nothing. The current hour, 
therefore, which (I need not tell you) is 
comprised in the interval between four and 
five, is devoted to your service, as the only 
one in the twenty-four which is not otherwise 
engaged. 

I do not wonder that you have felt a. great 
deal upon the occasion you mention in your 
last, especially on account of the asperity you 
have met with in the behavior of your friend 
Reflect, however, that, as it is natural to you 
to have very fine feelings, it is equally natu- 
ral to some other tempers to leave those 
feelings entirely out of the question, and to 
speak to you, and to act towards you, just as 
they do towards the rest of mankind, with- 
out the least attention to the irritability of 
your system. Men of a rough and unspar- 
ing address should tajce great care that they 
be always in the right, the justness and pro- 
priety of their sentiments and censures being 
the only tolerable apology that can be made 
for such a conduct, especially in a country 
where civility of behavior is inculcated even 
from the cradle. But, in the instance now 
under our contemplation, I think you a suf- 
ferer under the weight of an animadversion 
not founded in truth, and which, consequently, 
you did not deserve. I account him faithful 
in the pulpit who dissembles nothing that he 
believes for fear of giving offence. To ac- 
commodate a discourse to the judgment and 
opinion of others, for the sake of pleasing 
them, though by doing so we are obliged to 
depart widely from our own, is to be un- 
faithful to ourselves at least, and cannot be 
accounted fidelity to Him whom we profess 
to serve. But there are few men wh do 
not stand in need of the exercise of charity 
and forbearance : and the gentleman in ques- 
tion has afforded you an ample opportunity 
in this respect to show how readily, though 
differing in your views, you can practise all 
that he could possibly expect from you, if 



90 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



your persuasion corresponded exactl) with 
his own. 

With respect to Monsieur U Cure, I think 
you Hot quite excusable for suffering such a 
man to give you any uneasiness at all. The 
gTOssness .and injustice of his demand ought 
to be its own antidote. . If a robber should 
miscall you a pitiful fellow for not carrying 
a purse full of gold about you, would his 
brutality give you any concern ? I suppose 
not. Why, then, have you been distressed 
in the present instance ? 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, April 8, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — Since I commenced au- 
thor, my letters are even less worth your ac- 
ceptance that they were before. I shall soon 
however, lay down the character, and cease 
to trouble you with directions to a printer, at 
least till the summer is over. If I live to see 
the return of winter, I may, perhaps, assume 
it again ; but my appetite for fame is not 
keen enough to combat with my love of fine 
v/eather, my love of indolence, and my love 
of gardening employments. 

I send you, by Mr. Old, my works com- 
plete, bound in brown paper, and numbered 
according to the series in which I would have 
them published. With respect to the poem 
called " Truth," it is so true, that it can hardly 
fail of giving offence to unenlightened read- 
ers. I think, therefore, that, in order to ob- 
viate in some measure those prejudices that 
will naturally erect their bristles against it, 
an explanatory preface, such as you (and no- 
body so well as you) can furnish me with, 
will have every grace of propriety to recom- 
mend it. Or, if you are not averse to the 
cask, and your avocations will allow you to 
undertake it, and if you think it would be 
etill more proper, I should be glad to be in- 
debted to you for a preface to the whole. J 
wish you, however, to consult your own judg- 
ment upon the occasion, and to engage in 
either of these works, or neither, just as your 
discretion guides you. 

I have written a great deal to-day, which 
must be my excuse for an abrupt conclusion. 
Our love attends you both. We are in pretty 
good health ; Mrs. Unwin, indeed, better than 
usual : and as to me, I ail nothing but the 
incurable ailment. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

Thanks for the cocoa-nut. 
I send you a cucumber, not of my own 
raising, and yet raised by me. 

Solve this enigma, dark enough 

To puzzle any brains 
That are not downright puzzle-proof, 

And eat it for your pains. 
* Private correspondence. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Monday, April 23, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — Having not the leasi 
doubt of your ability to execute just such a 
preface as I should wish to see prefixed to 
my publication, and being convinced that -you 
have no good foundation for those which you 
yourself entertain upon the subject, I neither 
Withdraw my requisition nor abate one jot 
of the earnestness with which I made it. I 
admit the delicacy of the occasion, but am 
far from apprehending that you will therefore 
find it difficult to succeed. You can draw a 
hair-stroke where another man would make 
a blot as broad as a sixpence. 

I am much obliged to you for the interest 
you take in the appearance of my poems, and 
much pleased by the alacrity with which you 
do it. Your favorable opinion of them af- 
fords me a comfortable presage with respect 
to that of the public ; for though I make al- 
lowances for your partiality to me and mine, 
because mine, yet I am sure you would not 
suffer me unadmonished to add myself to 
the multitude of insipid rhymers, with whose 
productions the world is already too much 
pestered. 

It is worth while to send you a riddle, you 
make such a variety of guesses, and turn and 
tumble it about with such an industrious cu- 
riosity. The solution of that in question is 
— let me see ; it requires some consideration 
to explain it, even though I made it. I 
raised the seed that produced the plant that 
produced the fruit that produced the seed 
that produced the fruit I sent you. This 
latter seed I gave to the gardener of Tyring- 
ham, who brought me the cucumber you 
mention. Thus you see I raised it — that is 
to say, I raised it virtually by having raised 
its progenitor; and yet I did not raise it, 
because the identical seed from which it grew 
was raised at a distance. You observe I did 
not speak rashly when I spoke of it as dark 
enough to pose an (Edipus, and have no need 
to call your own sagacity in question for fall- 
ing short of the discovery. 

A report has prevailed at Olney that you 
are coming in a fortnight ; but, taking it for 
granted that you know best when you shall 
come, and that you will make us happy in the 
same knowledge as soon as you are possessed 
of it yourself, I did not venture to build any 
sanguine expectations upon it. 

I have at last read the second volume of 

Mr. 's work, and had some hope that I 

should prevail with myself to read the first 
likewise. I began his book at the latter end 
because the first part of it was engaged when 
I received the second ; but I had not so good 
an appetite as the soldier of the Guards, who, 
I was informed when 1 lived in London, 
would for a small matter, eat up a cat alive 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



9i 



oeginning at her tail and finishing with her 
whiskers. 

Yours, ut semper, W. C. 

The period was now arrived, in which 
Cowper was at length to make his appear- 
ance in the avowed character of an author. 
It is an epoch in British literature worthy of 
being recorded, because poetry in his hands 
became the handmaid of morality and religion. 
Too often has the Muse been prostituted to 
more ignoble ends. But it is to the praise 
of Cowper, that he never wrote a line at 
which modesty might blush. His verse is 
identified with whatever is pure in conception, 
chaste in imagery, and moral in its aim. His 
object was to strengthen, not to enervate ; to 
impart health, not to administer to disease ; 
and to inspire a love for virtue, by exhibiting 
the deformity of vice. So long as nature 
shall possess the power to charm, and the 
interests of solid truth and wisdom, arrayed 
in the garb of taste, and enforced by nervous 
language, shall deserve to predominate over 
seductive imagery, the page of Cowper will 
demand our admiration, and be read with de- 
light and profit. 

The following letters afford a very pleasing 
circumstantial account of che manner in which 
he was induced to venture into the world as 
a poet. 

We will only add to the information they 
contain what we learn from the authority of 
his guardian friend, Mrs. Unwin, that she 
strongly solicited him, on his recovery from 
a very long fit of mental dejection, to devote 
his thoughts to poetry of considerable extent. 
She suggested to him, at the same time, the 
first subject of his verse, " The Progress of 
Error," which the reader will recollect as the 
second poem in his first volume. The time 
when that volume was completed, and the 
motives of its author for giving it to the world, 
are clearly displayed in an admirable letter 
to his poetical cousin, Mrs. Cowper. His 
feelings, on the approach of publication, are 
described with his usual nobleness of senti- 
ment and simplicity of expression, in reply to 
a question upon the subject from the anxious 
young friend to whom he gave the first notice 
of his intention in the next letter. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 1, YiSl. 

Your mother says I must write, and must 
admits of no apology; I might otherwise 
plead, that I have nothing to say, that I am 
weary, that I am dull, that it would be more 
convenient therefore for you, as well as for 
myself that I should let it alone. But all 
these pleas, and whatever pleas besides, either 
disinclination, indolence, or necessity might 
suggest are overruled, as they ought to be, 
♦he moment a lady adduces her irrefragable 



argument, you must. You have still howevei 
one comfort left, that what I must write, you 
may or may not read, just as it shall please 
you ; unless Lady Anne at your elbow should 
say you must read it, and then, like a true 
knight, you will obey without looking for a 
remedy. 

In the press, and speedily will be published, 
in one volume octavo, price three shillings, 
Poems, by William Cowper, of the Inner 
Temple, Esq. You may suppose, by the size 
of the publication, that the • greatest part of 
them have been long kept secret, because you 
yourself have never seen them ; but the truth 
is, that they were most of them, except what 
you have in your possession, the produce of 
the last winter. Two-thirds of the compila- 
tion will be occupied by four pieces, the first 
of which sprung up in the month of December, 
and the last of them in the month of March, 
They contain, I suppose, in all, about two 
thousand and five hundred lines ; are known, 
or to be known in due time, by the names of 
Table Talk— The Progress of Error— Truth 
— Expostulation. Mr. Newton writes a pre- 
face, and Johnson is the publisher. The 
principal, I may say the only, reason why I 
never mentioned to you, till now, an affair 
which I am just going to make known to all 
the world (if that Mr. All-the-world should 
think it worth his knowing) has Leen this 
that till within these few days, I had m>t the 
honor to know it myself. This may seem 
strange, but it is true, for, not knowing where 
to find underwriters who would choose to 
insure them, and not finding it convenient to 
a purse like mine to run any hazard, even 
upon tiie credit of my own ingenuity, I was 
very much in doubt for some weeks whether 
any bookseller would be willing to subject 
himself to an ambiguity, that might prove 
very expensive in case of a bad market. But 
Johnson has heroically set all peradventures 
at defiance, and takes the whole charge upon 
himself. So out I come. I shall be glad of 
my Translations from Vincent Bourne in your 
next frank. My Muse will lay herself at y oui 
feet immediately on her first public appear 
ance. 

Yours, my dear friend, W*C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, May 9, 1781. 
My dear Sir, — I am in the press, and it is 
in vain to deny it. But how mysterious is 
the conveyance of intelligence from one end 
to the other of your great city ! Not many 
days since, except one man, and he but little 
taller than yourself, all London was ignorant 
of it ; for I do not suppose that the public 
prints have yet announced the most agreeable 
tidings ; the title-page, which is the basis of 
the advertisement, having so lately reached 



m 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the publisher; and it is now known to you, 
who live at least two miles distant from my 
confidant upon the occasion. 

My labors are principally the production 
of the last winter ; all indeed, except a few of 
the minor pieces. When I can find no other 
occupation I think, and when I think I am very 
apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass, 
that the season of the year which generally 
pinches off the flowers of poetry unfolds mine, 
such as they are, and crowns me with a winter 
garland. In this respect, therefore, I and my 
contemporary bards are by no means upon a 
par. They write when the delightful influen- 
ces of fine weather, fine prospects, and a brisk 
motion of the animal spirits, make poetry 
almost the language of nature; and I, when 
icicles depend from all the leaves of the Par- 
nassian laurel, and when a reasonable man 
would as little expect to suceeed in verse as 
to hear a blackbird whistle. This must be my 
apology to you for whatever want of fire and 
animation you observe in what you will 
shortly have the perusal of. As to the public, 
if they like me not, there is no remedy. A 
friend will weigh and consider all disadvan- 
tages, and make as large allowances as an 
author can wish, and larger perhaps than he 
has any right to expect ; but not so the world 
at large ; whatever they do not like, they will 
not by any apology be persuaded to forgive, 
and it would be in vain to tell them that I 
wrote #y verses in January, for they would 
immediately reply, " Why did not you write 
them in May?" A question that might puzzle 
a wiser head than we poets are generally 
blessed with. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 10, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — Tt is Friday; I have just 
drunk tea, and just perused your letter; and 
though this answer to it cannot set off till 
Sunday, I obey the warm impulse I feel, which 
will not permit me to postpone the business 
till the regular time of writing. 

I expected you would be grieved; if you had 
not been so, those sensibilities which attend 
you irpon every other occasion must have left 
you upon this. I am sorry that I have given 
you pain, but no£ sorry that you have felt it. 
A concern of that sort would be absurd, be- 
cause it would be to regret your friendship for 
me, and to be dissatisfied with the effect of it. 
Allow yourself however three minutes only 
for reflection, and your penetration must ne- 
cessarily dive into the motives of my conduct. 
In the first place, and by way of preface, re- 
member that I do not (whatever your partiality 
may incline you to do) account it of much con- 
sequence to any friend of mine whether he is, 
or is net, employed by me upon such an oc- 
».aaion. But all affected renunciations of po- 



etical merit apart, and all unaffected expres 
sions of the sense I have of my own littleness 
in the poetical character too, the obvious and 
only reason why I resorted to Mr. Newton, 
and not to my friend Unwin, was this: that 
the former lived at London, the latter at 
Stock ; the former was upon the spot to cor- 
rect the press, to give instructions respecting 
any sudden alterations, and to settle with 
the publisher everything that might possibly 
occur in the course of such a business ; the 
latter could not be applied to for these pur- 
poses without what I thought would be a 
manifest encroachment on his kindness; be- 
cause it might happen that the troublesome 
office might cost him now 7 and then a journey, 
which it was absolutely impossible for me to 
endure the thought of. 

When I wrote to you for the copies you 
have sent me, I told y/)u I was making a col- 
lection, but not with a design to publish. 
There is nothing truer than at that time I had 
not the smallest expectation of sending a 
volume of Poems to the press. I had several 
small pieces that might amuse, but I would 
not, when I publish, make the amusement 
of the reader my only object. When the 
winter deprived me of other employments, 1 
began to compose, and, seeing six or sever 
months before me which would naturally 
afford me much leisure for such a purpose, i 
undertook a piece of some length; that fin 
ished, another; and so on, till I had amassed 
the number of lines I mentioned in my last. 

Believe of me what you please, but not 
that I am indifferent to you or your friend- 
ship for me on any occasion. 

Yours, » W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWTN. 

Olney, May 23, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — If a writer's friends have 
need of patience, how much more the writer ! 
Your desire to see my Muse in public, and 
mine to gratify you, must both suffer the 
mortification of delay. .1 expected that my 
trumpeter would have informed the world, 
by this time, of all that is needful for them 
to know upon such an occasion ; and that an 
advertising blast, blown through every news- 
paper, would have said — " The Poet is com- 
ing." — But man, especially man that writes 
verse, is born to disappointments, as surely 
as printers and booksellers are born to be 
the most dilatory and tedious of all crea- 
tures. The plain English of this magnificent 
preamble is, that the season of publication 
is just elapsed, that the town is going into 
the country every ' day, and that my book 
cannot appear till they return, that is to say, 
not till next winter. This misfortune, how 
ever, comes not without its attendant advan. 
tage ; I shall now have, what I should not 






LIFE OF COWPER. 



9.i 



otherwise have had, an opportunity to cor- 
rect the press myself: no small advantage 
upon any occasion, but especially important 
where poetry is concerned ! A single erratum 
may knock out the brains of a whole pas- 
sage, and that, perhaps, which of all others 
the unfortunate poet is the most proud of. 
Add to this that, now and then, there is to 
be found in a printing-house a presumptuous 
intermeddler, who will fancy himself a poet 
too, and, what is still worse, a better than 
he that employs him. The consequence is 
that, with cobbling and tinkering, and patch- 
ing on here and there a shred of his own, he 
makes such a difference between the original 
and the copy, that an author cannot know 
his own work again. Now, as I choose to 
be responsible for nobody's dulness but my 
own, I am a little comforted when I, reflect 
that it will be in my power* to prevent all 
such impertinence, and yet not without your 
assistance. It will be quite necessary that 
the correspondence between me and Johnson 
should be carried on without the expense of 
postage, because proof-sheets would make 
double or treble letters, which expense, as in 
every instance it must occur twice, first when 
the packet is sent and again when it is re- 
turned, would be rather inconvenient to me, 
who, as you perceive, am forced to live by 
my wits, and to him who hopes to get a little 
matter, no doubt, by the same means. Half 
a dozen franks, therefore, to me, and totvlem 
to him will be singularly acceptible, if you 
can, without feeling it in any respect a trou- 
ble, procure them for me.* 

I am much obliged to you for your offer 
to support me in a translation of Bourne. 
It is but seldom, however, and never except 
for my amusement, that I translate ; because 
I find it disagreeable to work by another 
man's pattern ; I should, at least, be sure to 
find it so in a business of any length. Again, 
that is epigrammatic and witty in Latin which 
would be perfectly insipid in English, and a 
translator of Bourne would frequently find 
himself obliged to supply what is called the 
turn, which is in fact the most difficult and 
the most expensive part of the whole com- 
position, and could not, perhaps,"in many in- 
stances, be done with any tolerable success. 
If a Latin poem is neat, elegant, and musical, 
it is enough— but English readers are not so 
easily satisfied. To quote myself, you will 
find, in comparing the jackdaw with the 
original, that I was obliged to sharpen a 
point, which, though smart enough in the 
Latin, would in English have appeared as 
plain and as blunt as the tag of a lace. I 

* The privilege of fran'ting letters was formerly exer- 
cised in a very different nanner from what is now in 
use. The name of the M.P. was inserted, as is usual, on 
the cover of the letter, but the address was left to be 
tdded when and where the writer of the letter found it 
«tost expedient. 



love the memory of Vinny Bourne. I thinl> . 
him a better Latin poet than Tibullus, Pro- 
pertius, Ausonius,* or any of the writers i» 
his way, except Ovid, and not at all inferior 
to him. I love him too, with a love of par- 
tiality, because he was usher of the fifth 
form at Westminster, when I passed through 
it. He was so good-natured, and so indo- 
lent, that I lost more than I got by him ; for 
he made me as idle as himself. He was such 
a sloren, as if he had trusted to his genius 
as a cloak for everything that could disgust 
you in his person ; and indeed in his writings 
he has almost made amends for all. His 
humor is entirely original — he can speak of 
a magpie or a cat in terms so exquisitely ap- 
propriate to the character he draws, that one 
would suppose him animated by the spirit of 
the creature he describes. And with all his 
drollery there is a mixture of rational and even 
religious reflection at times, and always an 
air of pleasantry, good-nature, and humanity, 
that makes him, in my mind, one of the most 
amiable writers in the world. It is not com- 
mon to meet with an author, who can make 
you smile and yet at nobody's expense; who 
is always entertaining and yet always harm- 
less; and who, though always elegant, and 
classical to a degree not always found in the 
classics themselves, charms more by the sim- 
plicity and playfulness of his ideas than by 
the neatness and purity of his verse; yet 
such was poor Vinny. I remember seeing 
the Duke of Richmond set fire to his greasy 
locks, and box his ears to put it out again. 

Since I began to write long poems I seem 
to turn up my nose at the idea of a short one. 
I have lately entered upon one, which, if ever 
finished, cannot easily be comprised in much 
less than a thousand lines ! But this must 
make part of a second publication, and be 
accompanied, in due time, by others not yet 
thought of; for it seems (what I did not 
know till the bookseller had occasion to tell 
me so) that single pieces stand no chance, and 
that nothing less than a volume will go down 
You yourself afford me a proof of the cer 
tainty of this intelligence, by sending me 
franks which nothing less than a volume can 
fill. I have accordingly sent you one, but 
am obliged to add that, had the wind been in 
any other point of the compass, or, blowing 
as it does from the east, had it been less bois- 
terous, you must have been contented with 
a much shorter letter, but the abridgment of 
every ether occupation is very favorable *o 
that of writing. 

I am glad I did not expect to hear from 



* The classic beauty and felicity of expression in the 
Latin compositions of Bourne have been justly admired; 
but it doubt will exist in the mind of tlie classical reader, 
whether the praise which exalts his merits above chose 
of a Tibullus, to whom both Ovid and Horace have 
borne so distinguished testimony, does not exceed ton 
bounds of legitimate eulogy. 



94 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



you ly this post, for the boy has lost the 
oiur in which your "letter must have been en- 
closed — another reason for my prolixity ! 
Youis affeclonately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, May 28, 1781. 

My dear Friend; — I am much obliged to 
you for the pains you have taken with my 
" Table Talk," and wish that my viva voce 
table-talk could repay you for the trouble 
you have had with the written one. 

The season is wonderfully improved within 
this dciy or two ; and if these cloudless skies 
are continued to us, or rather if the cold 
winds do not set in again, promises you a 
pleasant excursion, as far, at least, as the 
weather can conduce to make it such. You 
seldom complain of too much sunshine, and 
if you are prepared for a heat somewhat like 
that of Africa, the south walk in our long 
garden will exactly suit you. Reflected from 
the gravel and from the walls, and beating 
upon your head at the same time, it.may pos- 
sibly make you wish you could enjoy for an 
hour or two that immensity of shade afforded 
by the gigantic trees still growing in the land 
of your captivity.f If you could spend a 
day now and then in those forests, and return 
with a wish to England, it would be no small 
addit"oi; to the number of your best pleas- 
ures. But penrtce non homini data. The time 
will come, perhaps, (but death will come 
first,) when you will be able to visit them 
without either danger, trouble, or expense ; 
and when the contemplation of those well- 
remembered scenes will awaken in you emo- 
tions of gratitude and praise, surpassing all 
you could possibly sustain at present. Jn 
this sense, I suppose there is a heaven 
upon earth at all times, and that the disem- 
bodied spirit may find a peculiar joy, arising 
from the contemplation of those places it 
was formerly conversant with, and so far, at 
least, be reconciled to a world it was once 
so weary oi, as to use it in the delightful 
way of thankful recollection. 

Miss Catlett must not think of any other 
lodging than we can, without any inconve- 
nience as we shall with all possible pleasure, 
furnish her with. We can each of us say — 
that is, I can say it in Latin, and Mrs. Unwin 
in English — Nihil tui a me alienum puto. 

Having two more letters to write, I find 
"nyself obliged to shorten this ; so once more 
wishing you a good journey, and ourselves 
the happiness of receiving you in good 
Health and spirits, 

I remain affectionately yours, W. C. 

* Private corespondence. 

t Mr. Newton's voyage to Africa, and his state of mind 
at that period, are feelingly described by himself in his 
ywa writings, as well as the groat moral change which 
■e subseqi 'tntly experienced. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Olney, May 28, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I believe I never gave 
you trouble without feeling more than I give 
So much by way of preface and apology ! 

Thus stands the case — Johnson has begun 
to print, and Mr. Newton has already cor- 
rected the first sheet. This unexpected de- 
spatch makes it necessary for me to furnish 
myself with the means of communication, 
viz., the franks, as soon as may be. There 
are reasons (I believe I mentioned in my 
last) why I choose to revise tne proof my- 
self: nevertheless, if your delicacy must 
sutler the puncture of a pin's point in pro- 
| curing the franks for me, I release you en- 
tirely from the task : you are as free as if I 
had never mentioned them. But you will 
oblige me by a speedy answer upon this sub- 
ject, because it is expedient that the printer 
should know to whom he is to send his copy ; 
and when the press is once set, those hum- 
ble servants of the poets are rather impa- 
tient of any delay, because the types are 
wanted for other authors, who are equally 
impatient to be born. 

This fine weather, I suppose, sets you on 
horseback, and allures the ladies into the 
garden. Ji I was at Stock, I should be of 
their party, and, while they sat knotting or 
netting in the shade, should comfort myself 
with the thought that I had not a beast under 
me whose walk would seem tedious, whose 
trot would jumble me, and whose gallop 
might throw me into a ditch. What nature 
expressly designed me for I have never been 
able. to conjecture, I seem to myself so uni- 
versally disqualified for the common and 
customary occupations and amusements of 
mankind. When I was a boy, I excelled at 
cricket and football, but the fame I acquired 
by achievements that way is long since for- 
gotten, and I do not know that I have made 
a figure in anything since. I am sure, how- 
ever, that she did not design me for a horse- 
man, and that, if all men were of my mind, 
there would be an end of all jockey ship for- 
ever. I am rather straitened for time, and 
not very rich in materials; therefore, with 
our joint love to you all, conclude myself, 
Yours ever, W. C. 



TL THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jun. 5, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — If the old adage be true, 
that " he gives twice who gives speedily," it 
is equally true that he who not only uses ex- 
pedition in giving, but gives more than was 
asked, gives thrice at least. Such is the style 

in which Mr. confers a fayor. He has 

not only sent me franks to JohnPOD, but, 
under another cover, has added six to vou 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



Pa 



These last, for aught that appears by your 
letter, he threw in of his own mere bounty. 
I beg that my share of thanks may not be 
wanting on this occasion, and that, when you 
write to him next, you will assure him of the 
sense I have of the obligation, which is the 
more flattering, as it includes a proof of his 
predilection in favor of the poems his franks 
are destined to enclose. May they not for- 
feit his good opinion hereafter, nor yours, to 
whom I hold myself indebted in the first 
place, and who have equally given me credit 
for their deservings ! Your mother says that, 
although there are passages in them contain- 
ing opinions which will not be universally 
subscribed to, the world will at least allow 
what my great modesty will not permit me 
to subjoin. I have the highest opinion of 
her judgment, and know, by having experi- 
enced the soundness of them, that her observ- 
ations are always worthy of attention and 
regard. Yet, strange as it may seem, I do 
not feel the vanity of an author, when she 
commends me ; but I feel something better, 
a spur to my diligence, and a cordial to my 
spirits, both together animating me to de- 
serve, at least not to fall short of, her expect- 
ations. For I verily believe, if my dulness 
should earn me the character of a dunce, the 
censure would affect her more than me ; not 
that I am insensible of the value of a good 
name, either as a man or an author. With- 
out an ambition to attain it, it is absolutely 
unattainable under either of those descrip- 
tions. But my life having been in many 
respects a. series of mortifications and disap- 
pointments, I am become less apprehensive 
and impressible, perhaps, in some points, than 
I should otherwise have been ; and, though I 
should be exquisitely sorry to disgrace my 
friends, could endure my own share of the 
affliction with a reasonable measure of tran- 
quillity. 

These seasonable showers have poured 
floods upon all the neighboring parishes, but 
have passed us by. My garden languishes, 
and, what is worse, the fields too languish, 
and the upland-grass is burnt. These dis- 
criminations are not fortuitous. But if they 
are providential, what do they import? I 
can only answer, as a friend of mine once 
answered a mathematical question in the 
schools — " Prorsus nescio." Perhaps it is 
that men who will not believe what they 
cannot understand may learn the folly of 
their, conduct, while their very senses are 
made t to witness against them; and them- 
selves* in the course of providence, become 
the subjects of a thousand dispensations they 
cannot explain. But the end is never an- 
swered. The lesson is inculcated, indeed, 
frequently enough, but nobody learns it. 
Well. Instruction, vouchsafed in vain, is (I 
luppos^) a debt to be accounted for hereafter. 



You must understand this to be a soli- 
loquy. I wrote my thoughts without recol- 
lecting that I was writing a letter, and to you 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. 

Olncy, June 24, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — The letter you withheld 
so long, lest it should £, ve me pain, gave me 
pleasure. Horace says, the poets area wasp- 
ish race; and, from my own e^eri'ence of 
the temper of two or three with whom I wa3 
formerly connected, I can readily subscribe to 
the character he gives them. But, for my 
own part, I have never yet felt that exces- 
sive irritability, which some writers discover, 
when a friend, in the words of Pope, 

" Just hints a fault, or hesitates dislike." 

Least of all would I give way to such an un- 
seasonable ebullition, merely because a civ- 
il question is proposed to me, with such 
gentleness, and by a man whose concern foi 
my credit and diameter I verily believe to be 
sincere. I r,eply therefore, not peevishly, but 
with a sense of the kindness of your inten- 
tions, that I hope you may make yourself 
very easy on a subject, that I can perceive 
has occasioned you some solicitude. When 
I wrote the poem called " Truth," it was in- 
dispensably necessary that I should set forth 
that doctrine which I know to be true, and 
that I should pass what 1 understood to be a 
just censure upon opinions and persuasions 
that differ from or stand in direct opposition 
to it ; because, though some errors may be 
innocent, and even religious errors are not 
always pernicious, yet, in a case where the 
faith a~.v! hope of a Christian are concerned, 
they must necessarily be destructive ; and be- 
cause, neglecting this, I should have betrayed 
my subject ; either suppressing what in my 
judgment is of the last importance, or giving 
countenance by a timid silence to the very 
evils it was my design to combat. That you 
may understand me better, I will subjoin — 
that I wrote that poem on purpose to in- 
culcate the eleemosynary character of the 
Gospel, as a dispensation of mercy in the 
most absolute sense of the word, to the ex 
elusion of all claims of merit on the part of 
the receiver ; consequently to set the brand 
of invalidity upon the plea of works, and to 
discover, upon scriptural ground, the absurd 
ity of that notion, which includes a solecism 
in the very terms of it, that man by repent- 
of his Maker : I call it a solecism, because 
ance and good works may deserve the mercy 
mercy deserved ceases to be mercy, and musl 
take the name of justice. This is the opin- 
ion which I said in my last the world would 
not'acquiesce in, but except this I do not r©« 



collect that I have introduced a syllable into 
my cf my pieces that they can possibly ob- 
ject to ; and even this I have endeavored to 
deliver from doctrinal dryness, by as many 
pretty things in the way of trinket and play- 
thing as I could muster upon the subject. So 
f hat, if I have rubbed their gums, I have taken 
oare to do it with a coral, and even that coral 
embellished by the ribbon to whi.r i; s tied, 
and recommended by the tinkling ( f all the 
bells I could contrive to annex to it 

You need not trouble yourself to call on 
Johnson; being perfectly acqu.-.iuted with 
the progress of the business. I am able to 
satisfy your curiosity myself — the post be- 
fore the last, I returned to him the -,ptond 
sheet of " Table Talk," which he had sent me 
lor correction, and which stands foremost in 
the volume. The delay has enabled me to 
add a piece of considerable length, which, but 
for the delay, would not have made its ap- 
pearance upon this ecasion : it answers to 
the name of Hope. 

I remember a line in the Odyssey, which, 
.iterally translated, imports that there is no- 
thing in the world more impudent than the 
belly. But, had Homer met with an instance 
of modesty like yours, he would either have 
suppressed that observation, or at least have 
qualified it with an exception. I hope that, 
for the future, Mrs. Unwin will never suffer 
you to go to London without putting some 
victuals in your pocket ; for what a strange 
article would it make in a newspaper, that a 
tail, well-dressed gentleman, by his appear- 
ance a clergyman, and with a purse of gold 
in his pocket, was found starved to deaih in 
the street. How would it puzzle conjecture 
to account for such a phenomenon ! some 
would suppose that you had been kidnapped, 
like Betty Canning, of hungry memory ; 
others would say the gentleman was a 
Methodist, and had practised a rigorous self- 
denial, which had unhappily proved too hard 
for his constitution ; but I will venture to say 
that nobody would divine the real cause, or 
mspect for a moment that your modesty had 
Dccasioned the tragedy in question. By the 
way, is it not possible that the spareness and 
slenderness of your person may be owing to 
the same cause ? for surely it is reasonable 
to suspect that the bashfulness which could 
prevail against you on so trying an occasion 
may be equally prevalent on others. I re- 
member having been told by Colman, that, 
when he once dined with Garrick, he repeat- 
edly pressed him to eat more of a certain dish 
that he was known to be particularly fond of; 
Colman as often refused, and at last declared 
he could not, "But could not you," says 
Garrick, " if you was in a dark closet by your- 
self ? The same question might perhaps be 
i>n to you, with as much or more propriety 
and therefore I recommend it to you, either 



to furnish yourself with a little more assur- 
ance or always to eat in the dark. 

We sympathize with Mrs. Unwin, and, if it 
will be any comfort to her to know it, can 
assure her, that a lady in our neighborhood 
is always, on such occasions, the most mis- 
erable of all things, and yet escapes with 
great facility through all the dangers of hei 
state. 

Yours, ul semver* W. C. 



Among the occurrences that deserve to b* 
recorded in the life of Cowper, the com 
mencement of his acquaintance with Lad) 
Austen, from its connexion with his literary 
history, is entitled to distinct notice. This 
lady possessed a highly cultivated mind, and 
the power, in no ordinary degree, to engage 
and interest the attention. This acquaintance 
soon ripened into friendship, and it is to her 
that we are primarily indebted for the poem 
of " The Task," for the ballad of " John Gil- 
pin," and for the translation of Homer. The 
occasion of this acquaintance was as follows. 

A lady, whose name was Jones, was one 
of the few neighbors admitted in the resi- 
dence of the retired poet. She was the wife 
of a clergyman, who resided at the village of 
Clifton, within a mile of Olney. Her sister 
the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, 
came to pass some time with her in the sum- 
mer of 1781 ; and, as the two ladies mtered 
a shop in Olney, opposite to the house of 
Mrs. Unwin, Cowper observed them from 
his window. Although naturally shy, and 
now rendered more so by his very long ill- 
ness, he was so struck with the appearance 
of the stranger, that, on hearing she was sis 
ter to Mrs. Jones, he requested Mrs. Unwh 
to invite them to tea. So strong was his re- 
luctance to admit the company of strangers, 
that, after he had occasioned this invitation, 
he was for a long time unwilling to join the 
little party ; but, having forced himself at 
last to engage in conversation with Lady 
Austen, he was so delighted with her collo- 
quial talents, that he attended the ladies on 
their return to Clifton ; and from that time 
continued to cultivate the regard of his new 
acquaintance with such assiduous attention, 
that she soon received from him the familiar 
and endearing title of Si # ster Ann. 

The great and happy influence which an 
incident that seems at first sight so trivial 
produced on the imagination of Cowper, will 
best appear from the following epistle, which, 
soon after Lady Austen's return to London 
for the winter, the poet addressed to her on 
the 17th December, 1781. 

Dear Anna. — between friend and friend, 
Prose answers every common end ; 
Serves, in a plain and homely way, 
T' express th : occurrence of the day: 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



Our health, the weather, and the news ; 
What walks we take, what books we choose ; 
And all the floating thoughts we find 
Upon the surface of the mind. 

But when a poet takes the pen, 
Far more alive than other men, 
He feels a gentle tingling come 
Down to his finger and his thumb, 
Deriv d from nature's noblest part, 
The centre of a glowing heart ! 
And this is what the world, who knows 
No flights above the pitch of prose, 
BQs more sublime vagaries slighting, 
Denominates an itch for writing. 
No wonder I, who scribble rhyme, 
To catch the triflers of the time, 
And tell them truths divine and clear, 
Which, couch'd in prose, they will Aot hear; 
Who labor hard to allure, and draw. 
The loiterers I never saw, 
Should feel that itching and that tingling, 
With all my purpose intermingling, 
To your intrinsic merit true, 
When called to address myself to you. 

Mysterious are his ways, whose power 
Brings forth that unexpected hour, 
When minds, that never met before, 
Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
It is th' allotment of the skies, 
The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
That guides and governs our affections, 
And plans and orders our connexions ; 
Directs us in our distant road, 
And marks the bounds of our abode. 
Thus we were settled when you found us, 
Peasants and children all around us, 
Not dreaming of so dear a friend, 
Deep in the abyss of Silver End.* 
Thus Martha, ev'n against her will, 
Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
And you, though you must needs prefer 
The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,f 
Are come from distant Loire, to choose 
A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
This page of Providence quite new, 
And now just opening to our view, 
Employs our present thoughts and pains 
To guess and spell what it contains : 
But day by day. and year by year, 
Will make the dark enigma clear ; 
And furnish us perhaps at last, 
Like other scenes already past, 
With proof that we and our affairs 
Ane part of a Jehovah's cares : 
For God unfolds, by slow degrees, 
The purport of his deep decrees ; 
Sheds every hour a clearer light, 
r .n aid of our defective sight; 
And spreads at length before the soul, 
A beautiful and perfect whole, 
Which busy man's inventive brain 
Toils to anticipate in vain. 

Say, Anna, had you never known 
The beauties of a rose full blown, 
Could you, tho' luminous your eye, 
By looking on the bud descry, 

* An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the r ssidence 
of Cowper, which faced the market-place. 
t Lad} Austen's residence in France. 



Or guess with a prophetic power, 

The future splendor of the flower 1 

Just so. th' Omnipotent who turns 

The system of a world 's concerns, 

From mere minutiae can educe 

Events of most important use , 

And bid a dawning sky display 

The blaze of a meridian day. 

The works of man tend one and all, 

As needs they must, from great to small ; 

And vanity absorbs at length 

The monuments of human strength. 

But who can tell how vast the plan 

W T hich this day's incident began 1 

Too small perhaps the slight occasion 

For our dim-sighted observation ; 

It pass'd unnotic'd. as the bird 

That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 

And yet may prove, when understood, 

An harbinger of endless good. 

No£ that I deem or mean to call 
Friendship a blessing cheap or small; 
But merely to remark that ours, 
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, 
Rose from a seed of tiny size, 
That seemed to promise no such prize : 
A transient visit intervening, 
And made almost without a meaning, 
(Hardly the effect of inclination, 
Much less of pleasing expectation !) 
Produced a friendship then begun, 
That has cemented us in one ; 
And plac'd it in our power to prove, 
By long fidelity and love, 
That Solomon has wisely spoken ; 
" A three-fold cord is not soon broken." 

In this interesting poem the author seems 
prophetically to anticipate the literary efforts 
that were to spring, in process of time, from 
a friendship so unexpected and so pleasing. 

Genius of the most exquisite kind is some- 
times, and perhaps generally, so modest and 
diffident as to require continual solicitation 
and encouragement from the voice of sym- 
pathy and friendship to lead it into perma- 
nent and successful exertion. Such was the 
genius of Cowper ; and he therefore con- 
sidered the cheerful .and animating society 
of his new and accomplished friend as a 
blessing conferred on him by the signal favor 
of Providence. 

We shall find frequent allusions to this 
lady in the progress of the following corre- 
spondence. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, July 7, 1781, 
My dear Friend, — Mr. Old brought us th* 
acceptable news of your safe arrival. My 
sensations at your departure were far from 
pleasant, and Mrs. Unwin suffered more upon 
the occasion than when you first took leave 
of Olney. When we shall meet again, and 
in what circumstances, or whether we shall 
meet or not, is an article to be found no- 
* Private correspondence. 

7 



08 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



where but in that volume of Providence 
which belongs to the current year, and will 
not be understood till it is accomplished. 
This I know, that your visit was most agree- 
able here. It was so even to me, who, 
though I live in the midst of many agreea- 
bles, am but little sensible of their charms. 
But, when you came, I determined, as much 
as possible, to be deaf to the suggestions of 
despair ; that, if I could contribute but little 
to the pleasure of the opportunity, I might 
not dash it with unseasonable melancholy, 
and, like an instrument with a broken string, 
interrupt the harmony of the concert. 

Lady Austen, waving all forms, has paid 
us the first visit ; and, not content with show- 
ing us that proof of her respect, made hand- 
some apologies for her intrusion. We re- 
turned the visit yesterday. She is a lively, 
agreeable woman; has seen much of the 
world, and accounts it a great simpleton, as 
it is. She laughs and makes laugh, and 
keeps up a conversation without seeming to 
labor at it. 

I had rather submit to chastisement now 
than be obliged to undergo it hereafter. If 
Johnson, therefore, will mark with a margin- 
al Q, those lines that he or his object to as 
not sufficiently finished, I will willingly re- 
touch them, or give a reason for my refusal. 
I shall moreover think myself obliged by any 
hints of that sort, as I do already to some- 
body, who, by running here and there two 
or three paragraphs into one, has very much 
improved the arrangement of my matter. I 
am apt, I know, to fritter it into too many 
pieces, and, by doing so, to disturb that 
order to which all writings must owe their 
perspicuity, at least in a considerable meas- 
ure. With all that carefulness of revisal I 
have exercised upon the sheets as they have 
been transmitted to me, I have been guilty 
of an oversight, and have suffered a great 
fault to escape me, which I shall be glad to 
correct, if not too late. 

In the " Progress of Error," a part of the 
Young Squire's apparatus, before he yet en- 
ters upon his travels, is said to be 

Memorandum-book to minute down 

The several posts, and where the chaise broke 
down. 

Here, the reviewers would say, is not only 
"down," but "down derry down" into the 
bargain, the word being made to rhyme to 
itself. This never occurred to me till last 
night, just as I was stepping into bed. I 
should be glad, however, to alter it thus — 

With memorandum-book for every town, 

And ev'ry inn, and where the chaise broke down. 

I have advanced so far in " Charity," that I 
have ventured to give Johnson notice of it, 
And his iption whether he will print it now 



or hereafter. I rather wish he may choose 
the present time, because it will be a proper 
sequel to " Hope," and because I am willing 
to think it will embellish the collection. 

Whoever means to take my phiz will find 
himself sorely perplexed in seeking for a fit 
occasion. That I shall not give him one, is 
certain ; and if he steals one, he must be as 
cunning and quicksighted a thief as Auto- 
lycus himself. His best course will be to 
draw a face, and call it mine, at a venture. 
They who have not seen me these twenty 
years will say, It may possibly be a striking 
likeness now, though it bears no resemblance 
to what he was : time makes great altera- 
tions. They who know me better will say, 
perhaps, Though it is not perfectly the thing, 
yet there is somewhat of the cast of his 
countenance. If the nose was a little longer, 
and the chin a little shorter, the eyes a little 
smaller, and the forehead a little more pro- 
tuberant, it would be just the man. And 
thus, without seeing me at all, the artist may 
represent me to the public eye, with as much 
exactness as yours has bestowed upon you, 
though, I suppose, the original was full in 
his view w T hen he made the attempt. 

We are both as well as when you left us. 
Our hearty affections wait upon yourself and 
Mrs. Newton, not forgetting Euphro syne, the 
laughing lady. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



The playfulness of Cowper's humor is 
amusingly exerted in the following letter : — 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

' Olney, July 12, 1781. 

My very dear Friend, — I am going to send, 
what when you have read, you may scratch 
your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody 
knows whether what I have got be verse or 
not ; — by the tune and the time, it ought to 
be rhyme, but if it be, did you ever see, of 
late or of yore, such a ditty before ? 

I have writ Charity, not for popularity, bu» 
as well as I could, in hopes to do good ; and 
if the Reviewer should say " to be sure the 
gentleman's Muse wears Methodist shoes, 
you may know by her pace and talk about 
grace, that she and her bard have little regard 
for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, 
and hoidening play, of the modern day ; and 
though she assume a borrowed plume, and 
now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only 
her plan to catch, if she can, the giddy and 
gay, as they go that way, by a production on 
a new construction : she has baited her trap, 
in hopes to snap all that may come with a 
sugar-plum." — His opinion in this will not be 
amiss ; 'tis what I intend, my principal end, 
and, if I succeed, and folks should rend, till a 
few are brought to a serious thought, I sija!! 






LIFE OF COWPER. 



93 



think I am paid for all I have said and all I 
nave done, though I have run many a time, 
after a rhyme, as far as from hence to the end 
of my sense, and by hook or crook, write 
another book, if I live and am here, another 
year. 

I have heard before, of a room with a floor 
laid upon springs, and such like things, with 
so much art in every part, that when you 
went in you was forced to begin a minuet 
pace, with an air and a grace, swimming 
about, now in and now out, with a deal of 
state, in a figure of eight, without pipe, or 
string, or any such thing ; and now 1 have 
writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you 
dance, and as you advance, will keep you 
still, though against your will, dancing away, 
alert and gay, till you come to an end of what 
i have penn'd, which that you may do, ere 
Madam and you are quite worn out with jig- 
ging about, I take my leave, and here you re- 
ceive a bow profound, down to the ground, 
from your humble me — W. C- 



* TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, July 22, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I am sensible of your 
difficulties in finding opportunities to write; 
and therefore, though always desirous and 
sometimes impatient to hear from you, am 
never peevish when I am disappointed. 

Johnson, having begun to print, has given 
me some sort of security for his perseverance ; 
else the tardiness of his operations would 
almost tempt me to despair of the end. He 
has, indeed, time enougji before him ; but that 
very circumstance is sometimes a snare, and 
gives occasion to delays that cannot be reme- 
died. Witness the hare in the fable, who fell 
asleep in the midst of the race, and waked 
not till the tortoise had won the prize. 

Taking it for granted that the new mar- 
riage-bill would pass, I took occasion, in the 
Address to Liberty, to celebrate the joyful 
era ; but in doing so afforded another proof 
that poets are not always prophets, for the 
House of Lords have thrown it out. I am, 
however, provided with four lines to fill up 
the gap, which I suppose it will be time 
enough to insert when the copy is sent down. 
I am in the middle of an affair called " Con- 
versation," which, as " Table Talk ".serves in 
the present volumes by way of introductory 
fiddle to the band that follows, I design shall 
perform the same office in a second. 

Sic brevi fortes jacularnur sevo. 

You cannot always find time to write, and 
I cannot always write a great deal ; not for 
want of time, but for want of something 
equally requisite ; perhaps materials, perhaps 

* Private correspond nee. 



spirits, or perhaps more frequently for want 

of ability to overcome an indolence that 1 

have sometimes heard even you complain of.' 

Yours, my dear Sir, and Mrs. Newton's 

W. C 



TO THE REV WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, July 29, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — Having given the case 
you laid before me in your last all due con- 
sideration, I proceed to answer it : and. in or- 
der to clear my way, shall, in the first place, 
set down my sense of those passages in 
Scripture, which, on a hasty perusal, seem tc 
clash with the opinions I am going to give— 
" If a man smite one cheek, turn the other " — 
" If he take thy cloak, let him take thy coat 
also." That is, I suppose, rather than on a 
vindictive principle avail yourself of that 
remedy the law allows you, in the way of re- 
taliation, for that was the subject immedi- 
ately under the discussion of the speaker. 
Nothing is so contrary to the genius of the 
gospel as the gratification of resentment and 
revenge ; but I cannot easily persuade my- 
self to think, that the Author of that dispen- 
sation could possibly advise his followers to 
consult their own peace at the expense of the 
peace of society, or inculcate a universal ab- 
stinence from the use of lawful remedies, 
to the encouragement of injury and oppn»<i 
sion. 

St. Paul again seems to condemn the prac- 
tice of going to law — " Why do ye not rather 
suffer wrong," &c. But if we look again we 
shall find that a litigious temper had obtained, 
and was prevalent, among the professors of 
the day. This he condemned, and with good 
reason ; it was unseemly to the last degree 
that the disciples of the Prince of Peace 
should worry and vex each other with injuri- 
ous treatment and unnecessary disputes, to 
the scandal of their religion in the ey ^ ; of the 
heathen. But surely he did not m • .. i. anj 
more than his Master, in the place abo * ! - 
luded to, that the most harmless members o\ 
society should receive no advantage of its 
laws, or should be the only persons in the 
world who should derive no benefit from 
those institutions without, which society can- 
not subsist. Neither of them could mean to 
throw down the pale of property, and to lav 
the Christian part of the world open, through- 
out all ages, to the incursions of unlimited 
violence and wrong. 

By this time you are sufficintly aware that 
I think you have an indisputable right to re- 
cover at law what is so dishonestly withheld 
from you. The fellow, I suppose, has dis- 
cernment enough to see a difference be 
tween you and the generality of the clergy 
and cunning enough to conceive the purpose 
of turning vour meekness and forbearance to 



100 



COWPER'S WORKS 



good account, and of coining them into hard 
cash, which he means to put in his pocket, 
But I would disappoint him, and show him 
that, though a Christian is not to be quarrel- 
some, he is not to be crushed ; and that, 
though he is but a worm before God, he 
is not such a worm as- every selfish and 
unprincipled Wretch may tread upon at his 
pleasure. 

I lately heard a story from a lady, who spent 
many years of her life in France, somewhat 
to the present purpose. An Abbe, univer- 
sally esteemed for his piety, and especially 
for the meekness of his manners, had yet un- 
designedly giving some offence to a shabby 
fellow in his parish. The man concluding 
he might do as he pleased with so forgiving 
and gentle a character, struck him on one 
cheek, and bade him turn the other. The 
good man did. so, and when he had received 
the two slaps, which he thought himself 
obliged to submit to, turned again, and beat 
him soundly. I do not wish to see you fol- 
low the French gentleman's example, but I 
believe nobody that has heard the story con- 
demns him much for the spirit he showed 
upon the occasion. 

I had the relation from Lady Austen, sis- 
ter to Mrs. Jones, wife of the minister at 
Clifton. She is a most agreeable woman, 
and has fallen in love with your mother and 
me : insomuch, that I do not know but she 
may settle at Olney. Yesterday se'nnight 
we all dined together in the Spinnie — a most 
delightful retirement, belonging to Mrs. 
Throckmorton of Weston. Lady Austen's 
lacquey, and a lad that waits on me in the 
garden, drove a wheelbarrow full of eatables 
and drinkables to the scene of our fete-cham- 
pelre. A board laid over the top of the wheel- 
barrow, served us for a table ; our dining- 
room was a root-house, lined with moss and 
ivy. At six o'clock, the servants, who had 
dined under the great elm upon the ground, 
at a little distance, boiled the kettle, and the 
said wheelbarrow served us for a tea-table. 
We then took a walk into the wilderness, 
about half a mile off, and were at home 
again a little after eight, having spent the day 
together from noon till evening, without one 
cross occurrence, or the least weariness of 
each other — a happiness few parties of pleas- 
ure can boast of. 

Yours, with our joint love, 

W. C. 

TO MRS. NEWTON.* 

Olney, August, 1781. 

Dear Madam, — Though much obliged to 

vou for the favor of your last, and ready 

enough to acknowledge the debt ; the present 

However, is not a day in which I should have 

* Private correspondence. 



chosen to pay it. A dejection of mini, whicii 
perhaps may be removed by to-morrow 
rather disqualifies me for writing, — a busi. 
ness I would always perform in good spirits, 
because melancholy is catching, especially 
where there is much sympathy to assist tl.o 
contagion. But certain poultry, which I un- 
derstand are about to pay their respects to 
you, have advertised for an agreeable com- 
panion, and I find myself obliged to embrace 
the opportunity of going to town with them 
in that capacity. 

While the world lasts, fashion will continue 
to lead it by the nose. And, after ali, what 
can fashion do for its most obsequious fol- 
lowers ? It can ring the changes upon the 
same things, and it can do no more. Whe- 
ther our hats be white or black, our caps higl 
or low, — whether we wear two watches or 
one-^-is of little consequence. There is in- 
deed an appearance of variety ; but the folly 
and vanity that dictate and adopt the change 
are invariably the same. When the fashions 
of a particular period appear more reasona- 
ble than those of the preceding, it is n^ot be- 
cause the world is grown more reasonable 
than it was ; but because in the course of 
perpetual changes, some of them must some- 
times happen to be for the better. Neither 
do I suppose the preposterous customs that 
prevail at present a proof of its greater folly. 
In a few years, perhaps next year, the fine 
gentleman will shut up his umbrella, and give 
it to his sister, filling his hand with a crab- 
tree cudgel instead of it : and when he has 
done so, will he be wiser than now ? By no 
means. The love of change will have be- 
trayed him into a propriety, which, in reality, 
he has no taste for, all* his merit on the occa- 
sion amounting to no more than this — that, 
being weary of one plaything, he has taken 
up another. 

In a note I received from Johnson last 
week; he expresses a wish that my pen may 
be still employed. Supposing it possible that 
he would yet be glad -to swell the volume, I 
have given him an order to draw upon me 
for eight hundred lines, if he chooses it; 
" Conversation," a piece which I think I men- 
tioned in my last to Mr. Newton, being fin- 
ished. If Johnson sends for it, I shall tran- 
scribe it as soon as I can, and transmit it to 
Charles-square. Mr. Newton will take the 
trouble to forward it to the press. It is not 
a dialogue, as the title would lead you to 
surmise ; nor does it bear the least resem- 
blance to "Table Talk," except that it is 
serio-comic, like all the rest. My design in 
it is to convince the world that they make 
but an indifferent use of their tongues, con- 
sidering the intention of Providence when he 
endued them with the faculty of speech ; to 
point out the abuses, which is the joculai 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



lOi 



part of the business, and to prescribe the 
remedy, which is the grave and sober. 

We felt ourselves not the less obliged to 
you for the cocoa-nuts, though they were 
good for nothing. They contained nothing 
but a putrid liquor, with a round white lump, 
which in taste and substance much resembled 
tallow, and was of the size of a small walnut. 
Nor am I the less indebted to your kindness 
for the fish, though none is yet come. 
Yours, dear Madam, 

Most affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Aug 16, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I might date my letter 
from the greenhouse, which we have con- 
verted into a summer parlor. The walls 
hung with garden mats, and the floor covered 
with a carpet, the sun, too, in a great measure, 
excluded by an awning of mats, which forbids 
him to shine anywhere except upon the car- 
pet, it affords us by far the pleasantest retreat 
in Olney. We eat, drink, and sleep, where 
we always did; but here we spend all the 
rest of our time, and find that the sound of 
the wind in the trees, and the singing of birds, 
are much more agreeable to our ears than the 
incessant barking of dogs and screaming of 
children. It is an observation that naturally 
occurs upon the occasion, and which many 
other occasions furnish an opportunity to 
make, that people long for what they have 
not, and overlook the good in their posses- 
sion. This is so true in the present instance, 
that for years past I should have thought my- 
self happy to enjoy a retirement, even less 
flattering to my natural taste than this in 
which I am now writing ; and have often 
looked wistfully at a snug cottage, which, on 
account of its situation, at a distance from 
noise and disagreeable objects, seemed to 
promise me all I could wish or expect, so far as 
happiness may be said to be local": never once 
adverting to this comfortable nook, which af- 
fords me all that could be found in the most 
sequestered hermitage, with the advantage of 
having all those accommodations near at hand 
which no hermitage could possibly afford me. 
People imagine they should be happy in cir- 
cumstances which they would find insupport- 
ably burthensome in less than a week. A 
man that has been clothed in fine linen, and 
fared sumptuously every day, envies the 
peasant under a thatched hovel ; who, in re- 
turn, envies him as much his palace and his 
pleasure-ground. Could they change situa- 
tions, the fine gentleman would find his ceil- 
bgs were too low, and that his casements 
idmitted too much wind ; that he had no eel- 
ar fo - his wine, and no wine to put in his 
tellar. These, with a thousand other morti- 
* Private correspondence. 



fying deficiencies, would shatter his romantic 
project 5nto innumerable fragments in a mo 
ment. The clown, at the same time, would 
find the accession of so much unwieldy 
treasure an incumbrance quite incompatible 
with an hour's ease. His choice would be 
puzzled by variety. He would drink to ex- 
cess, because he would foresee no end of his 
abundance; and he would eat himself sick 
for the same reason. He would have no idea 
of any other happiness than sensual gratifica- 
tion; would make himself a beast, and die of 
his good fortune. The rich gentleman had, 
perhaps, or might have had, if he pleased, at 
the shortest notice, just such a recess as this; 
but if he had it, he overlooked it, or, if he had 
it not, forgot that he might command it when- 
ever he would. The rustic, too, was actually 
in possession of some blessings, which he 
was a fool to relinquish, but which he could 
neither see nor feel, because he had the daily 
and constant use of them; such as good 
health, bodily strength, a head and a heart that 
never ached, and temperance, to the practice 
of which he was bound by necessity, that, hu- 
manly speaking, was a pledge and security 
for the continuance of them all. 

Thus I have sent you a schoolboy's theme. 
When I write to you, I do not write without 
thinking, but always without premeditation : 
the consequence is, that such thoughts as pass 
through my head when I am not writing 
make the subject of my letters to you. 

Johnson sent me lately a sort of apology 
for his printer's negligence, with his promise 
of greater diligence for the future. There 
was need enough of both. I have received 
but one sheet since you left us. Still, indeed, 
I see that there is time enough before us; 
but I see, likewise, that no length of time 
can be sufficient for the accomplishment of a 
work that does not go forward. I know not 
yet whether he will add " Conversation" to 
those poems already in his hands, nor do » 
care much. No man ever wrote such quan- 
tities of verse as I have written this last year 
witli so much indifference about the event, or 
rather with so little ambition of public praise. 
My pieces are such as may possibly be made 
useful. The more they are approved, the 
more likely they are to spread, and, conse- 
quently, the more likely to attain the end of 
usefulness ; which, as I said once before, ex- 
cept my present amusement, is the only end 
I propose. And, even in the pursuit of this 
purpose, commendable as it is in itself, 1 
have not the spur I should once have had ; 
my labor must go unrewarded ; and, as Mr. 

R once said, I am raising a scaffold before 

a house that others are to live in, and not I. 

I have left myself no room for politics 
which I thought, when I began, would hav< 
been my principal theme. 

Yours, my dear sir, W. C 



102 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The striking and "beautiful imagery, united 
wdth the depressive spirit of the following 
etter, will engage the attention of the dis- 
cerning reader. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Aug. 21, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — You wish you could em- 
ploy your time to better purpose, yet are 
never idle. In all that you say or do ; whether 
you are alone, or pay visits, or receive them ; 
whether you think, or write, or walk, or sit 
still ; the state of your mind is such as dis^ 
covers, even to yourself, in spite of all its 
wanderings, that there is a principle at bot- 
tom, whose determined tendency is towards 
the best things. I do not at all doubt the 
truth of what you say, when you complain of 
that crowd of trifling thoughts that pester 
you without ceasing; but then you always 
have a serious thought standing at the door 
of your imagination, like a justice of peace 
with the riot-act in his hand, ready to read it 
and disperse the mob. Here lies the differ- 
ence between you and me. My thoughts are 
clad in a sober livery, for the most part as 
grave as that of a bishop's servants. They 
turn, too, upon spiritual subjects, but the tall- 
est fellow, and the loudest amongst them all, 
is he who is continually crying, with a loud 
voice, Actum est de te, periisti. You wish for 
more attention, I for less. Dissipation itself 
would be welcome to me, so it were not a 
vicious one : but, however earnestly invited, 
it is coy, and keeps at a distance. Yet, with 
all this distressing gloom upon my mind, I 
experience, as you do, the slipperiness of the 
present hour, and the rapidity with which 
time escapes me. Everything around us, and 
everything that befalls us, constitutes a va- 
riety, which, whether agreeable or otherwise, 
has still a thievish propensity, and steals from 
us days, months, and years, with such unpar- 
alleled address, that even while we say they 
are here they are gone. From infancy to 
manhood is rather a tedious period, chiefly, I 
suppose, because, at that time we act under 
the control of others, and are not suffered to 
have a will of our own. But thence down- 
ward into the vale of years is such a declivity, 
that we have just an opportunity to reflect 
upon the steepness of it, and then find our- 
selves at the bottom. 

Here is a new scene opening, which, 
whether it perform what it promises or not, 
will add fresh plumes to the wings of time ; 
at hast while it continues to be a subject of 
contemplation. If the project take effect, a 
thousand varieties will attend the change it 
will make in our situation at Olney. If not, 
t will serve, however, to speculate and con- 
verse upon, and steal away many hours, by 
* Private correspondence. 



engaging our attention, before it be entirety 
dropped. Lady Austen, very desirous o- e \e« 
tirement, especially of a retirement near hei 
sister, an admirer of Mr. Scott as a preacher, 
and of your two humble servants now in the 
greenhouse as the most agreeable creatures 
in the world, is at present determined to set- 
tle here. That part of our great building 
which is at present occupied by Dick Cole- 
man, his wife, child, and a thousand rats, is 
the corner of the world she chooses above all 
others as the place of her future residence. 
Next spring twelvemonth she begins to repair 
and beautify, and the following winter (by 
which time the lease of her house in town 
will determine) she intends to take posses- 
sion. I am highly pleased with the plan upon 
Mrs. Unwin's account, who, since Mrs. New- 
ton's departure, is' destitute of all female 
connexion, and has not, in any emergency, a 
woman to speak to. Mrs. Scott is indeed in 
the neighborhood, and an excellent person, 
but always engaged by a close attention to 
her family, and no more than ourselves a 
lover of visiting. But these things are all at 
present in the clouds. Two years must 
intervene, and in two years not only this 
project, but all the projects in Europe maybe 
disconcerted. 

Cocoa-nut naught, 
Fish too dear, 
None must be bought 
For us that are here ; 

No lobster on earth 
That ever I saw, 
To me would be worth 
Sixpence a claw. 

So, dear Madam, wait 
Till fish can be got 
At a reas'nable rate, 
Whether lobster or not. 

Till the French and the Dutch 
Have quitted the seas, 
And then send as much, 
And as oft as you please. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. O. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWTN. 

Olney, Aug. 25, 1781, 

My dear Friend, — We rejoice with you 
sincerely in the birth of another son, and in 
the prospect you have of Mrs. Unwin's re- 
covery : may your three children, and the next 
three, when they shall make their appearance, 
prove so many blessings to their parents, and 
make you wish that you had twice the num 
ber ! But what made you expect daily thai 
you should hear from me ? Letter for letter 
is the law of all correspondence whatsoever, 
and, because I wrote last, I have indulged 
myself for some time in expectation « f a 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



1U» 



Bheet fro.ii you. Not that I govern myself 
entirely by the punctilio of reciprocation, but 
.having been pretty much occupied of late, I 
was not sorry to find myself at liberty to 
exercise my discretion, and furnished with a 
good excuse if I chose to be silent. 

I expected, as you remember, to have been 
published last spring, and was disappointed. 
The delay has atforded me an opportunity to 
increase the quantity of my publication by 
about a third; and, if my Muse has not for- 
saken me, which I rather suspect to be the case, 
may possibly yet add to it. I have a subject 
in hand, which promises me a great abund- 
ance of poetical 'matter, but which, for want 
of a something I am not able to describe, I 
cannot at present proceed with. The name 
of it is " Retirement," and my purpose, to 
recommend the proper improvement of it, to 
set forth the requisites for that end, and to 
enlarge upon the happiness of that state of 
life, when managed as it ought to be. In the 
course of my journey through this ample 
theme, I should wish to touch upon the char- 
acters, the deficiences, and the mistakes of 
thousands, who enter on a scene of retire- 
ment unqualified for it in every respect, and 
with such designs as have no tendency to 
promote either their own happiness or that 
of others. But as I have told you before, 
there are times when I am no more a poet 
than I am a mathematician, and when such 
a time occurs, I always think it better to give 
up the point than to labor it in vain. I shall 
vet again be obliged to trouble you for franks, 
the addition of three thousand lines, or near 
that number, having occasioned a demand 
which I did not always foresee, but your 
obliging friend and your obliging self having 
allowed me the liberty of application, I make 
it without apology. 

The solitude, or rather the duality, of our 
condition at Olney seems drawing to a con- 
clusion. You have not forgot perhaps that 
the building we inhabit consists of two man- 
sions. And, because you have only seen the 
inside of that part of it which is in our occu- 
pation, I therefore inform you that the other 
end of it is by far the most superb, as well 
as the most commodious. Lady Austen has 
seen it, has set her heart upon it, is going to 
fit it up and furnish it, and, if she can get rid 
of the remaining two years of the lease of her 
London house, will probably enter upon it in 
a twelvemonth. You will be pleased with 
this intelligence, because I have already told 
you that she is a woman perfectly well-bred, 
sensible, and in every respect agreeable ; and 
above all, because she loves your mother 
dearly. It has in my eyes (and I doubt not it 
will have the same in yours) strong marks of 
providential interposition. A female friend, 
and one who bids fair to prove herself worthy 
if the appellation, comes recommended by a 



variety of considerations to such a place as 
Olney. Since Mr. Newton went, and till this 
lady came, there was not in the kingdom a re« 
tirement more absolutely such than ours. We 
did not want company, but when it came we 
found it agreeable. A person that has. seen 
much of the world and understands it well, 
has high spirits, a lively fancy, and great read- 
iness of conversation, introduces a sprightli- 
ness into such a scene as this, which, if it 
was peaceful before, is not the worse for be- 
ing a little enlivened. In case of illness too, 
to which all are liable, it was rather a gloomy 
prospect, if we allowed ourselves to advert 
to it, that there was hardly a woman in the 
place from whom it would have been reason- 
able to have expected either comfort or as- 
sistance. The present curate's wife is a val- 
uable person, but has a family of her own, 
and, though a neighbor, is not a very rear 
one. But, if this plan is effected, we shall 
be in a manner one family, and I suppose 
never pass a day without some intercourse 
with each other. 

Your mother sends her warm affections, 
and welcomes into the world the new-born 
William. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Aug. 25, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — By Johnson's last note, 
(for I have received a packet from him since 
I wrote last to you,) I am ready to suspect 
that you have seen him, and endeavored to 
quicken his proceedings. His assurrance of 
greater expedition leads me to think so. I 
know little of booksellers and printers, but 
have heard from others that they are the most 
dilatory of all people; otherwise, I am not 
in a hurry, nor would be so troublesome; 
but am obliged to you nevertheless for your 
interference, if his promised alacrity be owing 
to any spur that you have given him. He 
chooses to add " Conversation" to the rest, 
and says he will give me notice when he is 
ready for it ; but I shall send it to you by the 
first opportune conveyance, and beg you to 
deliver it over to him. He wishes me not 
t» be afraid of making the volume too large ; 
by which expression I suppose he means, 
that if I had still another piece, there would 
be room for it. At present I have not, but 
am in the way to produce another, fa mat modo 
'Musa. I have already begun and proceeded 
a little way in a poem called " Retirement." 
My view in choosing that subject is to direct 
to the proper use of the opportunities it af- 
fords for the cultivation of a man's best in- 
terests ; to censure the vices and the follies 
which people carry with them into their re- 
treats^where they make no other use of theii 
* Private correspondence. 



104 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



'eisure than to gratify themselves with the 
indulgence of their favorite appetites, and to 
pay themselves by a life of pleasure for a 
life of business. In conclusion, I would en- 
large upon the happiness of that state, when 
discreetly enjoyed and religiously improved. 
But all this is, at present, in embryo. I gene- 
rally despair' of my progress when I begin ; 
but if, like my travelling 'squire, I should 
kindle as 1 go, this likewise may make a part of 
the volume, for I have time enough before me. 
I forgot to mention that Johnson uses the 
discretion my poetship has allowed him, with 
much discernment. He has suggested sever- 
al alterations, or rather marked several defec- 
tive passages, which I have corrected much to 
the advantage of the poems. In the last sheet 
he sent me, he noted three such, all which I 
have reduced into better order. In the fore- 
going sheet, I assented to his criticism in 
some instances, and chose to abide by the 
original expression in others. Thus we jog 
on together comfortably enough : and perhaps 
it would be as well for authors in general, if 
their booksellers, when men of some taste, 
were allowed, though not to tinker the work 
themselves, yet to point out the flaws, and 
humbly to recommend an improvement. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

ulney, Sept. 9, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — J am not willing to let 
the post set off without me, though I have 
nothing material to put into his bag. I am 
writing in the greenhouse, where my myrtles, 
ranged before the windows, make the most 
agreeable blind imaginable ; where I am un- 
disturbed by noise, and where I see none but 
pleasing objects. The situation is as favor- 
able to my purpose as I could wish ; but the 
state of my mind is not so, and the deficien- 
cies I feel there are not to be remedied by 
the stillness of my retirement or the beauty 
of the scene before me. I believe it is in 
part owing to the excessive heat of the wea- 
ther that I .find myself so much at a loss when 
I attempt either verse or prose : my animal 
spirits are depressed, and dulness is the con- 
sequence. That dulness, however, is all a^ 
your service ; and the portion of it that is 
necessary to fill up the present epistle I send 
you without the least reluctance. 

I am sorry to find that the censure I have 
passed upon Occiduus is even better founded 
than I supposed. Lady Austen has been at 
his sabbatical concerts, which, it seems, are 
composed of song-tunes and psalm-tunes in- 
discriminately ; music without words — and I 
suppose one may say, consequently, without 
devotion. On a certain occasion, when her 
niece was sitting at her side, she ask^l his 

* Private correspondence. 



opinion concerning the lawfulness of sucb 
amusements as are to be found at Vauxha! oi 
Ranelagh ; meaning only to draw from him a 
sentence of disapprobation, that Miss Green 
might be the better reconciled to the restraint 
under which she was held, when »he found it 
warranted by the judgment of so famous a 
divine. But she was disappointed: he ^c- 
counted them innocent, and recommended 
them as useful. Curiosity, he said, was nat- 
ural to young persons ; and it was wrong to 
deny them a gratification which they might 
be indulged in with the greatest safety ; be- 
cause, the denial being unreasonable, the de- 
sire of it would still subsist. It was but a 
walk, and a walk was as harmless in one 
place as another ; with other arguments of a 
similar import, which might have proceeded 
with more grace, at least with less offence, 
from the lips of a sensual layman. He seems, 
together with others of our acquaintance, to 
have suffered considerably in his spiritual 
character' by his attachment to music. The 
lawfulness of it, when used with moderation 
and in its proper place, is unquestionable ; but 
I believe that wine itself, though a man be 
guilty of habitual intoxication, does not more 
debauch and befool the natural understanding 
than music, always music, music in season 
and out of season, weakens and destroys the 
spiritual* discernment. If it is not used with 
an unfeigned reference to the worship of 
God, and with a design to assist the soul in 
the performance of it, which cannot be the 
case when it is the only occupation, it degen- 
erates into a sensual delight, and becomes a 
most powerful advocate for the admission of 
other pleasures, grosser perhaps in degree, 
but in their kind the same.* 

Mr. M , though a simple, honest, good 

man — such, at least, he appears to us — is 
not likely to give general satisfaction. He 
preaches the truth it seems, but not the 
whole truth ; and a certain member of that 
church, who signed the letter of invitation, 
which was conceived in terms sufficiently en- 
couraging, is likely to prove one of his most 
strenuous opposers. The little man, how- 
ever, has an independent fortune, and has 
nothing to do but to trundle himself away 
to some other place, where he may find 
hearers neither no nice nor so wise as w 
are at Olney. 

Yours, my dear Sir, 

With our united love, W. C. 



TO MRS. NEWTON.f 

Olney, Sept. 16, 1781. 
A noble theme demands a noble verse, 
In such I thank you for your fine oysters. 

* It is recorded of the Rev. Mr. Cecil, that, being pa* 
sionately fond of playing on the violin, and, finding thai 
it engrossed too much of his tim« and thoughts, he onf 
day took it into his hands and broke it to pieces. 

f Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



101 



The barrel was magnificently large, 
But, being sent to Olney at tree charge, 
Was not inserted in the driver's list, 
And therefore overlooked, forgot or miss'd; 
For. when the messenger whom we dispatch 'd 
inquir'd for oysters, Hob his noddle scratch'd ; 
Denying that his wagon or his wain 
Did any such commodity contain. 
In consequence of which your welcome boon 
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon ; 
In consequence of which some chanc'd to die, 
And some, though very sweet, were very dry. 
Now Madam says (and what she says must still 
Deserve attention, say she what she will.) 
That what we call the diligence, be-case 
It goes to London with a swiiter pace- 
Would better suit the carriage of your gift, 
Returning downward with a pace as switl ; 
And therefore recommends it with this aim — 
To save at least three days. — the price the same ; 
For though it will not carry or convey [may, 
For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you 
For oysters bred upon the salt sea-shore, 
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more. 

News have I none that I can deign to write, 
Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night ; 
And that ourselves were at the seventh hour, 
Caught in the first beginning of the show'r; 
But walking, running, and with much ado, 
Got home — just time enough to be wet through. 
Yet both are well. and. wond'rous to be told, 
Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold ; 
And wishing just the same good hap to you. 
We say, good Madam, and good Sir. adieu ! 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

The Greenhouse, Sept. 18, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I return your preface, 
with many thanks for so affectionate an in- 
troduction to the public. I have observed 
nothing that in my judgment required altera- 
tion, except a single sentence in the first 
paragraph, which I have not obliterated, that 
you may restore it, if you please, by oblite- 
rating my interlineation. My reason for pro- 
posing an amendment of it was, that your 
meaning did not immediately strike me, 
which therefore I have endeavored to make 
more obvious. The rest is what I would 
wish it to be. You say, indeed, more in my 
commendation than I can modestly say of 
myself: but something will be allowed to 
the partiality of friendship on so interesting 
an occasion. 

I have no objection in the world to your 
conveying a copy to Dr. Johnson ; though I 
well know that one of his pointed sarcasms, 
if he should happen to be displeased, would 
soon find its way into all companies, and 
spoil the sale. He writes, indeed, like a man 
that thinks a great deal, and that sometimes 
Jiinks religiously : but report informs me 
that he has been severe enough in his ani- 
madversions upon Dr, Watts, who was, nev- 
* Private correspondence. 



ertheless, if I am in any degree a judge of 
verse, a man of true poetical ability ; care- 
less, indeed, for the most part, and inatten- 
tive too often to those niceties which consti- 
tute elegance of expression, but frequently 
sublime in his conceptions and masterly in 
his execution. Pope, I have heard, had 
placed him once m the Dunciad ; but, on 
being advised to read before he judged him, 
was convinced that he deserved otljer treat- 
ment, and thrust somebody's blockhead into 
the gap, whose name, consisting of a mono 
syllable, happened to fit it. Whatever faults, 
however, I may be chargeable with as a poet, 
I cannot accuse myself of negligence. I 
never suffer a line «to pass till I have made it 
as good as I can ; and, though my doctrines 
may offend this king of critics, he will not, I 
flatter myself, be disgusted by slovenly in- 
accuracy, either in the numbers, rhymes, or 
language. Let the rest take its chance. It 
is possible he may be pleased ; and, if he 
should, I shall have engaged on my side one 
of the best trumpeters in the kingdom. Let 
him only speak as favorably of me as he 
has spoken of Sir Richard Blackmore (who 
though he shines in his poem called Crea- 
tion, has written more absurdities in verse 
than any writer of our country,) and my suc- 
cess will be secured. 

I have often promised myself a laugh with 
you about your pipe, but have always forgot- 
ten it when I have been writing, and at pres- 
ent I am not much in a laughing humor. 
You will observe, however, for your comfort 
and the honor of that same pipe, that it 
hardly falls within the line of my censure. 
You never fumigate the ladies, or force them 
out of company ; nor do you use it as an in- 
centive to hard drinking. Your friends, in- 
deed, have reason to complain that it fre- 
quently deprives them of the pleasure of 
your own conversation, while it leads you 
either into your study or your garden ; but 
in all other respects it is as innocent a pipe 
as can be. Smoke away, therefore ; and re- 
member that, if one poet has condemned the 
practice, a better than he (the witty and ele- 
gant Hawkins Browne*) has been warm in 
the praise of it. 

" Retirement" grows, but more slowly than 
any of its predecessors. Time was when I 
could with ease produce fifty, sixty, or seven- 
ty lines in a morning ; now, I generally fall 
short of thirty, and am sometimes forced 
to be content with a dozen. It consists, at 



* Author of the popular poem, "De Animi Immor- 
talitate," written in the style of Lucretius. The humor- 
ous poem alluded to by Cowper, in praise of smoking, va 
entitled " The Pipe of Tobacco." It is remarkable as ex- 
hibiting a happy imitation of the style of six different 
authors— Cibber, Ambrose Philips, Thomson, Pope, 
Swift, and Young. The singularity and talent discover- 
able in this production procured for it much celebrity. 
An edition of his Poems was published bv his son, Isaa* 
Hawkins Browne, Esq. 



106 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



present, I suppose, of between six and seven 
hundred ; so that there are hopes of an end, 
and I dare say Johnson will give me time 
enough to finish it. 

I nothing add but this — that still I am 
Your most affectionate and humble 

William. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN* 

Olney, Sept. 26, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I may, I suppose, con- 
gratulate you on your safe arrival at Bright- 
helmstone ; and am the better pleased with 
your design to close the summer there, be- 
cause I am acquainted with the place, and, 
by the assistance of fancy, can without much 
difficulty join myself to the party, and par- 
take with you in your amusements and ex- 
cursions. It happened singularly enough, 
that, just before I received your last, in which 
you apprise me of your intended journey, I 
had been writing upon the subject, having, 
found occasion, towards the close of my last 
poem, called " Retirement," to take some no- 
tice of the modern passion for sea-side enter- 
tainments, and to direct to the means by 
which they might be made useful as well as 
agreeable. I think with you, that the most 
magnificent object under heaven is the great 
deep ; and cannot but feel an unpolite species 
of astonishment, when I consider the multi- 
tudes that view it without emotion and even 
without reflection. In all its various forms, 
it is an object of all others the most suited 
to affect us with lasting impressions of the 
awful Power that created and controls it. I 
am the less inclined to think this negligence 
excusable, because, at a time of life when I 
gave as little attention to religious subjects 
as almost any man, I yet remember that the 
waves would preach to me, and that in the 
midst of dissipation I had an ear to hear 
them. One of Shakspeare's characters says, 
" I am never merry when I hear sweet mu- 
sic." The same effect that harmony seems 
to have had upon him I have experienced 
from the sight and sound of the ocean, which 
have often composed my thoughts into a 
melancholy not unpieasing nor without its 
use. So much for Signor Nettuno. 

Lady Austen goes to London this day se'n- 
night. We have told her that you shall visit 
her; which is an enterprise you may engage 
in with the more alacrity, because, as she 
loves everything that has any connexion with 
your mother, she is sure to feel a sufficient 
partiality for her son. Add to this that your 
own personal recommendations are by no 
means small, or such as a woman of her fine 
taste and discernment can possibly overlook. 
She has many features in her character which 
* Private correspondence. 



you will admire ; but one, in particular, en 
account of the rarity of- it, will engage youi 
attention and esteem. She has a degree of 
gratitude in her composition, so quick a sense 
of obligation, as is hardly to be found in any 
rank of life, and, if report say true, is scarce 
indeed in the superior. Discover but a wish 
to please her, and she never forgets it ; not 
only thanks you, but the tears will start into 
her eyes at the recollection of the smallest 
service. With these fine feelings, she has 
the most, and the most harmless, vivacity 
you can imagine. In short, she is — what you 
will find her to be, upon half an hour's con- 
versation with her; and, when I hear you 
have a journey to town in contemplation, I 
will, send you her address. 

Your mother is well, and joins with me in 
wishing that you may spend your time agree 
ably upon the coast of Sussex. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Oct. 4, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I generally write the day 
before the post, but yesterday had no oppor- 
tunity, being obliged to employ myself in 
settling my greenhouse for the winter. I am 
now writing before breakfast, that I may 
avail myself of every inch of time for the pur- 
pose. N. B. An expression a critic would 
quarrel with, and call it by some hard name, 
signifying a jumble of ideas and an unnatural 
match between time and space. 

I am glad to be undeceived respecting the 
opinion I had been erroneously led into on 
the subject of Johnson's critifcisrn on Watts. 
Nothing can be more judicious, or more char- 
acteristic of a distinguishing taste, than his 
observations upon tha,t writer ; though 1 think 
him a little mistaken in his notion that divine 
subjects have never been poetically treated 
with success. A little more Christian knowl- 
edge and experience would perhaps enable 
him to discover excellent poetry upon spirit- 
ual themes in the aforesaid little Doctor. I 
perfectly acquiesce in the propriety of send- 
ing Johnson a copy of my productions ; and I 
think it would be well to send it in our joint 
names, accompanied with a handsome card, 
such a one as you will know how to fabri- 
cate, and such as may predispose him to a 
favorable perusal of the book, by coaxing him 
into a good temper ; for he is a great bear, 
with all his learning and penetration.f 

I forgot to tell you in my last that I was 
well pleased with your proposed appearance 
in the title-page under the name of the editor 
I do not care under how many names you 

* Private correspondence. 

t Goldsmith used to say of Johnson, that he hai 
nothing of the bear but the external roughness of iti 
coat. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



19 



appear in a book that calls me its author. In 
my last piece, which I finished the day before 
yeste'rday, I have told the public that I live 
upon the banks of the Ouse : that public is a 
great simpleton if it does not know that you 
live in London ; it will consequently know 
that I had need of the assistance of some 
friend in town, and that I could have recourse 
to nobody with more propriety than yourself. 
I shall transcribe and submit to your appro- 
bation as fast as possible. I have now, I 
think, finished my volume ; indeed I am al- 
most weary of composing, having spent a 
year in doing nothing else. I reckon my 
volume will consist of about eight thousand 
iines. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM I7NWTN. 

Olney, Oct 6, 1781. 

My dear friend, — What a world are you 
daily conversant with, which I have not seen 
these twenty years, and shall never see again ! 
The arts of dissipation (I suppose) are no- 
where practised with more refinement or suc- 
cess than at the place of your present resi- 
dence. By your account of it, it seems to be 
just what it was when I visited it, — a scene 
of idleness and luxury, music, dancing, cards, 
walking, riding, bathing, eating, drinking, cof- 
fee, tea, scandal, dressing, yawning, sleeping, 
the rooms perhaps more magnificent, because 
the proprietors are grown richer, but the 
ui^nners and occupations of the company just 
the same. Though my life has long been 
that of a recluse, I have not the temper of 
one, nor am I in the least an enemy to cheer- 
fulness and good humor ; but I cannot envy 
vou your situation ; I even feel myself con- 
strained to prefer the silence of this nook, 
and the snug fireside in our own diminutive 
parlor, to all the splendor and gayety of 
Brighton. 

You ask me how I feel on the occasion of 
my approaching publication? Perfectly at 
my ease. If I had not been pretty well as- 
sured beforehand that my tranquillity would 
be but little endangered by such a measure, I 
would never have engaged in it ; for I cannot 
bear disturbance. I have had in view two 
principal objects ; first, to amuse myself; and, 
secondly, to compass that point in such a 
manner that others might possibly be the 
better for my amusement. If I have suc- 
ceeded, it will give me pleasure ; but, if I have 
failed, I shall not be mortified to the degree 
that might perhaps be expected. I remem- 
ber an old adage (though not where it is to 
be found) " bene vixit, qui bene latuit? and, if 
I had recollected it at the right time, it should 
nave been the motto to my book. By the 
uray, it will make an excellent one for " Re- 



tirement," if you can but tell me whom to quote 
for it. The critics cannot deprive me of the 
pleasure I have in reflecting, that, so far as 
my leisure has been employed in writing for 
the public, it has been conscientiously em- 
ployed, and with a view to their advantage. 
There is nothing agreeable, to be sure, in 
being chronicled for a dunce ; but, I believe, 
there lives not a man upon earth who would 
be less affected by it than myself. With all 
this indifference to fame, which you know me 
too well to suppose me capable of affecting, 
I have taken the utmost pains to deserve it. 
This may appear a mystery or a paradox in 
practice, but it is true. I considered that the 
taste of the day is refined and delicate to 
excess, and that to disgust that delicacy of 
taste, by a slovenly inattention to it, would 
be to forfeit, at once, all hope of being useful ; 
and for this reason, though I have written 
more verse this last year than perhaps any 
man in England, I have finished, and polished, 
and touched, and retouched, with the utmost 
care. If after all I should be converted into 
waste paper, it may be my misfortune, but it 
will not be my fault. I shall bear it with thy 
most perfect serenity. 

I do not mean to give a copy ; he is a 

good-natured little man, and crows exactly 
like a cock, but Ijnows no more of verse than 
the cock he imitates. 

Whoever supposes that Lady Austen's for- 
tune is precarious is mistaken. I can assure 
you, upon the ground of the most circum- 
stantial and authentic information, that it is 
both genteel and perfectly safe. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Oct. 14, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — I would not willingly 
deprive you of any comfort, and therefore 
would wish you to comfort yourself as much 
as you can with a notion that you are a more 
bountiful correspondent than I. You will 
give me leave in the meantime, however, to 
assert to myself a share in the same species 
of consolation, and to enjoy the flattering 
recollection that I have sometimes written 
three letters to your one. I never knew a 
poet, except myself, who was punctual in^ 
anything, or to be depended on for the 'due 
discharge of any duty, except what he thought 
he owed to the Muses. The moment a man 
takes it into his foolish head that he has what 
the world calls genius, he gives himself a 
discharge from the servile drudgery of all 
friendly offices, and becomes good for nothing 
except in the pursuit of his favorite employ 
ment. But I am nQt yet vain enough to 
think myself entitled to such self-conferred 
* Private correspondence. 



:o8 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



honors ; and, though I have sent much poetry 
to the press, or, at least, what I hope my 
readers will account such, am still as desirous 
as ever of a place in your heart, and to take 
all opportunities to convince you that you 
have still the same in mine. My attention to 
my poetiv al function has, I confess, a little 
interfered of late with my other employments, 
and occasioned my writing less frequently 
than I should have, otherwise done. But it is 
over, at least for the present, and I think for 
some time to come. I have transcribed " Re- 
tirement," and send it. You will be so good 
as to forward it to Johnson, who will forward 
it, I suppose, to the public, in his own time ; 
but not very speedily, moving as he does. 
The post brought me a sheet this afternoon, 
but we have not yet reached the end of 
"Hope." 

Mr. Scott, I perceive by yours to him, has 
mentioned one of his troubles, but, I believe, 
not the principal one. The question, whether 
he shall have an assistant at the great house 

in Mr. R , is still a question, or, at 'least, 

, a subject of discontent between Mr. Scott and 
the people. In a tete-a-tete I had with this 
candidate for the chair in the course of the 
last week, I told him my thoughts upon the 
subject plainly ; advised hiin to change places, 
by the help of fancy, with M*. Scott, for a mo- 
ment, and to ask himself how he would like a 
self-intruded deputy ; advised him likewise by 
no means to address Mr. Scott any more upon 
the matter, for that he might be sure he would 
never consent to it ; and concluded with 
telling him that, if he persisted in his pur- 
pose of speaking to the people, the probable 
consequence would be that, sooner or later, 
Mr. Scott would be forced out of the parish, 
and the blame of his expulsion would all 
light upon him. He heard, approved, and I 
think the very next day put all my good 
counsel to shame, at least, a considerable' part 
of it, by applying to Mr. Scott, in company 

with Mr. P , for his permission to speak 

at the Sunday evening lecture. Mr. Scott, as 
I had foretold, was immovable ; but offered, 
for the satisfaction of his hearers, to preach 
three times to them on the Sabbath, which 
he could have done, Mr. Jones having kindly 
offered, though without their knowledge, to 
officiate for him at Weston. Mr. R. an- 
swered, " That will not do, Sir ; it is not what 
the people wish; they want variety." Mr. 
Scott replied very wisely, " If they do, they 
must be content without it ; it is not my duty 
to indulge that humor." This is the last in- 
telligence I have had upon the subject. I 
received it not from Mr. Scott, but frcm an 
ear-witness. 

I did not suspect, till the reviewers told me 
bo, that you are made aip of artifice and de- 
sign, and that your ambition is to delude your 
Tearers. W»U, I s ippose they please them- 



selves with, the thought of having mortified 
you ; but how much are they mistaken 
They shot at y ju, and their arrow struck the 
Bible, recoiling, of course, upon themselves. 
My turn will come, for I think I shall hardly 
escape a .thrashing. 

Yours, my dear sir, 

And Mrs. Newton's, W. C. 



TO MRS. C0WPER. 

Olney, Oct. 19, 1781. 

My dear Cousin, — Your fear lest I should 
think you unworthy of my correspondence, 
on account of your delay to answer, may 
change sides now, and more properly belongs 
to me. It is long since I received your last, 
and yet I believe I can say truly, that not a 
post has gone by me since the receipt of it, 
that has not reminded me of the debt I owe 
you for your obliging and unreserved com- 
munications both in prose and verse, espe- 
cially for the latter, because I consider them 
as marks of your peculiar confidence. The 
truth is, I have been such a verse-maker my- 
self, and so busy in preparing a volume for 
the press, which I imagine will make its ap- 
pearance in the course of the winter, that I 
hardly had leisure to listen to the calls of 
any other engagement. It is, however, fin- 
ished, and gone to the printer's, and I have 
nothing now to do with it but to correct the 
sheets as they are sent to me, and consign it 
over to the judgment of the. public. It is a 
bold undertaking at this time of day, wh^n 
so many writers of the greatest abilities have 
gone before, who seem to have anticipated 
every valuable subject, as well as all the 
graces of poetical embellishment, to step 
forth into the world in the character of a 
bard, especially when it is considered that 
luxury, idleness, and vice, have debauched 
the public taste, and that nothing hardly is 
welcome but childish fiction, or what has, at 
least, a tendency to excite a laugh. I thought, 
however, that I had stumbled upon some 
subjects that had never before been poetically 
treated, and upon some others to which I 
imagined it would not be difficult to give an 
air of novelty by the manner of treating 
them. My sole drift is to be useful ; a point 
which, however, I knew I should in vain aim 
at, unless I could be likewise entertaining. 
I have therefore fixed these two strings upon 
my bow, and by the help of both have done 
my best to send the arrow to the mark. My 
readers will hardly have begun to laugh, be- 
fore they will be called upon to correct that 
levity and peruse me with a more serious air. 
As to the effect I leave it alone in His hands 
who can alone produce it ; neither prose nor 
verse can reform the manners of a dissolute 
age, much less can they inspire a sense of 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



10* 



religious obligation unless assisted and made 
efficacious by the Power who superintends 
the truth he has vouchsafed to impart. 

You made my heart ache with a sympa- 
thetic sorrow when you described the state 
of your mind on occasion of your late visit 
into Hertfordshire. Had I been previously 
informed of your journey before you made 
it, I should have been able to hav<; foretold 
all your feelings with the most unerring cer- 
tainty of prediction. You will never cease 
to feel upon that subject, but, with your prin- 
ciples of resignation and acquiescence in the 
divine will, you will always feel as becomes 
a Christian. We are forbidden to murmur, 
but we are not forbidden to regret ; and 
whom we loved tenderly while living, we 
may still pursue with an affectionate remem- 
brance, without having any occasion to 
charge ourselves with rebellion against the 
sovereignity that appointed a separation. 
A day is coming when, I am confident, you 
will see and know that mercy to both parties 
was the principal agent in a scene, the recol- 
lection of which is still painful. 

W. C. 

Those who read what the poet has here 
..slid of his intended publication may perhaps 
think it strange that it was introduced to the 
world with a preface, not -written by himself 
but by his friend Mr. Newton. The circum- 
stance arose from two amiable peculiarities 
in the character of Cowper — his extreme 
diffidence in regard to himself, and his kind 
eagerness to gratify the affectionate ambition 
of a friend whom he tenderly esteemed ! 
Mr. Xewton has avowed this feeling in a very 
ingenuous and candid manner. He seems 
not to have "been insensible to the honor of 
presenting himself to the public as the bosom 
friend of that incomparable author whom he 
had attended so faithfully in sickness and 
sorrow. 

In the course of the following letters, the 
reader will find occasion to admire the grate- 
ful delicacy of the poet, not only towards 
the writer of his preface, but even in the 
liberal praise with which he speaks of his 
publisher. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Oct. 22, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — Mr. Bates, without in- 
tending it, has passed a severer censure upon 
the modern world of readers, than any that can 
be found in my volume. If they are so mer- 
rily disposed, in the midst of a thousand 
calamities, that they \vill not deign to read a 
preface of three or four pages, because the 
purport of it is serious, they are fir gone in- 
ieed, and in the last stage of a frenzy, such as 
suppose has prevailed in all nations that 

* Private correspondence 



have been exemplarily punished, just before 
the infliction of the sentence. But, though 
he lives in the world he has so ill an opinion 
of, and ought therefore to know it better 
than I, who have no intercourse with it at all, 
I am willing to hope that he may be mistaken. 

' Curiosity is a universal passion. There are 
few people who think a book worth their 

! reading, but feel a desire to know something 
about the writer of it. This desire will na- 

i turally.lead them to peep into the preface, 
where they will soon find that a little perse- 
verance will furnish them with some informa- 

' tion on the subject. If, therefore your pre- 
face finds no readers, I shall take it for 
granted that it is because the book itself is 

' accounted not worth their notice. Be that 

, as it may, it is quite sufficient that I have 
played the antic myself for their diversion ; 
and that, in a state of dejection such as they 
are absolute strangers to, I have sometimes 
put on an air of cheerfulness and vivacity, to 
which I myself am in reality a stranger, for 

1 the sake of winning their attention to more 
useful'matter. I cannot endure the thought 
for a moment, that you should descend to my 
level on the occasion, and court their favor 
in a style not more unsuitable to your func- 
tion than to the constant and consistent train 
of your whole character and condiict. Xo — « 
let the preface stand. I cannot mend it. I 
could easily make a jest of it, but it is better 
as it is. 

By the way — will it not be proper, as you 
have taken some notice of the modish dress 
I wear in " Table Talk " to include " Con- 
versation " in the same description, which is 
(the first half of it at least) the most airy of 
the two? They will otherwise think, per- 
haps, that the observation might as well have 
been spared entirely ; though I should have 
been sorry if it had, for when I am jocular 
I do violence to myself, and am therefore 
pleased with your telling them in a civil way 
that I play ihe fool to amuse them, not be- 
cause I am one myself, but because I have & 
foolish world to deal with. 

I am inclined to think that Mr. Scott will 

; no more be troubled by Mr. R with ap- 

; plications of the sort I mentioned in my last. 

■ Mr. Scott, since I wrote that account, has re- 

! lated to us himself what passed in the course 
of their interview ; and, it seems, the dis- 
course ended with his positive assurance 
that he never would consent to the measure, 
though, at the same time, he declared he* 
would never interrupt or attempt to suppress 

it. To which Mr. R replied, that unless 

be had his free consent, he should never en- 
gage in the office. It is to be hoped, there- 
fore, that, in time, that part of the peo- 
ple who may at present be displeased with 

I Mr. Scott for withholding his consent, will 

I gTow cool upon the subject, and be satisfied 



110 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



with receiving their instruction from their 
proper minister. 

I beg you will, on no future occasion, 
leave a blank for Mrs. Newton, unless you 
have first engaged her promise to fill it ; for 
thus we lose the pleasure of your company, 
without being indemnified for the loss by 
the acquisition of hers. Our love to you 
both. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 5, 1781. 
My dear William, — I give you joy of your 
safe return from the lips of the great deep. 
You did not discern many signs of sobriety 
or true wisdom among the people of Bright- 
helmstone, but it is not possible to observe 
the manners of a multitude, of whatever 
rank, without learning something ; I mean if 
a man has a mind like yours, capable of re- 
flection. If he sees nothing to imitate, he is 
sure to see something to avoid ; if nothing 
to congratulate his fellow creatures upon, at 
least much to excite his compassion. There 
is not, I think, so melancholy a sight in the 
world (an hospital is not to be compared with 
it) as that of a thousand persons distin- 
guished by the name of gentry, who, gentle 
perhaps by nature, and made more gentle by 
education, have the appearance of being in- 
nocent and inoffensive, yet being destitute of 
all religion, or not at all governed by the re- 
ligion they profess, are none of them at any 
great distance from an eternal state, where 
self-deception will be impossible, and where 
amusements cannot enter. Some of u them, 
we may say, will be reclaimed — it is most 
probable indeed that some of them will, be- 
cause mercy, if one may be allowed the ex- 
pression, is fond of distinguishing itself by 
seeking its objects among the most desperate 
class ; but the Scripture gives no encourage- 
ment to the warmest charity to hope for de- 
liverance for them all. When I see an 
afflicted and unhappy man, I say to myself, 
there is, perhaps, a man whom the world 
would envy, if they knew the value of his 
sorrows, which are possibly intended only to 
soften his heart, and to turn his affections 
towards their proper centre. But when I 
see or hear of a crowd of voluptuaries, who 
have no ears but for music, no eyes but for 
splendor, and no tongue but for imperti- 
nence and folly — I say, or at least I see oc- 
casion to say — This is madness — this per- 
sisted in must have a tragical conclusion. 
It will condemn you not only as Christians 
unworthy of the name, but as intelligent 
creatures. You know by the light of nature, 
if you have not quenched it, that there is a 
God, and that a life like yours cannot be ac- 
to. din" 1 to his will. 



I ask no pardon of you for the gravit 
and gloominess of these reflections, which ] 
stumbled on when I least expected it ; though, 
to say the truth, these or others of a like 
complexion^are sure to occur to me when I 
think of a scene of public diversion like that 
you have lately left. 

I am inclined to hope that Johnson told 
you the truth, when he said he should publish 
me soon after Christmas. His press has been 
rather more punctual in its remittances than 
it used to be ; we have now but little more 
than two of the longest pieces, and the small 
ones that are to follow, by way of epilogue, 
to print off, and then the affair is finished. 
But once more I am obliged to gape for 
franks ; only these, which I hope will be the 

last I shall want, at yours and Mr. 's 

convenient leisure. 

We rejoice that you have so much reason 
to be satisfied with John's proficiency. The 
more spirit he has the better, if his spirit is 
but manageable, and put under such manage- 
ment, as your prudence and Mrs. Un win's 
will suggest. 1 need not guard you against 
severity, of which I conclude there is no 
need, and which I am sure you are not at all 
inclined to practise without it; but perhaps 
if I was to whisper, beware of too much in- 
dulgence, I should only give a hint that the 
fondness of a father for a fine boy might seem 
to justify. I have no particular reason for the 
caution, at this distance it is not possible I 
should, but, in a case like yours, an admoni- 
tion of that sort seldom wants propriety. 
Yours, my dear friend,, W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Nov. 7, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — Having discontinued the 
practise of verse-making for some weeks. I 
now feel quite incapable of resuming it ; and 
can only wonder at it as one of the most ex- 
traordinary incidents in my life that I should 
have composed a volume. Had it been sug- 
gested to me as a practicable thing in better 
days, though I should have been glad to have 
found it so, many hindrances would have con- 
spired to withhold me from ^uch an enter- 
prise. I should not have dared, at that time 
of day to have committed my name to the 
public, and my reputation to the hazard of 
their opinion. But it is otherwise with me 
now. I am more indifferent about what may 
touch me in that point than ever I was in my 
life. The stake that would then have seemed 
important now seems trivial ; and it is of little 
consequence to me, who no longer feel myself 
possessed of what I accounted infinitely more 
valuable, whether the world's verdict shall 
pronounce me a poet, or an empty pretender 
to the title. This happy coldnesb towards a 
* Prvate correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



1L 



matter so generally interesting to all rhymers 
left me quae at liberty for the undertaking, 
unfettered by fear, and under no restraints of 
that diffidence which is my natural temper, 
and which would either have made it impossi- 
ble for me to commence an author by name, 
or would have insured my miscarriage if I 
had. In my last despatches to Johnson I 
sent him a new edition of the title-page, having 
discarded the Latin paradox which stood at 
the head of the former, and added a French 
motto to that from Virgil. It is taken from 
a volume of the excellent Garaccioli,* called 
Jouissance de soi-meme, and strikes me as pe- 
culiarly apposite to my purpose. 

Mr. Bull is an honest man. We have seen 
nim twice since he received your orders to 
march hither, and faithfully told us it was in 
consequence of those orders that he came. — 
He dined with us yesterday; we were all in 
pretty good spirits, and the day passed very 
agreeably. It is not long since he called on 

Mr. Scoit. Mr. R came in. Mr. Bull 

began, addressing himself to the former, ; ' My 
friend, you are in trouble; you are unhappy; 
I read it in your countenance." Mr. Scott 
replied, he had been so, but he was better. 
" Come then," says Mr. Bull, " I will expound 
to you the cause of all your anxiety. You 
are too common; you make yourself cheap. 
Visit your people less, and converse more 
with your own heart. How often do you 
speak to them in the week ?" Thrice. — " Ay, 
there it is. Your sermons are an old ballad; 
your pi'ayers are an old ballad ; and you are 
an old ballad too." — I would w r ish to tread in 
the steps of Mr. Newton. — " You do well to 
follow his steps in all other instances, but 
in tins instance you are wrong, and so was 
he. Mr. Newton trod a path which no man 
but himself could have used so long as he 
did, ana he wore it out long before he went 
from Olney. Too much familiarity and con- 
descension cost him the estimation of his 
people. He thought he should insure their 
love, to which he had the best possible title, 
and, by those very means he lost it. Be 
wise, my friend ; take warning ; make yourself 
scarce, if you wish that persons of little un- 
derstanding should know how to prize you." 
When he related to us this harangue, so nicely 
adjusted to the case of the third person pres- 
ent, it did us both good, and as Jacques says, 

" It made my lungs to crow like chanticleer." 

Our love of you both, though often sent to 

* Marquis Caraccioli, born at Paris, 1732. It is now 
well known that the letters of Pope Gauganelli, though 

gassing under the name of that pontiff, were composed 
y this writer. These letters, as well as all his writings, 
Are distinguished by a sweet strain of moral feeling, that 
powerfully awakens the best emotions of the heart ; but 
there is a want of more evangelical light. He is also the 
author of "La Jouissance de soi-meme;" " La Conver- 
nation avec soi-meme;" ''La Grandeur d'Ame," Uc. ; 
lud of " The Life of Madame de Maiiiieuou." 



London, is still with us. If it is not an in- 
exhaustible well, (there is but one love that 
can with propriety be called so,) it is, how- 
ever, a very deep one, and not likely to faii 
while we are living. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN.* 

Olney, Nov. 24, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — News is always accept 
able, especially from another world. I can- 
not tell you what has been done in the Ches- 
apeake, but I can tell you what has passed in 
West Wycombe, in this county. Do you 
feel yourself disposed to give credit to the 
story o'f an apparition I No, say you. I am 
of your mind. I do not believe more than 
one in a hundred of those tales with which old 
woman frighten children, and teach children 
to frighten each other. But you are not such 
a philosopher, 1 suppose, as to have persuaded 
yourself that an apparition is an impossible 
thing. You can attend to a story of that 
sort, if well authenticated? Yes. Then I 
can tell you one. 

You have heard, no doubt, of the romantic 
friendship that subsisted once between Paul 
Whitehecid, and Lord le Despenser, the late 
Sir Francis Dashwood. — When Paul died, he 
left his lordship a legacy. It was his heart, 
which was taken out of his body, and sent as 
directed. His friend, having built a church, 
and at that time just finished it, used it as a 
mausoleum upon this occasion ;* and, having 
(as I think the newspapers told us at the 
time) erected an elegant pillar in the centre 
of it, on the summit of this pillar, enclosed 
in a golden urn, he placed the heart in ques- 
tion ; but not as a lady places a china figure 
upon her mantel-tree, or on the top of her 
cabinet, but with much respectful ceremony 
and all the forms of funeral solemnity. He 
hired the best singers and the best perform- 
ers. He composed an anthem for the pur- 
pose; he invited all the nobility and gentry 
in the country to assist at the celebration of 
these obsequies, and, having formed them all 
into an august procession, marched to the 
place appointed at their head, and consigned 
ttie posthumous tr<^ ure, with his own hands, 
to its state of honorable elevation. Having 
thus, as he thought, and as he might well 

think, ( ) appeased the 

manes of the deceased, Jie rested satisfied 
with what he had done, and supposed his 
friend would rest. But not so, — about a 
week since 1 received a letter from a person 
who cannot have been misinformed, telling 
me that Paul has appeared frequently of late, 
and that there are few, if any, of his lordship's 
numerous household, who have not seen him 
* Private correspondence. 



sometimes in the park, sometimes in the gar- 
den, as well as in the house, by day and b/ 
night, indifferently. I make no reflection 
upon this incident, having other things to 
write about and but little room. 

1 am much indebted to Mr. S for more 

franks, and still more obliged by the handsome 
note with which he accompanied them. He 
has furnished me sufficiently for the present 
occasion, and, by his readiness and obliging 
manner of doing it, encouraged me to have 
recourse to him, in case another exigence of 
the same kind should offer. A French author 
I was reading last night says, He that has 
written will write again. If the critics do not 
set their foot upon' this first egg that I have 
laid and crush it, 1 shall probably verify his 
observation ; and, when I feel my spirits rise, 
and that I am armed with industry sufficient 
for the purpose, undertake the production of 
another volume. At present, however, I do 
not feel myself so disposed ; and, indeed, he 
that would write should read, not that he may 
retail the observations of other men, but that, 
being thus refreshed and replenished, he may 
find himself in a condition to make and to 
produce his own. I reckon it among my 
principal advantages, as & composer of verses, 
that I have not read an English poet these 
thirteen years, and but one these twenty 
years. Imitation, even of the best models, is 
my aversion ; it is servile and mechanical, a 
trick that has enabled many to usurp the 
name of author, who could not have written 
at all, if they had not written upon the pat- 
tern of somebody indeed original. But when 
the ear and the taste have been much accus- 
tomed to the manner of others, it is almost 
impossible to avoid it ; and we imitate, in spite 
of ourselves, just in proportion as we admire. 
But enough of this. 

Your mother, who is as well as the season 
of the year will permit, desires me to add 
her love. — The .salmon you sent us arrived 
safe, and was remarkably fresh. What a 
comfort it is to have a friend who knows that 
we love salmon, and who cannot pass by 'a 
fishmonger's shop without finding his desire 
to send us some, a temptation too strong to 
be resisted. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Nov. 26, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you much for 
your letter, which, without obliging me to 
travel to Wargrave at a time of year when 
journeying is not very agreeable, has intro- 
duced me in the most commodious manner, 
to a perfect acquaintance with your neat little 
garden, your old cottage, and above all, your 
* Private correspondence. 



most prudent and sagacious landlady. Ai 
much as I admire her, I admire much moro 
that philosophical temper with which yon 
seem to treat her ; for I know few characters 
more provoking, to me at least, than the self- 
ish, who are never honest, especially if, while 
they determine to pick your pocket, they have 
not ingenuity enough to conceal their pur- 
pose. But you are perfectly in the right, and 
act just as I would endeavor to do on the 
same occasion. You sacrifice everything to 
a retreat you admire, and, if the natural indo- 
lence of my disposition did not forsake me, 
so would I. 

You might as well apologize for sending 
me forty pounds, as for writing about your- 
self. Of the two ingredients, I hardly know 
which made your letter the most agreeable 
(observe, I do not say the most acceptable). 
The draft, indeed, was welcome ; but though 
it was so, yet it did not make me laugh. I 
laughed heartily at the account you give me 
of vourself, and your landlady, Dame Saveall, 
whose picture you have drawn, though not 
with a nattering hand, yet, I dare say, with a 
strong resemblance. As to you, I have nev- 
er seen so much of you since I saw you in 
London, where you and I have so often made 
ourselves merry with each other's humor, yet 
never gave each other a moment's pain by 
doing so. We are both humorists, and it is 
well for your wife and my Mrs. Unwin that 
they have alike found out the way to deal 
with us. 

More thanks to Mrs. Hill for her inten- 
tions. She has the true enthusiasm of a 
gardener, and I can pity her under her disap- 
pointment, having so large a share of that 
commodity myself. 

Yours, my dear Sir, affectionately, 
W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 26, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — I wrote to you by the 
last post, supposing you at Stock ; but, lest 
that letter should not follow you to Lay ton- 
stone, and you should suspect me of unrea- 
sonable delay, and lest the frank you have 
sent me should degenerate into waste paper 
and perish upon my hands, I write again. 
The former letter, however, containing all 
my present stock of intelligence, it is more 
than possible that this may prove a blank, or 
but little worthy your acceptance. You will 
do me the justice to suppose that, if I could 
be very entertaining I would be so, because, 
by giving me credit for s"uch a willingness to 
please, you only allow me a share of that 
universal vanity which inclhies every man, 
upon all occasions, to exhibit himself to the 
best advantage. To say the truth, however, 
when I write, as I do to you, not about 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



113 



business, nor on any subject that approaches 
to that description, I mean much less my cor- 
resp nident's amusement, which my modesty 
will not always permit me to hope for, than 
my own. There is a pleasure annexed to the 
communication of one's ideas, whether by 
word of mouth or by letter, which nothing 
earthly can supply the place of; and it is the 
delight we find in this mutual intercourse that 
not only proves us to be creatures intended 
for social life, but, more than anything else, 
perhaps, fits us for it. I have no patience 
with philosophers: they, "one and all, suppose 
(at least I understand it to be a prevailing 
opinion among them) that man's weakness, 
his necessities, his inability to stand alone, 
have furnished the prevailing motive, under 
the influence of which he renounced at first 
a life of solitude, and became a gregarious 
creature. It seems to rr,e more reasonable, 
as well as more honorable to my species, to 
suppose that generosity of soul and a brother- 
ly attachment to our own kind, drew us, as 
it were, to one common centre, taught us to 
build cities and inhabit them, and welcome 
every stranger that would oast in his lot 
amongst us, that we might enjoy fellowship 
with each other and the luxury of reciprocal 
endearments, without which a paradise could 
afford no comfort. There are indeed all sorts 
of characters in the world ; there are some 
whose understandings are so sluggish, and 
whose hearts are such mere clods, that they 
live in society without either contributing to 
the sweets of it, or having any relish fur them. 
A man of this stamp passes by our window 
continually ; I never saw him conversing with 
a neighbor but once in my life, though I have 
known him by sight these twelve years ; he is 
of a very sturdy make, and has a round protu- 
berance, which he evidently considers as his 
best friend, because it is his only companion, 
and it is the labor of his life to fill it. I can 
easily conceive that it is merely the love of 
good eating and drinking, and now and then 
the want of a new pair of shoes, that attaches 
this man so much to the neighborhood of his 
fellow mortals ; for suppose these exigencies 
and others of a like kind to subsist no longer, 
and what is there that could give society the 
preference in his esteem? He might strut 
about with his two thumbs upon his hips in 
the wilderness ; he could hardly be more si- 
lent than he is at Olney ; and, for any advan- 
tage of comfort, of friendship, of brotherly 
affection, he could not be more destitute of 
such blessings there than in his present situa- 
tion. But other men have something more to 
satisfy ; there are the yearnings of the heart, 
which, let the philosphers say what they will, 
are more importunate than all the necessities 
of the body, that will not suffer a creature 
worthy to be called human to be content with 
<m insulated life, or to look for his friends 



among the beasts of the forest.* Yourself, 
for instance ! It is not because there are no 
tailors'or pastrycooks to be found upon Salis- 
bury plain, that you do not choose it for your 
abode, but because you are a philanthropist; 
because you are susceptible of social impres- 
sions; and have a pleasure, of doing a kind- 
ness when you can. Now, upon the word 
of a poor creature, I have said all that I have 
said, without the least intention to say one 
word of it when I began. But thus it is with 
my thoughts — when you snake a crab-tree 
the fruit falls ; good for nothing indeed when 
you have got it, but still the best that is to be 
expected from a crab-tree. You are welcome 
to them, such as they are; and, if you ap- 
prove my sentiments, tell the philosophers of 
the day that I have outshot them all, and have 
discovered the true origin of society when I 
least looked for it. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney, Nov. 27, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — First Mr. Wilson, then 

Mr. Teedon, and lastly Mr. Whitford, each 

j with a cloud of melancholy on his brow and 

| with a mouth wide open, have just announced 

| to us this unwelcome intelligence from Amer- 

l ica. J We are sorry to hear it, and should be 

| more cast down than we are, if we did not 

j know that this catastrophe was ordained be- 

| forehand, and that therefore neither conduct, 

i nor courage, nor any means that can possibly 

j be mentioned, could have prevented it. If 

! the king and his ministry can be contented to 

j close the business here, and, taking poor Dean 

j Tucker's advice, resign the Americans into the 

i hands of their new masters, it may be weP 

j for Old England. But, if they will still pe> 

j severe, they will find it, I doubt, a hopeless 

! contest to the last. Domestic murmurs will 

j grow louder, and the hands of faction, being 

j strengthened by this late miscarriage, will find 

j it easy to set fire to the pile of combustibles 

they have been so long employed in building 

These are my politics, and, for aught I can 

see, you and we, by our respective firesides, 

though neither connected with men in power, 

nor professing to possess any share of that 

sagacity which thinks itself qualified to wield 

the affairs of kingdoms, can make as probable 

conjectures, and look forward into futurity 

with as clear a sight as the greatest man in 

the cabinet. 

* " There is a solitude of the gods, and there is the 
solitude of wild beasts." 

t Privati correspondence. 

t The surrender of the army of Lord Cornwallis to the 
combined forces of America and France, Oct. 18th, 1781. 
It is remarkable that this event occurred precisely four 
years after the surrender of General Burgoyne, at Sara- 
toga, in the same month, and almost on the same day. 
This disastrous occurrence decided the fate of the Ameri- 
can war, which cost Great Britain an expenditure of one 
hundred and twenty millions, and drained it of ita best 
blood, and exhausted its vital resources. 
8 



14 



UOWPER'S WORKS. 



Though, when I wrote the passage in ques- 
tion, I was not at all aware of any impropri- 
ety in it, and though I have frequently, since 
that time, both read and recollected it with 
the same approbation, I lately became uneasy 
upon the subject, and had no rest in my mind 
for three days, till I resolved to submit it to 
a trial at your tribunal, and to dispose of it 
ultimately according to your sentence. I am 
glad you have condemned it, and, though I do 
not feel as if I could presently supply .its 
place, shall be willing to attempt the task, 
whatever labor it may cost me, and rejoice 
that it will not be in the power of the critics, 
whatever else they may charge me with, to 
feccuse me of bigotry or a design to make a 
certain denomination of Christians odious, at 
the hazard of the public peace. I had rather 
my book were burnt than a single line of such 
a tendency should escape me. 

We thank you for two copies of your Ad- 
dress to your Parishioners. The first I lent 
to Mr. Scott, whom I have not seen since I 
put it into his hands. You have managed 
your subject well ; have applied yourself to 
despisers and absentees of every description, 
in terms so expressive of the interest you take 
in their welfare, that the most wrongheaded 
person cannot be offended. We both wish it 
may have the effect you intend, and that, 
prejudices and groundless apprehensions be- 
ing removed, the immediate objects of your 
ministry may make a more considerable part 
of your congregation. 

Yours, my dear Sir, as ever, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

FRAGMENT. 

Same date. 

My dear Friend, — A visit from Mr. Whit- 
ford shortened one of your letters to me: 
and now the cause has operated with the 
same effect upon one of mine to you. He 
is just gone, desired me to send his love, and 
talks of enclosing a letter to you in my next 
cover. 

Literas tuas irato Sacerdoti scriptas, legi. 
perlegi, et ne verbum quidem mutandum cen- 
seo. Gratias tibi acturum si sapiat, existimo ; 
sin aiiter eveniat, amici tamen officium prse- 
stitisti, et te coram te vindicasti. 

I have not written in Latin to show my 
scholarship, nor to excite Mrs. Newton's cu- 
riosity, nor for any other wise reason what- 
ever; but merely because, just a,\ that mo- 
ment, it came into my head to do so. 

I never wrote a copy of Mary and John 
m my life, except that which I sent to you. 
It was one of those bagatelles which 3 )me- 
times spring up like mushrooms in my ima- 
gination, either while I am writing or just 
* Private conespondence. 



before I begin. I sent it to you, because to 
you I send anything that I think may raise a 
smile, but should never have thought of mul- 
tiplying the impression. Neither did I evei 
repeat them to any one except Mrs. Unwin. 
The inference is fair and easy, that you have 
some friend who has a good memory.* 

This afternoon the maid opened the par- 
lor-door, and told us there was a lady in the 
kitchen. We desired she might be intro- 
duced, and prepared for the reception of Mrs. 
Jones. But it proved to be a lady unknown 
to us, and not Mrs. Jones. She walked di- 
rectly up to Mrs. Unwin, and never drew 
back till their noses were almost in contact. 
It seemed as if she meant to salute her. An 
uncommon degree of familiarity, accompanied 
with an air of most extraordinary gravity, 
made me think her a little crazy. I was 
alarmed, and so was Mrs. Unwin. She had 
a bundle in her hand — a silk handkerchief 
tied up at the four corners. When I found 
she was not mad, I took her for a smuggler, 
and made no doubt but she had brought 
samples of contraband goods. But our sur- 
prise, considering the lady's appearance and 
deportment, was tenfold what it had been, 
when we found that it was Mary Philips's 
daughter, who had brought us a few apples 
by way of a specimen of a quantity she had 
for sale. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Olney, Dec. 2, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for the rlote. 
There is some advantage in having a tenant 
who is irregular in his payments : the longer 
the rent is withheld, the more considerable 
the sum when it arrives ; to which we may 
add, that its arrival, being unexpected, a cir- 
cumstance that obtains always in a degree 
exactly in proportion to the badness of the 
tenant, is always sure to be the occasion of 
an agreeable surprise ; a sensation that de- 
serves to be ranked among the pleasantest 
that belong to us. 

I gave two hundred and fifty pounds for* 
the chambers. Mr. Ashurst's receipt, and 
the receipt of the person of whom he pur- 
chased, are both among my papers; and 
when wanted, as I suppose they will be in 
case of a sale, shall be forthcoming at your 
order. 

The conquest of America seems to go on 
but slowly. Our ill success in that quarter 

* The lines alluded to are the following, which appeared 
afterwards, somewhat varied, in the Elegant Extracts iu 
Verse : 1 

If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 
'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. 
Should" John wed a score, oh ! the claws and thr 

scratches ! 
It CJi't be a match: 'tis a bundle of matches.— Ed, 

1 Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



V 



tfill oblige me to suppress two pieces that I 
was rather proud of. They were written 
two or three years ago ; not long after the 
double repulse sustained by Mr. D'Estaing 
at Lucia and at Savannah, and when our 
operations in the western world wore a more 
promising aspect. Presuming upon such 
promises, that J might venture to prophesy 
an illustrious consummation of the war, I 
did so. But my predictions proving false, 
the verse in which they were expressed must 
perish with them. ■ 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Dec. 4, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — The present to the queen 
of France, and the piece addressed to Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, my only two political ef- 
forts, being of the predictive kind, and both 
falsified, or likely to be so, by the miscar- 
riage of the royal cause in America, were 
already condemned when I received your 
last.f I have a poetical epistle which I 
wrote last summer, and another poem not 
vet finished, in stanzas, with which I mean 



* Private correspondence. 

t As t'le reader may wish to see the lines to Sir Joshua, 
they are here supplied from the doeuments left by Dr. 
Johnso:i. Those to the Queen of France are no . found, 

TO SIR JOSHUA. REYNOLDS. 

Dear President, whose art sublime 
Gives perpetuity to time, 
And bids transactions of a day, 
That fleeting hours would waft away 
To dark futurity, survive, 
And in unfading beauty live, — 
You cannot with a grace decline 
A special mandate of the Nine — 
Yourself, whatever task you choose, 
So much indebted to the Muse. 

Thus says the Sisterhood : — We come — 
Fix well your pallet on your thumb, 
Prepare the pencil and the tints — 
We come to furnish you with hints. 
French disappointment, British glory, 
Must be the subject of my story. 

First strike a curve, a graceful bow, 
Then slope it to a point below ; 
Your outline easy, airy, light, 
Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite. 
Let independence, sanguine, horrid, 
Blaze like a meteor on the forehead : 
Beneath (but lay aside your graces) 
Draw six and twenty rueful far.es, 
Each with a staring, stedfast eye, „ 

Fix'd on his great and good ally. , 

France flies the kite — 'tis on the wing- 
Britannia's lightning cuts the string. 
The wind that raised it, ere it ceases, 
Just rends it into thirteen pieces, 
Takes charge of every flutt'ring sheet, 
And lays them all at George's feet. 

Iberia, trembling from afar. 
Renounces the confed'rate war. 
Her efforts and her arts o'ercorae, 
France calls her shatter'd navies home : 
Repenling Holland learns to mourn 
The sacred treaties she has torn ; 
Astonishment and awe profound 
Are stamp'd upon the nations round ; 
Without one friend, hbove all foes, 
Britannia gives the world repose. 



to supply their places. Henceforth I bav* 
done with politics. The stage of national 
affairs is such a fluctuating scene that ar 
event which appears probable to-day be- 
comes impossible to-morrow ; and unless a 
man were indeed a prophet, he cannot, bui 
with the greatest hazard of losing his labor 
bestow his rhymes upon future contingen- 
cies, which perhaps are never to take place 
but in his own wishes and in the reveries of 
his own fancy. 1 learned when I was a boy 
being the son of a staunch Whig, and a man 
that loved his country, to glow with that pa- 
triotic enthusiasm which is apt to break forth 
into poetry, or at least to prompt a person, il 
he has any inclination that way, to poetical 
endeavors. Prior's pieces of that sort were 
recommended to my particular notice ; and, 
as that part of the present century was a 
season when clubs of a political character, 
and consequently political songs, were much 
in fashion, the best in tha.t style, some writ- 
ten by Rowe, and I think some by Congreve, 
and many by other wits of the day, were 
proposed to my admiration. Being grown 
up, I became desirous of imitating such 
bright examples, and while I lived in the 
Temple produced several half-penny ballads, 
two or three of which had the honor to be 
popular. What we learn in childhood we 
retain long ; and the successes we met with 
about three years ago, when D'Estaing was 
twice repulsed, once in America and once in 
the West Indies, having set fire to my patri- 
otic zeal once more, it discovered itself by 
the same symptoms, and produced effects 
much like those it had produced before. But, 
unhappily, the ardor I felt upon the occasion, 
disdaining to be confined within the bounds 
of fact, pushed me upon uniting the prophet- 
ical with the poetical character, and defeated 
its own purpose. — I am glad it did. The 
less there is of that sort in my book the 
better; it will be more consonant 'o your 
character, who patronize the volume, and, 
indeed, to the constant tenor of my o .. n 
thoughts upon public matters, that I should 
exhort my countrymen to repentance, than 
that I should flatter their pride — that vice 
for which, perhaps, they are even now so 
severely punished. 

We are glad, for Mr. Barham's sake, that 
he has been happily disappointed. How lit- 
tle does the world suspect what passes in it 
every day ! — that true religion is working 
the same wonders now as in the first ages 
of the church — that parents surrender up 
their children into the hands of God, to die 
at his own appointed moment, and by what 
death he pleases, without a murmur, and re- 
ceive them again as if by a resurrection from 
the dead ! The world, however, would be 
more justly chargeable with wilful blindness 
than it is, if all professors of the truth exem- 



116 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



plified its power in their conduct as conspic- 
uously as Mr. Barham. 

Easterly winds and a state of confinement 
within our own walls suit neither me nor 
Mrs. Unwin ; though we are both, to use the 
Irish term, rather unwell than ill. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

Mrs. Madan is happy. — She will be found 
ripe, fall when she may. 

We are sorry you speak doubtfully about 
a spring visit to Olney. Those doubts must 
not outlive the winter. W. C. 

We now conclude this portion of our work. 
The incidents recorded in it cannot fail to ex- 
cite interest, and to awaken a variety of re- 
flections. Remarks of this kind will, how- 
ever, appear more suitable, when all the 
details of the poet's singular history are 
brought to a close, and presented in a con- 
nected series. In the meantime we cannot 
but admire that divine wisdom and mercy, 
which often so remarkably overrules the 
darkest dispensations — 

From seeming evil still educing good. 

It might have been anticipated that the mor- 
bid temperament of Cowper would either 
have unfitted him for intellectual exertion, or 
that his productions would have been tinged 
with all the colors of distempered mind : but 
such was not the case. Whether he com- 
posed in poetry or prose, the effect upon his 
mind seems to have been similar to the influ- 
ence of the harp of David over the spirit of 
Saul. The inward struggles of the soul 
yielded to the magic power of song ; and the 
inimitable letter-writer forgot his sorrows in 
the sallies of his own sportive imagination. 
The peculiarity of his temperament, so far 
from restraining his powers, seems from his 
own account to have quickened them into 
action. " I write," he says, in one of his let- 
ters, "to amuse and forget myself; and yet 
always with the desire of benefiting others." 
His object in writing was twofold, and so 
was his success ; for he wrote and forgot 
himself; and yet wrote in such a manner, as 
never to be forgotten by others. 



We have now conducted Cowper to the 
threshhold of fame, with all its attendant 
hopes,' fears, and anxieties ; a fame resting 
on the noblest foundation, the application of 
the powers of genius to improvement of the 
age in which he lived. The circumstances 
under which he commenced his career as an 
Autho. are singular. They form a profitable 
subject of inquiry to those who analyze the 
operations of the human mind ; for he wrote 
it the moments of depression and sorrow, 



under the influence of a' morbid tempera 
ment, and with an imagination assailed bj 
the most afflicting images. In the n*dst of 
these discouragements his mind burst forth 
from its prison-house, arrayed n all the 
charms of wit and humor, sportive without 
levity, and never provoking a smile at the 
expense of virtue. 

A mind so constituted furnishes a t emark- 
able proof of the wisdom and goodness of 
God ; for it shows that the greatest trials are 
not without their alleviations, and that in the 
bitterest cup are to be found the ingredients 
of mercy. Who can tell how often the mind 
might lose its equilibrium, or sink under the 
pressure of its woes, were it not for the in- 
terposition of that Almighty Power which 
guides the planets in their orbits, and says to 
the great water, " Hitherto shalt thou come, 
but no further; and here shall thy proud 
waves be stayed." Job xxxviii. 11. 

We now resume the correspondence of 
Cowper which contains some incidental no 
tices of his admired Poems of Friendship 
and Retirement. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Dec. 17, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — The poem I had in hand 
when I wrote last is on the subject of Friend- 
ship. By the following post I received a 
packet from Johnson. The proof-sheet it 
contained brought our business down to the 
latter part of "Retirement;" the next will 
consequently introduce the first of the smaller 
pieces. The volume consisting, at least four- 
fifths of it, of heroic verse as it is called, and 
graver matter, I was desirous to displace the 
" Burning Mountain"! from the post it held 
in the van of the light infantry, and throw it 
into the rear. Having finished " Friendship," 
and fearing that, if' I delayed to send it, the 
press would get the start of my intention 
and knowing perfectly that, with respect to 
the subject and the subject matter of it, it 
contained nothing that you would think ex- 
ceptionable, I took the liberty to transmit it 
to Johnson, and hope that the next post will 
return it to me printed. It consists of be- 
tween thirty and forty stanzas ; a length that 
qualifies it to supply the place of the two 
cancelled pieces, without the aid of the epis- 
tle I mentioned. According to the present 
arrangement, therefore, " Friendship," which 
is rather of a lively cast, though quite sober, 
will follow next after "Retirement," and 
" iEtna" will close the volume. Modern nat- 
uralists, I think, tell us that the volcano forms 
the mountain. I shall be charged therefore, 
perhaps, with an unphilosophical error in 
supposing that ^Etna was once unconscious 

* Private correspondence. 

t The poem afterwards entitled " Hei oism."— Vidfr 
Pooms. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



11 



rf intestine fires, and as lofty as at present 
before the commencement of the eruptions, 
[t is possible, however, that the rule, though 
just in some instances, may not be of univer- 
sal application ; and, if it be, I do not know 
that a poet is obliged to write with a philo- 
sopher at his elbow, prepared always to bend 
down his imagination to mere matters of fact. 
You will oblige me by your opinion ; and 
tell me, if you please, whether you think an 
apologetical note may be necessary; for I 
would not appear a dunce in matters that 
every Review reader must needs be apprized 
of. I say a note, because an alteration of the 
piece is impracticable ; at least without cut- 
ting off its head, and setting on a new one ; 
a task I should not readily undertake, be- 
cause the lines which must, in that case, be 
thrown out, are some of the most poetical in 
the performance. 

Possessing greater advantages, and being 
equally dissolute with the most abandoned 
of the neighboring nations, we are certainly 
more criminal than they. They cannot see, 
and we will not. It is to be expected, there- 
fore, that when judgment is walking through 
the earth, it will come commissioned with the 
heaviest tidings to the people chargeable with 
the most perverseness. In the latter part of 
the Duke of Newcastle's administration, all 
faces gathered blackness. The people, as 
they walked the streets, had, every one of 
them, a countenance like what we may sup- 
pose to have been the prophet Jonah's, when 
he cried, " Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall 
be destroyed." But our Nineveh too re- 
pented, that is to say, she was affected in a. 
manner somewhat suitable to her condition. 
She was dejected ; she learned an humbler 
language, and seemed, if she did not trust in 
God, at least to have renounced her confi- 
dence in herself. A respite ensued; the 
expected ruin was averted ; and her prosper- 
ity became greater than ever. Again she 
became self-conceited and proud, as at the 
first; and how stands it with our Nineveh 
now? Even as you say ; her distress is infi- 
nite, her destruction appears inevitable, and 
her heart as hard as the nether millstone. 
Thus, I suppose, it was when ancient Nine- 
veh found herself agreeably disappointed; 
she turned the grace of God into lascivious- 
ness, and that flagrant abuse of mercy ex- 
posed her, at the expiration of forty years, to 
the complete execution of a sentence she 
had only been threatened with before. A 
similarity of events, accompanied by a strong 
similarity of conduct, seems to justify our 
expectations that the catastrophe will not be 
very different. But, after all, the designs of 
Providence are inscrutable, and, as in the case 
of individuals, so in that of nations, the same 
causes do not always produce the same ef- 
fect*. Tfce jountry indeed cannot be saved 



in its present state of profligacy and profane- 
ness, but may, nevertheless, be led to re- 
pentance by means we are little aware ofj 
and at a time when we least expect it. 

Our best love attends yourself and Mrs. 
Newton, and we rejoice that you feel no bur- 
thens but those you bear in common with 
the liveliest and most favored Christians. It 
is a happiness in poor Peggy's case, that she 
can swallow five shillings' worth of physic in 
a day x but a person must be in her case to be 
duly sensible of it. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN.* 

Olney, Dec. 19, 1781. 

My dear William, — I dare say I do not en- 
ter exactly into your idea of a present theo- 
cracy, because mine amounts to no more than 
the common one, that all mankind, though 
few are really aware of it, act under a provi- 
dential direction, and that a gracious superin- 
tendence in particular is the lot of those who 
trust in God. Thus I think respecting Indi- 
viduals, and with respect to the kingdoms oi 
the earth, that, perhaps, by his own immedi- 
ate operation, though more probably by the 
intervention of angels, (vide Daniel,) the 
great Governor manages and rules them, as- 
signs them their origin, duration, and end, 
appoints them prosperity or adversity, glory 
or disgrace, as their virtue or their vices, their 
regard to the dictates of conscience and his 
word, or their prevailing neglect of both, may 
indicate and require. But in this persuasion, 
as I said, I do not at all deviate from the gen- 
eral opinion of those who believe a Provi- 
dence, at least who have a scriptural belief of 
it. I suppose, therefore, you mean something 
more, and shall be glad to be more particu- 
larly informed. 

I see but one feature in the face of our na- 
tional concerns that pleases me; — the war 
with America, it seems, is to be conducted on 
a different plan. This is something, when 
a long series of measures, of a certain de- 
scription, has proved unsuccessful, the adop- 
tion of others is at least pleasing, as it en- 
courages a hope that they may possibly pro've 
wiser and more effectual : but, indeed, with- 
out discipline, all is lost. Pitt himself could 
have done nothing with such tools ; but ho 
would not have been so betrayed ; he would 
have made the traitors answer with their 
heads for their cowardice or supineness, and 
their punishment would have made survivors 
active. W. C, 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney. The shortest day, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I might easily make thif 
* l*rivate correspondence. 



letter a continuation of my last, another na- 
tional miscarriage having furnished me with 
a fresh illustration of the remarks we have 

Doth been making.^ Mr. S ,* vho has 

most obligingly supplied me with franks 
throughout my whole concern with Johnson, 
accompanied the last parcel he sent me with 
a note dated from the House of Commons, in 
which he seemed happy to give me the earli- 
est intelligence of the capture of the French 
transports by Admiral Kempenfelt, and of a 
close engagement between the two fleets, so 
much to be expected. This note was written 
on Monday, and reached me by Wednesday's 
post; but, alas! the same post brought us 
the newspaper that informed us of his being 
forced to fly before a much superior enemy, 
and glad to take shelter in the port he had 
left so lately. This event, I suppose, will 
have worse consequences than the mere dis- 
appointment ; will furnish Opposition, as all 
our ill success has done, with the fuel of dis- 
sention, and with the means of thwarting 
and perplexing administration. Thus, all we 
purchase with the many millions expended 
yearly is distress to ourselves, instead of our 
enemies, and domestic quarrels instead of 
victories abroad. It takes a great many blows 
to knock down a great nation ; and, in the 
case of poor England, a great many heavy 
ones have not been wanting. They make us 
reel and stagger indeed, but the blow is not 
yet struck that is to make us fall upon our 
knees. That fall would save us ; but, if we 
fall upon our side at last, we are undone. 
So much for politics. 

I enclose a few lines on a thought which 
struck me yesterday. f If you approve of 
them, you know what to do with them. I 
should think they might occupy the place of 
aft introduction, and should call them by that 
name, if I did not judge the name I have 
given them necessary for the information of 
the reader. A flatting-mill is not met with in 
every street, and my book will, perhaps fall 
into the hands of many who do not know 
that such a mill was ever invented. It hap- 
pened to me, however, to spend much of my 
time in one, when I was a boy, when I fre- 
quently amused myself with watching the 
operation I describe. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 

The reader will admire the sublimity of 
the following letter in allusion to England 
rod America. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J 

Olney. The last day of 1781. 

My dear Friend, — Yesterday's p:>st, which 

• Mr. Sir Uh, afterwards Lord Carrington. 
t The lin es alluded to are entitled " The Flatting-Mill, 
in niustrati on." 
; Prirate correspondence. 



brought me yours, brought me a packet feota 
Johnson. We have reached the middle oi 
the Mahometan Hog. By tho way, you.' 
lines, t rich, when we had the pleasure of 
seeing you here, you said you would furnish 
him w ith, are not inserted in it. I did not 
recollect, till after I had finished the " Flat- 
ting-Mill," that it bore any affinity to the 
motto taken from Caraccioli. The resem- 
blance, however, did not appear to me to give 
any impropriety to the verses, as the thought 
is much enlarged upon, and enlivened by the 
addition of a new comparison. But if it is 
not wanted, it is superfluous, and if super- 
fluous, better omitted. I shall not bumble 
Johnson for finding fault with " Friendship," 
though I have a better opinion of it myself; 
but a poet is of all men the most unfit to be 
judge in his own cause. Partial to all his 
productions, he is always most partial to the 
youngest. But, as there is a sufficient quan- 
tity without it, let that sleep too. If I should 
live to write again, I may possibly take up 
that subject a second time, and clothe it in a 
different dress. It abounds with excellent 
matter, and much more than I could find 
room for in two or three pages. 

I consider England and America as once 
one country. They w 7 ere so, in respect of 
interest, intercourse, and affinity. A great 
earthquake has made a partition, and now 
the Atlantic Ocean flows between them. He 
that can drain that ocean, and shove the two 
shores together, so as to make them aptly 
coincide, and meet each other in every part, 
can unite them again. But this is a work for 
Omnipotence and nothing less than Omnipo- 
tence can heal the breach between us. This 
dispensation is evidently a scourge to Eng- 
land ; but is it a blessing to America ?* Time 

* Cowper, though a Whig, vindicates the American 
war, keenly as he censures the inefficiency with which it 
was conducted. The subject has now lost much of its 
interest, and is become rather a matter of historical rec- 
ord. Such is the influence of the lapse of time on the 
intenseness of political feeling ! The conduct of France, 
at this crisis, is exhibited with a happy poignancy of wit. 

" True we have lost an empire— let it pass. 
True ; we may th;nik the perfidy of France, 
That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, 
With all the cunning of an envious shrew. 
And let that pass— 'twas but a trick of state." 

Task, book ii. 

Cowper subsequently raises' the question how far the 
attainment of Independence was likely to exercise a salu- 
tary influence on the future prospects of America. He 
anticipates an unfavorable issue. Events, however, have 
not fulfilled this prediction. What country has made 
such rapid strides towards Imperial greatness? Wher* 
shall we find a more boundless extent of territory, a more 
rapid increase of population, or ampler resources for a 
commerce that promises to make the whole world tribu- 
tary to its support? Besides, why should not the de- 
scendants prove worthy of their sires? Why should a 
great experiment in legislation and government suspend 
the natural course of political and moral causes? May 
the spiritual improvement of her religious privileges 
keep pace with the career of her national greatness! 
What we most apprehend for A merica is the danger of 
internal dissension. If corruption be the disease of mon- 
archies, faction is the bane of republics. We add on« 
more reflection, with sentiments of profound regret, and 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



lis 



may prove it one, bat at present it does not 
seem to wear an aspect favorable to their 
privileges, either civil or religious. I cannot 
doubt the truth of Dr. W.'s assertion; but 
the French, who pay but little regard to trea- 
ties that clash with their convenience, with- 
out a treaty, and even in direct contradiction 
to verbal engagements, can easily pretend a 
claim to a country which they have both bled 
and paid for; and, if the validity of that 
claim be disputed, behold an army ready 
anded, and well-appointed, and in possession 
j>f some of the most fruitful provinces, pre- 
pared to prove it. A scourge is a scourge 
at one end only. A bundle of thunderbolts, 
such as you have seen in the talons of Jupi- 
ter's eagle, is at both ends equally tremen- 
dous, and can inflict a judgment upon the 
West, at the same moment that it seems to 
intend only the chastisement of the East. 
Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 

Dr. Johnson's celebrated work, " The Lives 
of the Poets," had at this time made its ap- 
pearance, and some of the following letters 
refer to that subject. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. 5, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Did I allow myself to 
plead the common excuse of idle correspond- 
ents, and esteem it a sufficient reason for 
not .writing that I have nothing to write 
about, I certainly should not write now. But 
I have so often found, on similar occasions, 
when a great penury of matter has seemed 
to threaten me with an utter impossibility of 
hatching a letter, that nothing- is necessary 
but to put pen to paper, and go on, in order 
to conquer all difficulties ; that, availing my- 
self of past experience, I now begin with the 
most assured persuasion that, sooner or later, 
one idea naturally suggesting another, I shall 
some to a most prosperous conclusion. 

In the last " Review," I mean in the last but 
one, I saw Johnson's critique upon Prior and 
Pope. I am bound to acquiesce in his opin- 
ion of the latter, because it has always been 
my own. I could never agree with those 
who preferred him to Dry den, nor with others 
(I have known such, and persons of taste 
and discernment too) who could not allow 
him to be a poet at all. He was certainly a 
mechanical maker of verses, and, in every 
line he ever wrote, we see indubitable marks 

borrow the muse of Cowper to convey our meaning and 
our wishes. 

" I would not' have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
No ; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation priz'd above all price, 
T had much rather be myself the slave, 
Ani wear the bonds, than fasten them on him." 
Task, book iu 



of most indefatigable industry and labor 
Writers, who find it necessary to make such 
strenuous and painful exertions, are generally 
as phlegmatic as they are correct ; but Pop? 
was, in this respect, exempted from the com- 
mon lot of authors of that class. With thti 
unwearied application of a plodding Flemish 
painter, who draws a shrimp with the most 
minute exactness, he had all the genius of 
one of the first masters. Never, I believe, 
were such talents and such drudgery united. 
But I admire Dryden most, who has sue-, 
ceeded by mere dint of genius, and in spite 
of a laziness and carelessness almost pecu- 
liar to himself. His faults are numberless, and 
so are his beauties. His faults are those of 
a great man, and his beauties are such (at 
least sometimes) as Pope, with ail his touch- 
ing and retouching, could never equal. So 
far, therefore, I have no quarrel with Johnson. 
But I cannot subscribe to what he says of 
Prior. In the first place, though my memory 
may fail me, I do not recollect that he takes 
any notice of his Solomon, in my mind the 
best poem, whether we consider the subject 
of it or the execution, that he ever wrote.* 
In the next place, he condemns him for in- 
troducing Venus and Cupid into his love 
verses, and concludes it impossible his pas- 
sion could be sincere, because when he would 
express it, he has recourse to fables. But, 
when Prior wrote, those deities were not so 
obsolete as they are at present. His cotem- 
porary writers, and some that succeeded him, 
did not think them beneath their notice. 
Tibullus, in reality, disbelieved their existence 
as much as we do ; yet Tibullus is allowed 
to be the prince of all poetical inamoratos, 
though he mentions them in almost every 
page. There is a fashion in these things 
which the Doctor seems to have forgotten 
But what shall we say of his rusty-fusty re 
marks upon Henry and Emma ? I agree with 
him, that, morally considered, both the knight 
and his lady are bad characters, and that each 
exhibits an example which ought not to be 
followed. The man dissembles in a way 
that would have justified the woman had she 
renounced him, and the woman resolves to 
follow him at the expense of delicacy, pro- 
priety, and even modesty itself. But when 
the critic calls it a dull dialogue, who but a 
critic will believe him ? There are few read- 
ers of poetry of either sex in this country 
who cannot remember how that enchanting 
piece has bewitched them, who do not know 
that, instead of finding it tedious, they have 
been so delighted with the romantic turn of 

* This remark is inaccurate. Prior's Solomon is dis- 
tinctly mentioned, though Johnson observes that it fails 
in exciting interest. His concluding remarks are, how- 
ever, highly honorable to the merit of that work. " He 
that shall peruse it will be able to mark many passages, 
to which he may recur for instruction or delight ; man} 
from which the poet may learn to write, and the philosc 
pher to reason."— Life of Prior.— Editor. 



120 



COWPER'S WORKb. 



it as to have overlooked all its defects, and 
to have given it a consecrated place in their 
memories without ever feeling it a burthen. 
I wonder almost, that, as the bacchanals 
served Orpheus, the boys and girls do not 
tear this husky, dry commentator, limb from 
limb, in resentment of such an injury done 
to their darling poet. I admire Johnson as a 
man of great erudition and sense, but, when 
he sets himself up for a judge of writers 
upon the subject of love, a passion which I 
fiuppose he never felt in his life, he might as 
»vell think himself qualified to pronounce 
apon a treatise on horsemanship, or the art 
of fortification. 

The next packet I receive will bring me, I 
imagine, the last proof-sheet of my volume, 
which will consist of about three hundred 
and fifty pages, honestly printed. My public 
entree therefore is not far distant. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Jan. 13, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — I believe I did not thank 
you for your anecdotes, either foreign or do- 
mestic, m my last, therefore I do it now ; and 
still feel myself, as I did at the time, truly 
obliged to you for them. More is to be 
learned from one matter of fact than from 
a thousand speculations. But alas! what 
course can Government take ? I have heard 
(for I never made the experiment) that if a 
man grasp a red-hot iron with his naked hand, 
it will stick to him, so that he cannot pres- 
ently disengage himself from it. Such are 
the colonies in the hands of administration. 
While they hold them they burn their lingers, 
and yet they must not quit them. I know 
not whether your sentiments and mine upon 
this part of the subject exactly coincide, 
but you will know when you understand 
what mine are. It appears to me that the 
King is bound, both by the duty he owes to 
himself and to his people, to consider him- 
self, with respect to every inch of his terri- 
tories, as a trustee deriving his interest in 
them from God, and invested with them by 
divine authority for the benefit of his sub- 
jects. As he may not sell them or waste them, 
so he may not resign them to an enemy, or 
transfer his right to govern them to any, not 
even to themselves, so long as it is possible 
for him to keep it. If he does, he betrays 
at once his own interest and that of his other 
dominions. It may be said, suppose Provi- 
dence has ordained that they shall be wrested 
from him, how then? I answer, that cannot 
appear to be the case, till God's purpose is 
actually accomplished ; and in the meantime 
the mo st probable prospect of such an event 

• Private correspondence. 



does not release him from his obligation to 
hold them to the last moment, forasmuch as 
adverse appearances are no infallible indica- 
tion of God's designs, but may give place to 
more comfortable symptoms, when we least 
expect it. Viewing the thing in this light, if 
I sat on his Majesty's throne, I should be as 
obstinate as he,* because, if I quitted the 
contest while I had any means of carrying it 
on, I should never know that I had not re- 
linquished what I might have retained, or be 
able to render a satisfactory answer to the 
doubts and inquiries of my own conscience. 
Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. 17, 1782. 
My dear William, — I am glad we agree in 
our opinion of king critic,f and the writers on 
whom he has bestowed his animadversions. 
It is a matter of indifference to me whether I 
think with the world at large or not, but I 
wish my friends to be of my mind. The 
same work will wear a different appearance 
in the eyes of the same man, according to the 
different views with which he reads it; if 
merely for his amusement, his candor being 
in less danger of a twist from interest or 
prejudice, he is pleased with what is really 
pleasing, and is not over-curious to discover 
a blemish, because the exercise of a minute 
exactness is not consistent with his purpose. 
But if he once becomes a critic by trade, the 
case is altered. He must then, at any rate, 
establish, if he can, an opinion in every mind 
of his uncommon discernment, and his ex- 
quisite taste. This great end he can never 
accomplish by thinking in the track that has 
been beaten under the hoof of public judg- 
ment. He must endeavor to convince the 
world that their favorite authors have more 
faults than they are aware of, and such as 
they have never suspected. Having marked 
out a writer universally esteemed, whom he 
finds it for that very reason convenient to de- 
preciate and traduce, he will overlook some 
of his beauties, he will faintly praise others, 
and in such a manner as to make thousands, 
more modest though quite as judicious as 
himself, question whether they are beauties 
at all. Can there be a stronger illustration 
of all that I have said than the severity of 
Johnson's remarks upon Prior — I might have 
said the injustice ? His reputation as an au- 
thor, who, with much labor indeed, but with 
admirable success, has embellished all his 
poems with the most charming ease, stood 



* The retention of the American colonies was known 
to be a favorite project with George III. ; but the sense 
of the nation was opposed to the war, and the ex pense 
and reverses attending its prosecution increased tho pub- 
lic discontent. 

t Dr. Johnson. 



LIFE OF COWPEK. 



IX 



unshaken till Johnson thrust his head against 
it. And how does he attack him in this his 
principal fort? I cannot recollect his very 
words, but I am much mistaken indeed, if my 
memory fails me with respect to the purport 
of them. " His words," he says, " appear to 
be forced into their proper places. There 
indeed we find them, but find likewise that 
their arrangement has been the effect of con- 
straint, and that without violence they would 
certainly have stood in a different order."* 
By your leave, most learned Doctor, this is 
the most disingenuous remark I ever met 
with, and would have come with a better 
grace from Curl or Dennis. Every man con- 
versant with verse-writing knows, and knows 
by painful experience, that the familiar style 
is of all styles the most difficult to succeed 
in. To make verse speak the language of 
prose, without being prosaic, to marshal the 
words of it in such an order as they might 
naturally take in falling from the lips of an 
extemporary speaker, yet without meanness, 
harmoniously, elegantly, and without seeming 
to displace a syllable for the sake of the 
rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a 
poet can undertake. He that could accom- 
plish this task was Prior ; many have imitated 
his excellence in this particular, but the best 
copies have fallen far short of the original. 
And now to tell us, after we and our fathers 
have admired him for it so long, that he is an 
easy writer indeed, but that his ease has an 
air of stiffness in it ; in short, that his ease is 
not ease, but only something like it, what is 
it but a self-contradiction, an observation that 
grants what it is just going to deny, and de- 
nies what it has just granted, in the same 
sentence, and in the same breath ? — But I 
have filled the greatest part of my sheet with 
a very uninteresting subject. I will only say 
that, as a nation, we are not much indebted, 
in point of poetical credit, to this too saga- 
cious and unmerciful judge ; and that, for my- 
self in particular, I have reason to rejoice that 
he entered upon and exhausted the labors of 
his office, before my poor volume could pos- 
sibly become an object of them. 

[That Johnson, in his " Lives of the Poets," 
has exhibited many instances of erroneous 
criticism, and that he sometimes censures 
where he might have praised, is we believe 
very generally admitted. His treatment of 
Swift, Gay, Prior, and Gray, has excited re- 
gret; and Milton, though justly extolled as a 
sublime poet, is lashed as a republican, with 
Unrelenting severity.! Few will concur in j 

* The language in the original is as follows : " His ex- j 

Sression has every mark of laborious study ; the line sel- J 
oiJi seems to have been formed at once ; the words did \ 
not come till they were called, and were then put by con- i 
Btraint into their places, where they do their duty, but do | 
It sullenly." — See Lives of the Poets. 

t The severity of Johnson's strictures on Milton, in his 
Uvea of the Poets, awakened a keen sense of indignation ' 



Johnson's remarks on Gray's celebrated 
" Progress of Poetry ;" and Murphy, in speak- 
ing of his critique on the well-known and 
admired opening of " The Bard," 

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless king," &c, 

expresses a wish that it had been blot'ed 
out.* But Johnson was the Jupiter Ton ma 
of literature, and not unfrequently hurls lis 
thunder and darts his lightning with an air 
of conscious superiority, which, though it 
awakens terror by its power, does not always 
command respect for its judgment. 

With all these deductions, the " Lives of 
the Poets" is a work abounding in inimitable 
beauties, and is a lasting memorial of John- 
son's fame. It has been justly characterized 
as "the most brilliant, and, certainly, the 
most popular, of all his writings."f The most 
splendid passage, among many that might be 

in the breast of Cowper, which he has recorded in the 
marginal remarks, written in his own copy of that work. 
They are characteristic of the generous ardor of hia 
mind, in behalf of a man whose political views, however 
strong, were at least sincere and conscientious ; and the 
splendor of whose name ought to have dissipated the 
animosities of party feeling. From these curious and in- 
teresting comments we extract the following :— 

Johnson—" I know not any of the Articles which seem 
to thwart his opinions, but the thoughts of obedience, 
whether canonical or civil, roused his indignation.*' 
Cowper — " Candid.' 1 

Johnson — " Of these Italian testimonies, poor as they 
are, he was proud enough to publish them before hia 

Soems ; though he says he cannot be suspected but to 
ave known that they were said, Jtfon tain de se, quam 
supra se." Coicpcr — u He did well." 

Johnson — " I have transcribed this title to show, by hia 
contemptuous mention of Usher, that he had now adopted 
a puritanical savageness of manners." Cowper — " Why 
is it contemptuous ? Especially, why is it savage ?" 

Johnson — " From this time it is observed, that he be- 
came an enemy to the Presbyterians, whom he had fa 
vored before. He that changes his party by his humor., 
is not more virtuous than he that changes it by his in 
terest. He loves himself rather than truth." Cowper — 
" You should have proved that he was influenced by his 
humor." 

Johnson—" It were injurious to omit, that Milton after- 
wards received her father and her brothers in his own 
house, when they were distressed, with other Royalists." 
Co wper— "Strong proof of a temper both forgiving and 
liberal." 

Johnson — " But, as faction seldom leaves a man hon- 
est, however it may find him, Milton is suspected of hav- 
ing interpolated the book called 'Ikon Basilike,' &c." 
Cowper—" A strange proof of your proposition !" 

Johnson — "I cannot but remark a kind of respect, per- 
haps unconsciously paid to this great man by his biogra- 
phers. Every house in which he resided is historically 
mentioned, as if it were an injury to neglect naming any 
place that he honored by his presence." Cvwper — " They 
have all paid him more than you." 

Johnson — "If he considered the Latin Secretary as ex- 
ercising any of the powers of Government, he that had 
showed authority either with the Parliament or with 
Cromwell, might have forborne to talk very loudly of hia 
honesty." Coioper — " He might if he acted on principle, 
talk as loudly as he pleased." 

Johnson— "This darkness, had his eyes been better 
employed, had undoubtedly deserved compassion." 
Cowper—" Brute !" 

Johnson—" That his own daughters might not break 
the ranks, he suffered them to be depressed by a mean 
and penurious education. He thought women made 
only for obedience, and man only for rebellion." Cowper 
— "And could you write this without blushing? Or 
hominis ."' 

Johnson—" Such is his malignity, that hell grows darkel 
at his frown." Cowper — u And at think !" 

* See Murphy's " Essay on the Genius of Di Johnson." 

+ Ibid. 



Quoted, is perhaps the eloquent comparison 
instituted between the relative merits of Pope 
and Dryden. As Cowper alludes to this 
critique with satisfaction, we insert an ex- 
tract from it, to gratify those who are not 
familiar with its existence. Speaking of Dry- 
den, Johnson observes : " His mind has a 
larger range, and he collects his images and 
illustrations from a .more extensive circum- 
ference of science. Dryden knew more of 
man in his general nature, and Pope in his 
ocal manners. The notions of Dryden were 
formed by comprehensive speculation; and 
those of Pope by minute attention. There 
is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, 
and more certainty in that of Pope." Again : 
" Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid ; 
Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. 
Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into 
inequalities, and diversified by the varied exu- 
berance of abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a 
velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and lev- 
elled by the roller." 

" Of genius, that power which constitutes 
a poet; that quality without which judgment 
is cold, and knowledge is inert ; that energy 
which collects, combines, amplifies, and ani- 
mates ; the superiority must, with some hesi- 
tation, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be 
inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had 
only a little, because Dryden had more ; for 
every other writer since Milton must give 
place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must 
be said that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he 
has not better poems." 

,He concludes this brilliant comparison in 
the following words. "If the flights of Dry- 
den, therefore, are higher, Pope continues 
longer on the wing ; if of Dryden's fire the 
blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more 
regular and constant. Dryden often sur- 
passes expectation, and Pope never falls be- 
low it. Dryden is read with frequent aston- 
ishment, and Pope with perpetual delight."* 

We now insert the sequel of the preceding 
letter to Mr. Unwin.] 

You have already furnished John's memory 
with by far the greatest part of what a parent 
would wish to store it with. If all that is 
merely trivial, and all that has an immoral 
tendency, were expunged from our English 
poets, how would they shrink, and how would 
some of them completely vanish ! I believe 
there are some of Dryden's Fables, which he 
would find very entertaining; they are for 
the most part fine compositions, and not 
above his apprehension ; but Dryden has 
written few things that are not blotted here 
and there with an unchaste allusion, so that 
you must pick his way for him, lest he should 
tread in the dirt. You did not mention Mil- 
ton's "Allegro" and "Penseroso," which I 
* See "Life of Pope." 



remember being so charmed with when a 
boy, that I was never weary of them. There 
are even passages in the paradisiacal part oi 
" Paradise Lost," which he might study with 
advantage. And to teach him, as you can, to 
deliver some of the fine orations made in the 
Pandemonium, and those between Satan, 
Ithuriel, and Zephon, with emphasis, dignity, 
and propriety, might be of great use to him 
hereafter. The sooner the ear is formed, 
and the organs of speech are accustomed to 
the various inflections of the voice, which the 
rehearsal of those passages demands, the 
better. I should think too that Thomson's 
" Seasons " might afford him some useful les- 
sons. At least they would have a tendency 
to give his mind an observing and a philo- 
sophical turn. I do not forget that he is but 
a child, but I remember that he is a child fa- 
vored with talents superior to his years. We 
were much pleased with his remarks on youi 
alms-giving, and doubt not but it will be 
verified with respect to the two guineas you 
sent us, which have made four Christian 
people happy. Ships I have none, nor have 
touched a pencil these three years ; if ever I 
take it up again, which I rather suspect I 
shall not (the employment requiring stronger 
eyes than mine,) it shall be at John's service. 
Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Jan. 31, 1782. 
My dear Friend, — Having thanked you for 
a barrel of very fine oysters, I should have 
nothing more to say, if I did not determine to 
say everything that may happen to occur. 
The political world affords no very agreeable 
subjects at present, nor am I sufficiently con- 
versant with it to do justice to so magnificent 
a theme, if it did. A man that lives as I do, 
whose chief occupation at this season of the 
year, is to walk ten times in a day from the 
fire-side to his cucumber frame and back 
again, cannot show his wisdom more, if he 
has any wisdom to show, than by leaving the 
mysteries of government to the management 
of persons in point of situation and informa- 
tion, much better qualified for the business. 
Suppose not, however, that I am perfectly an 
unconcerned spectator, or that I take no in- 
terest at all in the affairs of the country ; far 
from it — I read the news — I see that things 
go wrong in every quarter. I meet, now and 
then, with an account of some disaster that 
seems to be the indisputable progeny of 
treachery, cowardice, or a spirit of faction ; 
recollect that in those happier days, when 
you and I could spend our evening in enume- 
rating victories and acquisitions, that seemed 
to follow each other in a continued series 
* Private ccrespondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



123 



there was some pleasure in hearing a politi- 
cian ; and a man might talk away upon so 
entertaining a subject, without danger of be- 
coming tiresome to others, or incurring weari- 
less himself. When poor Bob White brought 
me the news of Boscaweivs success off the 
coast of Portugal, how did I leap for joy ! 
When Hawke demolished Conflans, I was 
still more transported. But nothing could 
express my rapture, when Wolfe made the 
conquest of Quebec. I am not, therefore, I 
suppose, destitute of true patriotism; but 
the course of public events has, of late, af- 
forded me no opportunity to exert it. I can- 
not rejoice, because I see no reason ; and I 
wjll not murmur, because for that I can find 
no good one. And let me add, he that has 
seen both sides of fifty, has lived to little 
purpose, if he has not other views of the 
world than he had when he was much 
younger. He finds, if he reflects at all, that it 
will be to the end what it has been from the 
beginning, a shifting, uncertain, fluctuating 
scene ; that nations, as well as individuals, 
have their seasons of infancy, youth, and age. 
[f he be an Englishman, he will observe that 
ours, in particular, is affected with every 
symptom of decay, and is already sunk into 
a state of decrepitude. I am reading Mrs. 
Macaulay's History. I am not quite such a 
superannuated simpleton as to suppose that 
mankind were wiser or much better when I 
was young than they are now. But I may 
venture to assert, without exposing myself 
to the charge of dotage, that the men whose 
integrity, courage, and wisdom, broke the 
bands of tyranny, established our constitu- 
tion upon its true basis, and gave a people 
overwhelmed with the scorn of all countries 
an opportunity to emerge into a state of the 
highest respect and estimation, make a better 
figure in history than any of the present day 
are likely to do, when their petty harangues 
are forgotten, and nothing shall survive but 
the remembrance of the views and motives 
with which they made them. 

My dear friend, I have written at random, 
in every sense, neither knowing what senti- 
ments T should broach when I began, nor 
whether they would accord with yours. Ex- 
cuse a rustic, if he errs on such a subject, 
and believe me sincerely yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Feb. 2, 1782. 
My dear Friend, — Though I value your 
correspondence highly on its own account, I 
certainly value it the more in consideration 
of the many difficulties under which you 
Wrry it on. Having so many other engage- 
ments, a d engagements so much more wor- 
Ihy yoiu ttention, I ought to esteem it, as 



I do, a singular proof of your friendship that 
you so often make an opportunity to bestow 
a letter upon me ; and this not only because 
mine, which I write in a state of mind not 
very favorable to religious contemplations, 
are never worth your reading, but especially 
because while you consult my gratification, 
and endeavor to amuse my melancholy, your 
thoughts are forced out of the only channel 
in which they delight to flow, and constrained 
into another so different, and so little inter- 
esting to a mind like yours, that, but for me, 
and for my sake, they would perhaps never 
visit it. Though I should be glad therefore 
j to hear from you every week, J do not com- 
plain that I enjoy that privelege but once in 
a fortnight, but am rather happy to be in- 
dulged in it so often. 

I thank you for the jog you gave John- 
son's elbow ; communicated from him to the 
printer, it has produced me two more sheets, 
and two more will bring the business, I sup- 
pose, to a conclusion. I sometimes feel such 
a perfect indifference, with respect to the 
public opinion of my book, that I am ready 
to flatter myself no censure of reviewers or 
other critical readers would occasion me the 
smallest disturbance. But not feeling my- 
self constantly possessed of this desirable 
apathy, I am sometimes apt to suspect that 
it is not altogether sincere, or at least that I 
may lose it just at the moment when I may 
happen most to want it. Be it, however, 
as it may, I am still persuaded that it is 
not in their power to mortify me much. 
I have intended well, and performed to the 
best of my ability : so far was right, and this 
is a boast of which they cannot rob me. If 
they condemn my poetry, I must even say 
with Cervantes, " Let them do better if they 
can !" — if my doctrine, they judge that which 
they do not understand; I shall except to 
the jurisdiction of the court, and plead Coram 
non judice. Even Horace could say he 
should neither be the plumper for the praise 
nor the leaner for the commendation of his 
readers ; and it will prove me wanting to 
myself indeed, if, supported by so many sub- 
limer considerations than he was master of, I 
cannot sit loose to popularity, winch, like the 
wind, bloweth where it listeth, and is equally 
out of our command. If you, and two or 
three more such as you are, say, well done, 
it ought to give me more contentment than 
if I could earn Churchill's laurels, and by the 
same means. 

I wrote to Lord Dartmouth to apprise him 
of my intended present, and have received a 
most affectionate and obliging answer. 

I am rather pleased that you have adopted 

other sentiments respecting our intended 

present to the critical Doctor* I allow him 

to be a man of gigantic talents and «:«*»> 

* Dr. Jot 



124 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



profound learning, nor have I any doubts 
about the universality of his knowledge : but, 
by what I have seen of his animadversions 
on the poets, I feel myself much disposed to 
question, in many instances, either his can- 
dor or his taste. He finds fault too often, 
like a man that, having sought it very indus- 
triously, is at last obliged to stick it on a 
pin's point, and look at it through a micro- 
scope ; and, I am sure, I could easily convict 
him of having denied many beauties and 
overlooked more. Whether his judgment 
be in itself defective, or whether it be warped 
by collateral considerations, a writer upon 
such subjects as I have chosen would proba- 
bly find but little mercy at his hands. 

No winter, since we knew Olney, has kept 
us more confined than the present. We 
have not more than three times escaped into 
the fields since last autumn. Man, a change- 
able creature in himself, seems to subsist 
best in a state of variety, as his proper ele- 
ment: — a melancholy man, at least, is apt 
to grow sadly weary of the same walks, 
and the same pales, and to find that the 
same scene will suggest the same thoughts 
perpetually. 

Though I have spoken of the utility of 

changes, we neither feel nor wish for any in 

our friendships, and consequently stand just 

where we did with respect to your whole self. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Feb. 9, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for Mr. 
Lowth's verses. They are so good that, had 
I been present when he spoke them, I should 
have trembled for the boy, lest the man 
should disappoint the hopes such early genius 
had given birth to. It is not common to see 
so lively a fancy so correctly managed, and 
so free from irregular exuberance, at so un- 
experienced an age, fruitful, yet not wan- 
ton, and gay without being tawdry. When 
school-boys write verse, if they have any fire 
at all, it generally spends itself in flashes and 
transient sparks, which may indeed suggest 
an expectation of something better hereafter, 
but deserve not to be much commended for 
any real merit of their own. Their wit is 
generally forced and false, and their sublim- 
ity, if they affect any, bombast. I remember 
well when it was thus with me, and when a 
turgid, noisy, unmeaning speech in a tragedy, 
which I should now laugh at, afforded me 
raptures, and filled me with wonder. It is 
not in general till reading and observation 
have settled the taste that we can give the 
prize k) the best writing in preference to the 
worst. Much less are we able to execute what 
is good ourselves. But Lowth seems to have 



stepped into excellence at once, and to hav« 
gained by intuition what we little folks are 
happy if we can learn at last, after much la- 
bor of our own and instruction of others. 
The compliments he pays to the memory of 
King Charles he would probably now retract 
though he be 5, bishop, and his majesty's 
zeal for episcopacy was one of the causes of 
his ruin. An age or two must pass before 
some characters can be properly understood. 
The spirit of party employs itself in veiling 
their faults and ascribing to them virtues 
which they never possessed. See Charles's 
face drawn by Clarendon, and it is a hand- 
some portrait. See it more justly exhibit- 
ed by Mrs. Macaulay, and it is deformed to 
a degree that shocks us. Every feature 
expresses cunning, employing itself in the 
maintaining of tyranny ; and dissimulation, 
pretending itself an advocate for truth. 

My letters have already apprized you of 
that close and intimate connexion that took 
place between the lady you visited in Queen 
Anne's street and us.* Nothing could be 
more promising, though sudden in the com- 
mencement. She treated us with as much 
unreservedness of communication as if we 
had been born in the same house and edu- 
cated together. At her departure, she her- 
self proposed a correspondence, and because 
writing does not agree with your mother, 
proposed a correspondence with me. By her 
own desire, I wrote to her under the assumed 
relation of brother, and she to me as my 
sister. 

I thank you for the search you have made 
after my intended motto, but I no longer 
need it. 

Our love is always with yourself and 
family. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

Lady Austen returned in the following 
summer to the house of her sister, situated 
on the brow of a hill, the foot of which is 
washed by the river Ouse, as it flows between 
Clifton and Olney. Her benevolent ingenuity 
was exerted to guard the spirit of Cowper 
from sinking again into that hypochondriacal 
dejection to which, even in her company, he 
still sometimes discovered an alarming ten- 
dency. To promote his occupation and 
amusement, she furnished him with a smalJ 
portable printing press, and he gratefully sent 
her the following verses printed by himself, 
and enclosed in a billet that alludes to the 
occasion on which they were composed — a 
very unseasonable flood, that interrupted the 
communication between Clifton and Olney, 

To watch the storms, and hear the sky 
Give all our almanacks the lie ; 
To shake with cold, and see the plains 
In autumn drown'd with wintry rains ; 

* Lady Austen. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



131 



"Tis thus I spend my moments here, 
And wish myself a Dutch mynheer; 
I then should have no need of wit ; 
For lumpish Hollander unfit ! 
Nor should I then repine at mud, 
Or meadows deluged with a flood ; 
But in a bog live well content, 
And find it just my element; 
Should be a clod, and not a man ; 
Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann, 
With charitable aid to drag 
My mind out of its proper quag ; 
Should have the genius of a boor, 
And no ambition to have more. 

My dear Sister, — You see my beginning — 
I do not know but in time, I may proceed 
even to the printing of halfpenny ballads — 
excuse the coarseness of my paper — I wasted 
such a quantity before I could accomplish 
anything legible that I could not afford finer. 
I intend to employ an ingenious mechanic of 
the town to make me a longer case : for you 
may observe that my lines turn up their tails 
like Dutch mastiffs, so difficult do I find it to 
make the two halves exactly coincide with 
each other. 

We wait with impatience for the departure 
of this unseasonable flood. We think of you, 
and talk of you, but we can do no more till 
the waters shall subside. I do not think our 
correspondence should drop because we are 
within a mile of each other. It is but an 
imaginary approximation, the flood having in 
reality as effectually parted us as if the Brit- 
ish channel rolled "between us. 

Yours, my dear sister, with Mrs. Unwin's 
best love, W. C. 

A flood Jthat precluded him from the con- 
versation of such an enlivening friend was to 
Cowper d serious evil ; but he was happily 
relieved from the apprehension of such disap- 
pointment in future, by seeing the friend so 
pleasing and so useful to him very comfort- 
ably settled as his next-door neighbor. An 
event so agreeable to the poet was occasioned 
by circumstances of a painful nature, related 
.n a letter to Mr. Unwin, which, though it 
bears no date of month or year, seems pro- 
perly to claim insertion in this place. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

My dear William, — The modest terms in 
which you express yourswf on the subject of 
Lady Austen's commendation embolden me 
to add my suffrage to hers, and to confirm it 
by assuring you that I think her just and well- 
founded in her opinion of you. The compli- 
ment indeed glances at myself; for, were you 
less than she accounts you, I ought not to 
afford you that place in my esteem which you 
have held so long. My own sagacity, there- 
fore, and discernment are not a little con- 
cerned upon the occasion, for either you 



resemble the picture, or I have strangelv 
mistaken my man, and formed an erroneous 
jndgment of his character. With respect to 
your face and figure, indeed, there I leave the 
ladies' to determine, as being naturally best 
qualified to decide the point; but whether 
you are perfectly the man of sense and tne 
gentleman, is a question in which I am as 
much interested as they, and which, you be- 
ing my friend, I am of course prepared to 
settle in your favor. The lady (whom, when 
you know her as well, you will love her as 
much, as we do) is, and has been, during the 
last fortnight, a part of our family. Before 
she was perfectly restored to health, she re- 
turned to Clifton. Soon after she-came back, 
Mr. Jones had occasion to go to London. 
No sooner was he gone than the chateau, be- 
ing left without a garrison, was besieged as 
regularly as the night came on. Villains were 
both heard and seen in the garden, and at the 
doors and windows. The kitchen window in 
particular was attempted, from which they 
took a complete pane of glass, exactly oppo- 
site to the iron by which it was fastened, but 
providentially the window had been nailed to 
the wood- work in order to keep it close, and 
that the air might be excluded ; thus they were 
disappointed, and, being discovered by the 
maid, withdrew. The ladies, being worn out 
with continual watching and repeated alarms, 
were at last prevailed upon to take refuge 
with us. Men furnished with firearms were 
put into the house, and the rascals, having 
intelligence of this circumstance, beat a re- 
treat. Mr. Jones returned; Mrs. Jones and 
Miss Green, her daughter, left us, but Lady 
Austen's spirits having been too much dis- 
turbed to be able to repose in a place where 
she had been so much terrified, she was left 
behind. She remains with us till her lodg 
ings at the vicarage can be made ready for 
her reception. I have now sent you what 
has occured of moment in our history since 
my last. 

I say amen with all my heart to your ob- 
servation on religious characters. Men who 
profess themselves adepts in mathematical 
knowledge, in astronomy, or jurisprudence, 
are generally as "well qualified as they would 
appear. The reason may be, that they are 
always liable to detection should they at- 
tempt to impose upon mankind, and therefore 
take care to be what they pretend. In re- 
ligion alone a profession is often slightly 
taken up and slovenly carried on, because, 
forsooth, candor and charity require us to 
hope the best, and to judge favorably of our 
neighbor, and because it is easy to deceive 
the ignorant, who are a great majority, upon 
this subject. Let a man attach himself to 
a particular party, contend furiously for what 
are properly called evangelical doctrines, and 
enlist himself under the banner of some 



126 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



popular preacher, and the business is done. 
Behold a Christian ! a saint ! a phoenix ! In 
the meantime, perhaps, his heart and his 
temper, and even his conduct, are unsancti- 
fied ; possibly less exemplary than those of 
some avowed infidels. No matter — he can 
talk — he has the Shibboleth of the true 
church — -the Bible in his pocket, and a head 
well stored with notions. But the quiet, 
humble, modest, and peaceable person, who 
is in his practice what the other is only 
in his profession, who hates a noise, and 
therefore makes none, who, knowing the 
snares that are in the world, keeps himself as 
much out of it as he can, and never enters it 
but when duty calls, and even then with fear 
and trembling — is the Christian, that will al- 
ways stand highest in the estimation of those 
who bring all characters to the test of true 
wisdom, and judge of the tree by its fruit. 

You are desirous of visiting the prisoners ; 
you wish to administer to their necessities, 
and to give them instruction. This task you 
will undertake, though you expect to en- 
counter many things in the performance of 
it that will give you pain. Now this I can 
understand — you will, not listen to the sensi- 
bilities that distress yourself, but to the dis- 
tresses of others. Therefore, when I meet 
with one of the specious praters above men- 
tioned, I will send him to Stock, that by your 
diffidence he may be taught a lesson of mod- 
esty ; by your generosity, a little feeling for 
others ; and by your general conduct,- in short, 
to chatter less and do more. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Feb. 16, 1782. 

Carraccioli says — " There is something 
very bewitching in authorship, and that he 
who has once written will write again." It 
may be so ; I can subscribe to the former 
part of his assertion from my own experience, 
having never found an amusement, among 
the many I have been obliged to have re- 
course to, that so well answered the purpose 
for which I used it. The quieting and com- 
posing effect of it was such, and so totally 
absorbed have I sometimes been in my rhym- 
ing occupation, that neither the past nor the 
future (those themes which to me are so fruit- 
ful in regret at other times) had any longer 
a share in my contemplation. For this 
reason, I wish, and have often wished, since 
the fit left me, that it would seize me again ; 
but hitherto I have wished it in vain. I see 
no want of subjects, but I feel a total dis- 
ability to discuss them. Whether it is thus 
witn other writers or not I am ignorant, but 
I should suppose my case 'in this respect a 
Uttle peculiar. The voluminous writers, at 



least, whose vein of fancy seems always to 
have been rich in proportion to their oc* 
casions^annot have been so unlike and so 
unequal to themselves. There is this differ- 
ence between my poetship and the generality 
of them — they have been ignorant how much 
they have stood indebted to an Almighty 
power for the exercise of those taients they 
have supposed their own. Whereas I know, 
and know most perfectly, and am perhaps to b* 
taught it to the last, that my power to think 
whatever it be, and consequently my power 
to compose, is, as much as my outward form, 
afforded to me by the same hand thaf makes 
me in any respect to differ from a brute. 
This lesson, if not constantly inculcated, 
might perhaps be forgotten, or at least too 
slightly remembered. - 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Feb. 24, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — If I should receive a 
letter from you to-morrow, you must still 
remember, that I am not in your debt, hav- 
ing paid you by anticipation. Knowing that 
you take an interest in my publication, and 
that you have waited for it with some im- 
patience, I write to inform you, that, if it is 
possible for a printer to be punctual, I shall 
come forth on the first of March. I have 
ordered two copies to Stock; one for Mr. 
John Unwin. It is possible, after all, that 
my book may come forth without a preface. 
Mr. Newton has written (he could indeed 
write no other) a very sensible, as well as a 
very friendly one : and it is printed. But the 
bookseller, who knows him well, and es- 
teems him highly, is anxious to have it can- 
celled, and, with my consent first obtained, 
has offered to negotiate that matter with the 
author. He judges, that, though it would 
serve to recommend the volume to the re- 
ligious, it would disgust the profane, and 
that there is in reality no need of a preface 
at all. I have found Johnson a very judi- 
cious man on other occasions, and am there- 
fore willing that he should determine for me 
upon this. 

There are but few persons to whom I pre- 
sent my book. The Lord Chancellor is one. 
I enclose in a" packet I send by this post to 
Johnson a letter to his lordship, which will 
accompany the volume ; and to you I en- 
close a copy of it, because I know you will 
have a friendly curiosity to see it. An au- 
thor is an important character. Whatever 
his merits may be, the mere circumstance of 
authorship warrants his approach to persons 
whom otherwise perhaps he could hardly ad- 
dress without being deemed impertinent. He 
can do me no good. If I should happen to 
do him a little, I shall be a greater man thai? 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



12* 



■e. I have ordered a copy likewise to Mr. 
Smith. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO LORD THCRLOW. 

(EN-CLOSED TO MR. UXWIX.) 

• Olney, Bucks. Feb. 25. I78BL 

My Lord, — I make no apology for what I 
account a duty. I should offend against the 
cordiality of our former friendship should I 
send a volume into the world, and forget 
how much I am bound to pay my particular 
respects to your lordship upon that occasion. 
When we parted, you little thought of hear- 
ing from me again : and I as little that I 
should live to write to you. still less that I 
should wait on you in the capacity of an 
author. 

Among the pieces I have the honor to 
send there is one for which I must entreat 
your pardon : I mean that of which your 
lordship is the subject. The best excuse I 
can make is, that it riowed almost spontane- 
ously from the affectionate remembrance of 
a connexion that did me so much honor. 

A- to the rest, their merits, if they have 
any, and their defects, which are probably 
more than I am aware of, will neither of 
them escape your notice. But where there 
is much discernment, there is generally much 
candor : and I commit myself into your lord- 
ship's hands with the less anxiety, being well 
acquainted with yours. 

If my first visit, after so long an interval, 
should prove neither a troublesome nor a dull 
one, but especially, if not altogether an un- 
profitable one, omne tidit punctum. 

I have the honor to be, though with very 
different impressions of some subjects, yet 
with the same sentiments of affection and 
esteem as ever, your lordship's faithful and 
most obedient, humble servant, 

W. C. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Feb., 1782. 
My dear Friend, — I enclose Johnson's let- 
ter upon the subject of the Preface, and 
would send you my reply to it, if I had kept 
a copy. This however was the purport of 

it. That Mr. , whom I described as you 

described him to me, had made a similar ob- 
jection, but that, being willing to hope that 
two or three pages of sensible matter, well 
expressed, might possibly go down, though 
of a religious cast. I was resolved to believe 
him mistaken, and to pay no regard to it. 
That his judgment, however, who by his 
occupation is bound to understand what will 
promote the sale of a book, and what will 
hinder it, seemed to deserve more attention. 
That therefore, v ording to his own offer, 



written on a small slip of paper now lost, a 
should be obliged to him if he would state 
his difficulties to you ; adding, I need not 
inform Mm, who is so well acquainted with 
you, that he would find you easy to be per- 
suaded to sacrifice, if necessary, what you 
had written, to the interests of the book. I 
find he has had an interview with you upon 
the occasion, and your behavior in it has 
verified my prediction. What course he de- 
termines upon, I do not know, nor am I at 
all anxious about it. It is impossible for 
me, however, to be so insensible of your 
kindness in writing the Preface, as not to be 
desirous of defying all contingencies, rather 
than entertain a wish to suppress it. It will 
do me honor in the eyes of those whose good 
opinion is indeed an honor ; and if it hurts 
me in the estimation of others, I camiot help 
it ; the fault is neither yours, nor mine, but 
theirs. If a minister's is a more splendid 
character than a poet's, and I think nobody 
that understands their vaiue can hesitate in 
deciding that question, then undoubtedly the 
advantage of having our names united in the 
same volume is all on my side. 

We thank you for the Fast-sermon. I had 
not read two pages before I exclaimed — the 
man has read Expostulation. But though 
there is a strong resemblance between the 
two pieces, in point of matter, and some- 
times the very same expressions are to be 
met with, yet I soon recollected that, on 
such a theme, a striking coincidence of both 
might happen without a wonder. I doubt 
not that it is the production of an hones* 
man, it carries with it an air of sincerity an 
zeal that is not easily counterfeited. But, 
though I can see no reason why kings 
should not hear sometimes of their faults 
as well as other men, I think I see many 
good ones why they should not be reproved 
so publicly. It can hardly be done with that 
respect which is due to their office, on the 
part of the author, or without encouraging a 
spirit of unmannerly censure in his readers. 
His majesty too. perhaps, might answer — my 
own personal feelings, and offences, I am 
ready to confess, but were I to follow your 
advice, and cashier the profligate from my 
service, where must I seek men of faith and 
true Christian piety, qualified by nature and 
by education to succeed them ? Business 
must be done, men of business alone can do 
it, and good men are rarely found, under that 
description. When Xathan reproved David, 
he did not employ a herald, or accompany 
his charge with the sound of the trumpet ; 
nor can I think the writer of this sermon 
quite justifiable in exposing the king's faults 
in the sight of the people. 

Your answer respecting iEtna is quite sat- 
isfactory, and gives me much pleasure. 1 
hate altering, though I never refuse the task 



128 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



when propriety seems to enjoin it ; and an 
alteration in this instance, if I am not mis- 
taken, would have been singularly difficult. 
Indeed, when a piece has been finished two 
or three years, and an author finds occasion 
to amend" or make an addition to it, it is not 
easy to fall upon the very vein from which 
he drew his ideas in the first instance, but 
either a different turn of thought or expres- 
sion will betray the patch, and convince a 
reader of discernment that it has been cob- 
bled and varnished. 

Our love to you both, and to the young 
Euphrosyne ; the old lady of that name be- 
Jig long since dead, if she pleases, she shall 
Sll her vacant office, and be my muse here- 
-fter. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 6, 1782. 

Is peace the nearer because our patriots 
nave resolved that it is desirable ? Will the 
victory they have gained in the House of 
Commons be attended with any other ? Do 
they expect the same success on other occa- 
sions, and, having once gained a majority, are 
they to be the majority forever ?* These are 
the questions we agitate by the fire-side in 
an evening, without being able to come to 
any certain conclusion, partly, I suppose, be- 
cause the subject is in itself uncertain, and 
partly, because we are not furnished with 
the means of understanding it. I find the 
politics of times past more intelligible than 
those of the present. Time has thrown light 
upon what was , obscure, and decided what 
was ambiguous. The characters of great 
men, which are always mysterious while 
they live, are ascertained by the faithful his- 
torian, and sooner or later receive the wages 
of fame or infamy, according to their true 
deserts. How have I seen sensible, and 
learned men burn incense to the memory of 
Oliver Cromwell, ascribing to him, as the 
greatest hero in the world, the dignity of 
the British empire, during the interregnum. 
A century passed before that idol, which 
seemed to be of gold, was proved to be a 
wooden one. The fallacy, however, was at 
length detected, and the honor of that detec- 
tion has fallen to the share of a woman. I 
do not know whether you have read Mrs. 
Macaulay's history of that period. She has 
handled him more roughly that the Scots did 
at the battle of Dunbar. He would have 
thought it little worth his while to have 
broken through all obligations divine and 

* The nation was growing weary of the American war, 
especially since the surrender of Lord Comwallis's army 
»t York Town, and the previous capture of General Bur- 
goyne's at Saratoga. The ministry at this time were fre- 
quently odtvoted, and Lord North's administration was 
Utimately dissolved. 



human, to have wept crocodile's tears, and 
wrapped himself up in the obscurity of 
speeches that nobody could understand, 
could he have foreseen that, in the ensuing 
century, a lady's scissors would clip his lau- 
rels close, and expose his naked villainy to 
the scorn of all posterity. This however 
has been accomplished, and so effectually, 
that I suppose it is not in the power cf the 
most artificial management to make them 
grow again. Even the sagacious of man- 
kind are blind, when Providence leaves them 
to be deluded ; so blind, that a tyrant shall 
be mistaken for a true patriot : true patriots 
(such were the long Parliament) shall be ab- 
horred as tyrants, and almost a whole nation 
shall dream that they have the full enjoy, 
ment of liberty, for years after such a com- 
plete knave as Oliver shall have stolen it 
completely from them. I am indebted for 
all this show of historical knowledge to Mr. 
Bull, who has lent me five volumes of the 
work I mention. I was willing to display 
it while I have it ; in a twelvemonth's time, 
I shall remember almost nothing of the 
matter. . W. C. 

It has been the lot of Cromwell to be 
praised too little or too much. Of his politi- 
cal delinquencies, and gross hypocrisy, there 
can be only one opinion. But those who 
are conversant with that period well know 
how the genius of Mazarine, the minister of 
Louis XIII., was awed by the decision and 
boldness of Cromwell's character ; that Smin 
and Holland experienced a signal humilia- 
tion, and that the victories of Admiral Blake 
at that crisis are among the most brilliant 
records of our naval fame. It was in allu- 
sion to these triumphs that Waller remarks, 
in his celebrated panegyric on the Lord Pro- 
tector, 

" The seas our own, and now all nations greet, 
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet. 
Your power extends as far as winds can blow, 
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go."* 

We add the following anecdote recorded of 
Waller, though it is probably familiar to 
many of our readers. On Charles's resto- 
ration the poet presented that prince with a 
congratulatory copy of verses, when the king 
shortly afterwards observed, "You wrote 
better verses on Cromwell ;" to which Wal- 
ler replied, " Please your majesty, we poets 
always succeed better in fiction than in truth." 

TO THE REV. WM. UNWIN. 

Olney, March 7, 1782. 

My dear Friend,— We have great pleasure 
in the contemplation of your northern jour- 
ney, as it promises us a sight of you and 

* Walter's Panegyric to my Lord Protector, 1654. 



L^FE OF COWPER. 



123 



yours by the way, and are only sorry Miss 
Shuttleworth cannot be of the party. A line 
to ascertain the hour when we may expect you, 
by the next preceding post, will be welcome. 

It is not much for my advantage that the 
printer delays so long to gratify your ex- 
pectation. It is a state of mind that is apt 
to tire and disconcert us; and there are but 
few pleasures that make us amends for the 
pain of repeated disappointment. I take it 
for granted you have not received the vol- 
ume, not having received it myself, nor in- 
deed heard from Johnson, since he fixed the 
first of the month for its publication. 

What a medley are our public prints ! Half 
the page rilled with the ruin of the country ; 
and the other half rilled with the vices and 
pleasures of it — here is an island taken, and 
there a new comedy — here an empire lost, 
and there an Italian opera, or a lord's rout 
on a Sunday ! 

" May it please your lordship ! I am an 
Englishman, and must stand or fall with the 
nation. Religion, its true palladium, has 
been stolen away; and it is crumbling into 
dust. Sin ruins us, the sins of the great 
especially, and of their sins especially the 
violation of the sabbath, because it is natu- 
rally productive of all the rest. If you wish 
well to our arms, and would be glad to see 
the kingdom emerging from her ruins, pay 
more respect to an ordinance that deserves 
the deepest ! I do not say, pardon this short 
remonstrance! The concern I feel for my 
country, and the interest I have in its pros- 
perity, give me a right to make it. I am, &e." 

Thus one might write to his lordship, and 
(I suppose) might be as profitably employed 
in whistling the tune of an old ballad. 

I have no copy of the Preface, nor do I 
know at present how Johnson and Mr. New- 
ton have settled it. In the matter of it there 
was nothing offensively peculiar. But it 
was thought too pious. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

It is impossible to read this passage with- 
out very painful emotions. How low must 
have been the state of religion at that period, 
when the introduction of a Preface to the 
Poems of Cowper, by the Rev. John New- 
ton, was sufficient to endanger their popu- 
larity. We are at the same time expressly 
assured, that there was nothing in the Pref- 
ace offensively peculiar ; and that the only 
charge alleged against it was that of its be- 
ing " too pious." What a melancholy .pic- 
ture does this single fact present of the state 
of religion in those days ; and with what 
sentiment'- of gratitude ought we to hail the 
great moral revolution that has since oc- 
curred ! Witness the assemblage of so many 
Christian charities, our Bible, Missionary, 
Jewish, and Tract Societies, which, to use 



the. emphatic language of Burke, "like so 
many non-conductors, avert the impending 
wrath of heaven !" Witness the increasing 
instances of rank ennobled by piety, and 
consecrated to its advancement ! Witness 
too tb° entrance of religion into our seats of 
learning, and into °ome of our public schools, 
thus presenting the delightful spectacle of 
classic taste and knowledge in alliance with 
heavenly wisdom. To these causes of pious 
gratitude we may add the revival of religion 
among our clergy, and generally among the 
ministers of the sanctuary, till we are con- 
strained to exclaim, " How beautiful upon 
the mountains are the feet of him that bring- 
eth good tidings, that publisheth peace, that 
saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth !"* *We 
trust that we a:e indulging in no vain ex- 
pectation, when we express our firm persua- 
sion, that the dawn of a brighter day is ar- 
rived ; and though we see, both at home and 
on the comment of Europe, much over which 
piety may weep and tremble, while idolatry 
and superstition spread their thick veil of 
darkness over the largest portion of the 
globe, still, notwithstanding all these impedi- 
ments and discouragements, we believe that 
the materials for the moral amelioration of 
mankind are all prepared; and that nothing 
but the fire of the Eternal Spirit is wanting, 
to kindle them into flame and splendor. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 14, 178?, 

My dear Friend,— 1 can only repeat wha 
1 said some time since, that the world i- 
grown more foolish and careless than it was 
when I had the honor of knowing it. Though 
your Preface was of a serious cast, it was 
yet free from everything that might with 
propriety expose it to the charge of xMethod- 
ism, being guilty of no offensive peculiari- 
ties, nor containing any of those obnoxious 
doctrines at which the world is apt to be an- 
gry, and which we must ofive her leave to be 
angry at, because we know she cannot help it. 
It asserted nothing more than every rational 
creature must admit to be true — " that divine 
and earthly things can no longer stand in 
competition with each other, in the judgment 
of any man, than while he continues igno- 
rant of their respective value ; and that the 
moment the eyes are opened, the latter are 
always cheerfully relinquished for the sake 
of the former." Now I do most certainly 
remember the time when such a proposition 
as this would have been at least supportable, 
and when it would not have spoiled the market 
of any volume to which it had been prefixed ; 
ergo — the times are altered for the worse. 

I have reason to be very much satisfied 
with my publisher — he marked such lines as 

* Isaiah Hi. 7. 
!> 



130 



COWPER'S WORKS 



did not please him, and, as often as I could, 
I paid all possible respect to his animadver- 
sions. You will accordingly find, at least if 
you recollect how they stood in the MS., 
thai several passages are better for having 
undergone h ; s critical notice. Indeed I know 
not where I could have found a bookseller 
who could have pointed out to me my de- 
fects with more discernment; and as I find 
it is a fashion for modern bards to publish 
the names of the literati who have favored 
their works with a revisal, would myself 
most willingly have acknowledged my obli- 
gations to Johnson, and so I told him. I 
am to thank you likewise, and ought to have 
ione it in the first place, for having recom- 
mended to me the suppression of some lines, 
which I am now more than ever convinced 
would at least have done me no honor. 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, March 14, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — As servant-maids, and 
such sort of folks, account a letter good for 
nothing, unless it begins with — This comes 
hoping you are well, as I am at this present : 
so I should be chargeable with a great omis- 
sion, were I not to make frequent use of the 
following grateful exordium — Many thanks 
for a fine cod and oysters. Your bounty 
never arrived more seasonably. I had just 
been observing that, among other deplorable 
effects of the war, the scarcity of fish which 
it occasioned was severely felt at Olney ; but 
your plentiful supply immediately reconciled 
.me, though not to the war, yet to my small 
share in the calamities it produces. 

I hope my bookseller has paid due atten- 
tion to the order I gave him to furnish you 
with my books. The composition of those 
pieces afforded me an agreeable amusement 
at intervals, for about a twelvemonth ; and I 
should be glad to devote the leisure hours 
of another twelvemonth to the same occu- 
pation ; at least, if my lucubrations should 
meet with a favorable acceptance. But I 
cannot write when I would ; and whether I 
shall find readers is a problem not yet decided. 
So the Muse and I are parted for the present. 

I sent Lord Thurlow a volume, and the 
following letter with it, which I communicate 
because you will undoubtedly have some cu- 
riosity to see it.f 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, March 18, 1782. 
My dear Friend, — Nothing has given me so 
much pleasure, since the publication of my 
rolume, as your favorable opinion of it. It 

* Private correspondence. 

< This letter lias been inserted in the preceding pages. 



may possibly meet with acceptance from hun- 
dreds, whose commendation would afford m« 
no other satisfaction than what I should find 
in the hope that it might do them good. I 
have some neighbors in this place, who say 
they like it; doubtless 1 had rather they 
should than that they should not, but I know 
them to be persons of no more taste in poetry 
than skill in the mathematics; their applause, 
therefore, is a sound that has no music in it 
for me. But my vanity was not so entirely 
quiescent when I read your friendly account 
of the manner it had affected you. It was 
tickled, and pleased, and told me in a pretty 
loud whisper, that others, perhaps, of whose 
taste and judgment I had a high opinion, 
would approve it too. As a giver of good 
counsel, I wish to please all ; as an author, I 
am perfectly indifferent to the judgment of 
all, except the few who are indeed judicious. 
The circumstance, however, in your letter 
which pleased me most, was, that you wrote 
in high spirits, and, though you said much, 
suppressed more, lest you should hurt my 
delicacy ; my delicacy is obliged to you, but 
you observe it is not so squeamish but that 
after it has feasted upon praise expressed, it 
can find a comfortable dessert in the content- 
plation of praise implied. -I now feel as if I 
should be glad to begin another volume,. bui 
from the will to the power is a step too wick 
for me to take at present, and the season of 
the year brings with it so many avocations 
into the garden, where I am my own fac-totum, 
that I have little or no leisure for the quill. 
I should do myself much wrong, were I to 
omit mentioning the great complacency with 
which I read your narrative of Mrs. Unwin's 
smiles and tears; persons of much sensibility 
are always persons of taste ; and a taste for 
poetry depends indeed upon that very article 
more than upon any other. If she had Aris- 
totle by heart, I should not esteem her judg- 
ment so highly, were she defective in point 
of feeling, as I do and must esteemit, know- 
ing her to have such feelings as Aristoti* 
could not communicate, and as half the reac* 
ers in the world are destitute of. This it i 
that makes me set so" high a price upon your 
mothers opinion. She is a critic by nature 
and not by rule, and has a perception of what 
is good or bad in composition that I never 
knew deceive her, insomuch that when two 
sorts of expression have pleaded equally for 
the precedence in my own esteem, and I have 
referred, as in such cases I always did, the 
decision of the point to her, I never knew her 
at a loss for a just one. 

Whether x shall receive any answer from 
his Chancellorship* or not, is at Dresent ir. 
ambiguo, and will probably continue in the 
same state of ambiguity much longer. He is 
so busy a man, and at this time, if the paperv 

* Lord Thurtow. 



may be credited, so particularly busy, that I 
am forced to mortify myself with the thought, 
that both my book and my letter may be 
thrown into a corner, as too insignificant for a 
statesman's notice, and never found till his 
executor finds them. This affair, however, is 
neither at my libitum nor his. I have sent 
him the truth. He that put it into the heart 
of a certain eastern monarch to amuse himself, 
one sleepless night, with listening to the rec- 
ords of his kingdom, is able to give birth to 
such another occasion, and inspire his lord- 
ship with a curiosity to know what he has 
received from a friend he once loved and 
valued. If an answer comes, however, you 
shall not long be a stranger to the contents 
of it. 

I have read your letter to their worships, 
and much approve of it. May it have the de- 
sired effect it ought ! If not, still you have 
acted a humane and becoming part, and the 
poor aching toes and fingers of The prisoners 
will not appear in judgment against you. I 
have made a slight alteration in the last sen- 
tence, which perhaps you will not disapprove. 
Yours ever, W. C. 

The conclusion of the preceding letter al- 
ludes to an application made by Mr. Unwin to 
the magistrates, for some warmer clothing for 
the prisoners in Chelmsford gaol. 

It is a gratifying reflection, that the whole 
system of prison discipline has undergone an 
entire revision since the above period. This 
reformation first commenced under the great 
philanthropist Howard, who devoted his life 
to the prosecution of so benevolent an object, 
and finally fell a victim to his zeal. Subse- 
quently, and in our own times, the system has 
been extended still further ; and the names of 
a Gurney, a Buxton, a Hoare, and others, will 
long be remembered with gratitude, as the 
friends and benefactors of these outcasts of 
society. One more effort was still wanting to 
complete this humane enterprise, viz., to en- 
deavor to eradicate the habits of vice, and to 
implant the seeds of virtue. This attempt 
has been made by Mrs. Fry and her excellent 
female associates in the prison of Newgate : 
and the result, in some instances, has proved 
that no one, however depraved, is beyond the 
reach of mercy ; and that divine truth, con- 
veyed with zeal, and in the accents of Chris- 
tian love and kindness, seldom fails to pene- 
trate into the heart and conscience. 

The unwillingness with which the mind 
receives the consolations of religion, when 
aborfng under an illusion, is painfully evinced 
n the following letter : — 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, March 24, 1782 
My dear Friend, — I was not unacquahnud 
* Private correspondence. 



with Mr. B 's extraordinary case* befora 

you favored me with his letter and his in- 
tended dedication to the Queen, though I am 
obliged to you for a sight of those two curi- 
osities, which I do not recollect to have ever 
seen till you sent them. I could, however 
were it not a subject that would make us all 
melancholy, point out to you some essential 
differences between his state of mind and my 
own. which would prove mine to be by far 
the most deplorable of the two. I suppose 
no man would despair, if he did not apprehend 
something singular in the circumstances of 
his own story, something that discriminates 
it from that of every other man, and that in- 
duces despair as an inevitable consequence. 
You may encounter his unhappy persuasion 
witli as many instances as you please of per- 
sons who, like him, having renounced all hope, 
were yet restored; and may thence infer that 
he, like them, shall meet with a season of 
restoration — but it is in vain. Every such 
individual accounts himself an exception to all 
rules, and Therefore the blessed reverse that 
others have experienced affords no ground of 
comfortable expectation to him. But, you 
will say, it is reasonable to conclude, that a*- 
all your predecessors in this vale of misery 
and horror have found themselves delightful- 
ly disappointed at last, so will you :— I grant 
the reasonableness of it : it would be sinful, 
perhaps, because uncharitable, to reason oth- 
erwise ; but an argument, hypothetical in its 
nature, however rationally conducted, may 
lead to a false conclusion; and, in this in- 
stance, so will yours. But I forbear. For 
the cause above mentioned, I will say no 
more, though it is a subject on which I could 
write more than the mail would carry. 1 
must deal with you as I deal with poor Mrs. 
Unwin, in all our disputes about it, cutting 
all controversy short by an appeal to the 
event. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWLN. 

Olney, April 1, 17 ;. 

My dear Friend, — I could not have found a 

* The person here alluded to is Simon Browne, a 
learned Dissenting minister, born at Shepton Mallet, 
about the year 1680. He labored under a most extraor- 
dinary species of mental derangement, which led him to 
believe "thai God hud in a gradual manner annihilated 
in him the thinking substance, and utterly divested him 
of consciousness ; and that, although he retained the hu- 
man shape, and the faculty of speaking, in a manner that 
appeared toothers rational, he had all the while no more 
not ion of what he said than a parrot." His intellectual 
faculties were not in any way affected by this singular 
alienation of n.bid, in proof of which he published many 
theological works, written with groat clearness and 
vigor of thought. He addressed a Dedication to Queen 
Caroline, in which he details the peculiarities of his ex- 
traordinary case, but his friends prevented its publica 
tion. It was subsequently inserted in No. 83 of the " Ad 
venturer." Such was the force of his delusion, that he 
considered himself no longer to be a moral agent: he de- 
sisted from his ministerial functions, and could never b< 
induced to engage in any act of worship, public or fri 
Tate. In this state he died, in UV year 1.3-1 aged rift) 
five years. 



132 



COWP,ER'S WORKS. 



better trumpeter. Your zeal to serve the in- 
terest of my volume, together with your ex- 
tensive acquaintance, qualify you perfectly for 
that most useful office. Methinks I see' you 
with the long tube at your mouth, proclaim- 
ing to your numerous connexions my poetical 
merits, and at proper intervals levelling it at 
Olney, and pouring- into my ear the welcome 
sound of their approbation. I need not en- 
courage you to proceed ; your breath will 
never iailjn such a cause; and, thus encour- 
aged, I myself perhaps may proceed also, and, 
when the versifying tit returns, produce anoth- 
er volume. Alas ! we shall never receive such 
commendations from him on the woolsack 
as your good friend has lavished upon us. 
Whence I learn that, however important I 
may be in my own eyes, I am very insignifi- 
cant in his. To make me amends, however, 
for this mortification, Mr. Newton tells me 
that my book is likely to run, spread, and pros- 
per; that the grave cannot help smiling, and 
the gay are struck with the truth of it; and 
that it is likely to find its way into his Ma- 
jesty's hands, being put into a proper course 
for that purpose. Now, if the King should 
fall in love with my muse, and with you for 
her sake, such an event would make us am- 
ple amends for the Chancellor's indifference, 
and you might be the first divine that ever 
reached a mitre, from the shoulders of a poet. 
But (I believe) we must be content, I with 
my gains, if I gain anything, and you with 
the pleasure of knowing that I am a gainer. 

We laughed heartily at your answer to lit- 
tle John's question ; and yet I think you 
might have given him a direct answer — 
" There are various sorts of cleverness, my 
dear. — I do not know that mine lies in the 
poetical way, but I can do ten times more 
towards the entertainment of company in the 
way of conversation than our friend at Olney. 
He can ryhme and I can rattle. If he had my 
talent, or I had his, we should be too charm- 
ing, and the world would almost adore us." 
Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, April 27, 1782. 

My dear William, — A part of Lord Har- 
rington's new-raised corps have taken up 
their quarters at Olney, since you left us. 
They have the regimental music with them. 
The men have been drawn up this morning 
upon the Market-hill, and a concert, such as 
we have not heard these many years, has 
been performed at no great distance from our 
window. Your mother and I both thrust our 
heads into the coldest east wind that ever 
blew in April, that we might hear them to 
greater advantage. The band acquitted them- 
selves with taste and propriety, not blairing, 
like trumpeters at a fair, but producing gentle 



and elegant symphony, such as charmed oui 
ears and convinced us that no length of time 
can wear out a taste for harmony, and that 
though plays, balls, and masquerades, have 
lost all their power to please us, and we 
should find them not only insipid but insup- 
portable, yet sweet music is sure to find a 
corresponding faculty in the soul, a sensi- 
bility that lives to the last, which even re- 
ligion itself does not extinguish. 

When we objected to your coming for a 
single night, it was only in the way of argu- 
ment, and in hopes to prevail on you to con- 
trive a longer abode with us. But rather 
than riot see you at all, we should be glad of 
you though but for an hour. If the paths 
should be clean enough, and we are able to 
walk, (for you know we cannot ride,) we will 
endeavor to meet you in Weston-park. But 
I mention no particular hour, that I may not 
lay you under a supposed obligation to be 
punctual, which might be difficult at the end 
of so long a journey. Only, if the weather 
be favorable, you shall find us there in the 
evening. It is winter in the south, perhaps 
therefore it may be spring at least, if not 
summer, in the north ; for I have read that it 
is warmest in Greenland when it is coldest 
here. Be that as it may, we may hope at the 
hitter end of such an April, that the first 
change of wind will improve the season. 

The curate's simile Latinized — 

Sors adversa gerit stimulura, sed tendit et alas : 
Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit. 

What a dignity there is in the Roman lan- 
guage ; and what an idea it gives us of the 
good sense and masculine mind of the people 
that spoke it ! The same thought which, 
clothed in English, seems childish and even 
foolish, assumes a different air in Latin, and 
makes at least as good an epigram as some 
of Martial's. 

I remember your making an observation, 
when here, on the subject of " parentheses," 
to which I acceded without limitation ; but a 
little attention will convince us both that they 
are not to be universally condemned. When 
they abound, and when they are long, they 
both embarrass the sense, and are a proof that 
the writer's head is cloudy ; that he has not 
properly arranged his matter, or is not well 
skilled in the graces of expression. But, as 
parenthesis is ranked by grammarians among 
the figures of rhetoric, we may suppose they 
had a reason for conferring that honor upon 
it. Accordingly we shall find that, in the use 
of some of our finest writers, as well as in 
the hands of the ancient poets and orators, it 
has a peculiar elegance, and imparts a beauty 
which the period would want without it. 

'Hoc nemus hunc, inquit, frondoso vertice collern 
(Q,uis deus incertum est") habitat deus." 

Virg. ffin. 8. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



183 



In this instance, the first that occurred, it is 
graceful. I have not time to seek for more, 
nor room to insert them. But your own ob- 
servation, I believe, will confirm my opinion. 
Yours ever, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 27, 1782. 
My dear Friend, — Rather ashamed of having 
been at all dejected by the censure of % the 
Critical Reviewers, who certainly could not 
read without prejudice a book replete with 
opinions and doctrines to which they cannot 
subscribe, I have at present no liitle occasion 
to keep a strict guard upon my vanity, lest it 
should be too much flattered by the following 
eulogium. I send it to you for the reasons I 
gave, when I imparted to you some other 
anecdotes of a similar kind, while we were 
together. Our interests in the success of this 
same volume are so closely united, that you 
must share with me in the praise or blame 
that attends it; and, sympathizing with me 
under the burden of injurious treatment, 
have a right to enjoy with me the cordials I 
now and then receive, as I happen to meet 
with more candid and favorable judges. 

A merchant, a friend of ours,* (you will 
soon guess him,) sent my Poems to one of 
the first philosophers, one of the most emi- 
nent literary characters, as well as one of the 
most important in the political world, that the 
present age can boast of. Now perhaps your 
conjecturing faculties are puzzled, and you 
begin to ask " who, where, and what is he 1 
speak out, for I am all impatience." I will 
not say a word more : the letter in which he 
returns his thanks for the present shall speak 
for him.f 

We may now treat the critics as the arch- 
bishop of Toledo treated Gil Bias, when he 
found fault with one of his sermons. His 
grace gave him a kick and said, " Begone for 
a jackanapes, and furnish yourself with a 
better taste, if you know where to find it." 

We are glad that you are safe at home 
again. Could we see at one glance of the 
eye what is passing every day upon all the 
roads in the kingdom, how many are terrified 
and hurt, how many plundered and abused, 
we should indeed find reason enough to be 
thankful for journeys performed in safety, 
and for deliverance from dangers we are not 
perhaps even permitted to see. When, in 
Bome of the high southern latitudes, and in a 
dark tempestuous night, a flash of lightning 
liscovered to Captain Cook a vessel, which 
danced along close by his side, and which 
rut for the lightning he must have run foul 

* John Thornton, Esq. 

t Here Cowper transcribed the letter written from 
Passy, by the American ambassador, Franklin, in praise 
♦f his book. 



of, both the danger and the transient light 
that showed it were undoubtedly designed to 
convey to him this wholesome instruction, 
that a particular Providence attended him, 
and that he was not only preserved from evils 
of which he had notice, but from many more 
of which he had no information, or even the 
least suspicion. What unlikely contingencies 
may nevertheless take place ! How improb- 
able that two ships should dash against each 
other, in the midst of the vast Pacific Ocean, 
and that, steering contrary courses from parts 
of the world so immensely distant from each 
oi her, they should yet move so exactly in a 
line as to clash, fill, and go to the bottom, in 
a sea, where all the ships in the world might 
be so dispersed as that none should see 
another ! Yet this must have happened but 
for the remarkable interference which he has 
recorded. The same Providence indeed might 
as easily have conducted them so wide of 
each other that they should never have met 
at all, but then this lesson would have been 
lost ; at least, the heroic voyager would have 
encompassed the globe, without having had 
occasion to relate an incident that so naturally 
suggests it. 

I am no more delighted with the season 
than you are. The absence of the sun, which 
has graced the spring with much less of his 
presence than he vouchsafed to the winter, 
has a very uncomfortable effect upon my 
frame; I feel an invincible aversion to em- 
ployment, which I am yet constrained to fly 
to as my only remedy against something 
worse. If I do nothing I am dejected, if I do 
anything I am weary, and that weariness is 
best described by the word lassitude, which of 
all weariness in the world is the most op- 
pressive. But enough of myself and the 
weather. 

The blow we have struck in the West In- 
dies* will, I suppose, be decisive, at least for 
the present year, and so far as that part of 
our possessions is concerned in the present 
conflict. But the news-writers and their cor- 
respondents disgust me and make me sick. 
One victory, after such a long series of ad 
verse occurrences, has filled them with self 
conceit and impertinent boasting ; and, while 
Rodney is almost accounted a Methodist for 

* This alludes to the celebrated victory gained by Sir 
George Rodney over Count de Grasse, April 12, 1782. 
On this occasion, eight sail of the line were captured 
from the French, three foundered at sea, two were for- 
ever disabled, and the French Admiral was taken in the 
Ville de Paris, which had been presented by the city of 
Paris to Louis XV. Lord Robert Manners fell in this 
engagement. It was the first instance where the attempt 
was ever made of breaking the line, a system adopted 
afterwards with great success by Lord Nelson. Lord 
Rodney, on receiving the thanks of Parliament on this 
occasion, addressed a letter of acknowledgment to the 
speaker, conveyed in the following terms. "To fulfil," 
he observed, " the wishes, and execute the commands of 
my Sovereign, was my duty. To command a fleet so 
well appointed, both in officers and men, was my goou 
fortune ; as by their undaunted spirit and valor, under 
Divine Providence, the glory of that day was acquire** * 



134 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ascribing his success to Providence* men 
who have renounced all dependence upon 
such a friend, without whose assistance 
nothing can be done, threaten to drive the 
French out of the sea, laugh at the Spaniards, 
sneer at the Dutch, and are to carry the world 
before them. Our enemies are apt to brag, 
and we deride them for it ; but we can sing 
as loud as they can, in the same key ; and no 
doubt, wherever our papers go, shall be de- 
rided in our turn. An Englishman's true 
glory should be, to do his business well and 
say little about it ; but he disgraces himself 
when he puffs his prowess, as if he had fin- 
ished his task, when he has but just begun it. 
Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWLN. 

Olney, June 12, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Every extraordinary oc- 
currence in our lives affords us an opportu- 
nity to learn, if we will, something more of our 
own hearts and tempers than we were before 
aware of. It is easy to promise ourselves 
beforehand that cur conduct shall be wise, or 
moderate, or resolute, on any given occasion. 
But when that occasion occurs, we do not 
always find it easy to make good the promise : 
such a difference there is between theory and 
practice. Perhaps this is no new remark : 
but it is not a whit the worse for being old, 
if it be true. 

Before I had published, I said to myself — 
you and I, Mr. Cowper, will not concern our- 
selves much about what the critics may say 
of our book. But, having once sent my wits 
for a venture, I soon became anxious about 
the issue, and found that I could not be satis- 
fied with a warm place in my own good 
graces, unless- my friends were pleased with 
me as much as I pleased myself. Meeting 
with their approbation,! began to feel the 
workings of ambition. It is well, said I. that 
my friends are pleased ; but friends are some- 
times partial, and mine, I have reason to think, 
are not altogether free from bias. Methinks 
I should like to hear a stranger or two speak 
well of me. I was presently gratified by the 
approbation of the "London Magazine" and 
the u Gentleman's," particularly by that of 
the former, and by the plaudit of Dr. Frank- 
lin. By the way, magazines are publications 
we have but little respect for till we ourselves 
are chronicled in them, and then they assume 
an, importance in our esteem which before we 
could not allow them. But the " Monthly 
Review," the most formidable of all my 
judges, is still behind What will that criti- 

* Lord Rodney's despatcl es commenced in the follow- 
ing words : " It has pleased God, out of his Divine Provi- 
dence, to grant to his Majesty's arms," &c. This was 
more religious than the nation at that time could tolerate. 
Lord Nelson afterwards was the first British Admiral 
tf $A adopted the same language. 



cal Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering 
genius shall appear before him? Still he 
keeps me in hot water, and I must wait an- 
other month for his award. Alas ! when ] 
wish for a favorable sentence fiom that quar- 
ter (to confess a weakness that I should not 
confess to all,) I feel myself not a little in- 
fluenced by a tender regard to my reputation 
here, even among my neighbors at Olney. 
Here are watchmakers, who themselves are 
wits, and who at present, perhaps think me 
one. Here is a carpenter, and a baker, and 
not to mention others, here is your idol, Mr. 

, whose smile is fame. All these read 

the "Monthly Review," and all these will 
set me down for a dunce, if those terrible 
critics should show them the example. But 
oh ! wherever else I am accounted dull, dear 
Mr. Griffith, let me pass for a genius at 
Olney. 

We are sorry for little William's illness. 
It is, however, the privilege of infancy to re- 
cover almost immediately what it has lost 

by sickness. We are sorry too for Mr. 's 

dangerous condition. But he that is Well 
prepared for the great journey cannot enter 
on it too soon for himself, though his friends 
will weep at his departure. 

Yours, W. C. 

The immediate success of his first volume 
was very far from being equal to its extraor- 
dinary merit. For some time it seemed to 
be neglected by the public, although the first 
poem in the collection contains such a pow- 
erful image of its author as might be thought 
sufficient not only to excite attention but to 
secure attachment : for Cowper had unde- 
signedly executed a masterly portrait of him- 
self in describing the true poet : we allude to 
the following verses in " Table Talk." 

Nature, exerting an unwearied power, 
Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower ; 
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads 
The dancing Naiads thro' the dewy meads : 
She fills profuse ten thousand little throats 
With music : modulating all their notes ; [known 
And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds un 
With artless airs and concerts of her own ; 
Bur seldom (as if fearful of expense) 
Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — 
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought. 
Harmony, strength words exquisitely sought - 
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky 
Brings colors, dipt in heaven, that never die ; 
A soul exalted above earth, a mind 
Skill'd in the characters that form mankind; 
And. as the sun in rising beauty drest 
Looks from the dappled orient to the west, 
And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, 
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close — 
An eye like his to catch the distant goal — 
Or. ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, 
Like his to shed illuminating rays 
On every scene and subject it surveys: 
Thus grac'd, the man asserts a poet's name 
And the world cheerfully admits the cl lim. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



13a 



The concluding lines may be considered 
as an omen of that celebrity which such a 
wilier, in the process of time, could not fail 
tc obtain. How just a subject of surprise 
and admiration is it, to behold an author 
starting under sue! 1 a load of disadvantages, 
and displaying on the sudden such a variety 
of excellence! For, neglected as it was for 
a few years, the first volume of Covvper exhib- 
its such a diversity of poetical powers as have 
very rarely indeed been known to be united 
in the same individual. He is not only great 
in passages of pathos and sublimity, but he 
is equally admirable in wit and humor. Af- 
ter descanting most copiously on sacred sub- 
jects, with the animation of a prophet and 
the simplicity of an apostle, he paints the 
ludicrous characters of common life with the 
comic force of a Moliere, particularly in his 
poem on Conversation, and his exquisite por- 
trait of a fretful temper; a piece of moral 
painting so highly finished and so happily cal- 
culated to promote good humor, that a tran- 



script of the verses cannot but interest tne 
reader. 

' : Some fretful tempers wince at every touch; 
j You always do too little or too much : 

You speak with life, in hopes to entertain ; 

Your elevated voice goes through the brain : 
! You fall at once into a lower key ; 
I That 's worse the drone-pipe of an humble bee ! 
, The southern sash admits too strong a light ; 

You rise and drop the curtain : — now it's night. 

He shakes with cold ; — you stir the fire and striv* 

To make a blaze : — that "s roasting him alive. 

Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses fish ; 

With sole, that's just the sort he would nst 
wish. 

He takes what he at first profess'd to loath p" 

And in due time feeds heartily on both; 

Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown, 

He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 

Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 

Himself should work that wonder, if he can. 

Alas ! his efforts double his distress ; 

He likes yours little and his own still less. 

Thus, always teazing others, always teaz'd, 

His only pleasure is — to be displeas'd. 



PART THE SECOND, 



■jAr. Bull, to whom the following poetical 
epistle is addressed, has already been mention- 
ed as the person who suggested to Cowper 
the translation of Madame Guion's Hymns. 
Cowper used to say of him, that he was the 
master of a fine imagination, or, rather, that 
he was not master of it. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL* 

Olney, June 22, 1782. 
My dear Friend, 

If reading verse be your delight, 
'Tis mine as much, or more, to write ; 
But what we would, so weak is man, 
Lies oft remote from what we can. 
For instance, at this very time, 
I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme, 
To soothe my friend and had I power, 
To cheat him of an anxious hour ; 
Not meaning (for I must confess, 
tt were but folly to suppress ) 
His pleasure or his good alone, 
But squinting partly at my own. 
But though the sun is flaming high 
I' th' centre of yon arch the sky, 
And he had once (and who but he 1) 
The name for setting genius free ; 
Yet whether poets of past days 
Yielded him undeserved praise, 
And he by no uncommon lot 
Was famed for virtues he had not; 
Or whether, which is like enough, 
His Highness may have taken huff, 
* Private correspondence. 



So seldom sought with invocation, 

Since it has been the reigning fashion 

To disregard his inspiration, 

I seem no brighter in my wits, 

For all the radiance he emits, 

Than if I saw through midnight vapor 

The glimm'ring of a farthing taper. 

O for a succedaneum. then, 

T' accelerate a creeping pen, 

O for a ready succedaneum, 

Qoiod caput cerebrum, et cranium 

Pondere liberet exoso 

Et morbo jam caliginoso ! 

'Tis here ; this oval box well fill'd 

With best tobacco finely mill'd, 

Beats all Anlicyra's pretences 

To disengage the encumber'd senses. 

O Nymph of Transatlantic fame, 
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name 
Whether reposing on the side 
Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide, 
Or list'ning with delight not small 
To Niagara's distant fall, 
'Tis thine to cherish and to feed 
The pungent nose-refreshing weed, 
Which, whether, pulverized it gain 
A speedy passage to the brain, 
Or, whether touch'd with fire, it rise 
In circling eddies to the skies, 
Does thought more quicken and refine 
Than all the breath of all the Nine- 
Forgive the Bard, if Bard be he, 
Who once too wantonly made free 
To touch with a satiric wipe 
That symbol of thy power, the pije ; 



So may no blight infest thy plains, 

And no unseasonable rains, 

And so may smiling Peace once more 

Visit America's sad shore ; 

And thou, secure from all alarms 

Of thund'ring drums and glitt'ring arms, 

Rove unconfined beneath the shade 

Thy wide-expanded leaves have made; 

So may thy votaries increase, 

And fumigation never cease. 

May Newton, with renew'd delights, 

Perform thine odorif rous rites, 

While clouds of incense half divine 

Involve thy disappearing shrine ; 

And so may smoke-inhaling Bull 

Be always filling, never full. 



w. c. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, July 16, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Though some people 
pretend to be clever in the way of propheti- 
cal forecast, and to have a peculiar talent of 
sagacity, by which they can divine the meaning 
of a providential dispensation while its conse- 
quences are yet in embryo, I do not. There 
is at this time to be found, I suppose, in the 
cabinet, and in both houses, a. greater assem- 
blage of able men, both as speakers and 
counsellors, than ever were contemporary in 
the same land. A man not accustomed to 
trace the workings of Providence, as record- 
ed in Scripture, and that has given no atten- 
tion to this particular subject, while employed 
in the study of profane history, would assert 
boldly, that it is a token for good, that much 
may be expected from them, and that the 
country, though heavily afflicted, is not yet 
to be despaired of, distinguished as she is by 
so many characters of the highest class. Thus 
he would say, and I do not deny that the 
event might justify his skill in prognostics. 
God works by means : and, in a case of great 
national perplexity and distress, wisdom and 
political ability seem to be the only natural 
means of deliverance, But a mind more re- 
ligiously inclined, and perhaps a little tinc- 
tured with melancholy, might with equal prob- 
ability of success hazard a conjecture di- 
rectly opposite. Alas ! what is the wisdom 
-of man, especially when he trusts in it as the 
only god of his confidence? When I con- 
sider the general contempt that is poured 
upon all things sacred, the profusion, the dis- 
sipation, the knavish cunning, of some, the 
rapacity of others, and the impenitence of all, 
I am rather inclined to fear that God, who 
honors himself by bringing human glory to 
shame, and by disappointing the expectations 
of those whose trust is in creatures, has sig- 
nalized the present day as a day of much hu- 
man sufficiency and strength, has brought 
together from all quarters of the land the 
most illustrious men to be found in it, only 
that h& may prove the vanity of idols, and 



that, when a great empire is falling, and he 
has pronounced a sentence of ruin against it, 
the inhabitants, be they weak or strong, wise 
or foolish, must fall with it. I am rather con 
firmed in this persuasion by observing that 
these luminaries of the state had no sooner 
fixed themselves in the political heaven, than 
the fall of the brightest of them shook all 
the rest. The arch of their power was no 
sooner struck than the key-stone slipped out 
of its place, those that were closest in con- 
nexion with it followed, and the whole build- 
ing, new as it is, seems to be already a ruin. 
If a man should hold this language, who 
could convict him of absurdity ? The Mar- 
quis of Rockingham is minister — all the world 
rejoices, anticipating success in war and a 
glorious peace. The Marquis of Rocking- 
ham is dead — all the world is afflicted, and 
relapses into its former despondence. What 
does this prove, but that the Marquis was 
their Almighty, and that, now he is gone, they 
know no other? But let us wait a little, 
they will find another. Perhaps the Duke of 

Portland, or perhaps the unpopular , 

whom they now represent as a devil, may ob- 
tain that honor. Thus God is forgot, and 
when he is, his judgments are generally his 
remembrancers. 

How shall I comfort you ijpon the subject 
of your present distress ? Pardon me that I 
find myself obliged to smile at it, because, 
who but yourself would be distressed upon 
such an occasion? You have behaved po« 
litely, and, like a gentleman, you have hos- 
pitably offered your house to a stranger, who 
could not, in your neighborhood at least, have 
been comfortably accommodated anywhere 
else. He, by neither refusing nor accepting 
an offer that did him too much honor, has 
disgraced himself, but not you. I think for 
the future you must be more cautious of lay- 
ing yourself open to a stranger, and never 
again expose yourself to incivilities from an 
archdeacon you are not acquainted with. 

Though I did not mention it, I felt with 
you what you suffered by the loss of Miss 
; I was only silent because I could min- 
ister no consolation to you on such a subject, 
but what I knew your mind to be already 
stored with. Indeed, the application of com- 
fort in such cases is a nice business, and per- 
haps when best managed might as well be 
let alone. I remember reading many years 
ago a long treatise on the subject of conso- 
lation, written in French, the author's name I 
forgot, but I wrote these words in the mar- 
gin. Special consolation! at least for 2 
Frenchman, who is a creature the most easily 
comforted of any in the world ! 

We are as happy in Lady Austen, and she 
in us, as ever — having a lively imagination; 
and being passionately d( sii-ous of consolida- 
ting all into one family ;Tor she has taken 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



ir? 



her leave of London), she has just sprung a 
project which serves at least to amuse us and 
to make us laugh ; it is to hire Mr. Small's 
house, on the top of Clifton-hill, which is 
large, commodious, and handsome, will hold 
us conveniently, and any friends who may 
occasionally favor us with a visit ; the house 
is furnished, but, if it can be hired without 
the furniture, will let for a trifle — your sen- 
timents if you please upon this demarche ! 

I send you my last frank — our best love 
attends you individually and all together. I 
give you joy of a happy change in the season, 
and myself also. I have filled four sides in 
less time than two would have cost me a 
week ago; such is the effect of sunshine 
upon such a butterfly as I am. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Aug. 3, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Entertaining some hope 
that Mr. Newton's next letter would furnish 
me with the means of satisfying your inquiry 
on the subject of Dr. Johnson's opinion, I 
have till now delayed my answer to your 
last; but the information is not yet come, 
Mr. Newton having intermitted a week more 
than usual, since his last writing. When I 
receive it, favorable or not, it shall be com- 
municated to you; but I am not over-san- 
guine in my expectations from that quarter. 
Very learned and very critical heads are hard 
to please. He may perhaps treat me with 
lenity for the sake of the subject and design, 
but t^e composition, I think, will hardly es- 
cape his censure. But though all doctors 
may not be of the same mind, there is one 
doctor at least, whom I have lately discovered, 
my professed admirer.* He too, like John- 
son, was with difficulty persuaded to read, 
having an aversion to all poetry, except the 
" Night Thoughts," which, on a certain occa- 
sion, when being confined on board a ship 
he had no other employment, he got by heart. 
He was however prevailed upon, and read me 
several times over, so that if my volume had 
sailed with him instead of Dr. Young's, I 
perhaps might have occupied that shelf in his 
memory which he then allotted to the Doctor. 

It is a sort of paradox, but it is true : we 
are never more in danger than when we think 
ourselves most secure, nor in reality more 
secure than when we seem to be most in 
Janger. Both sides of this apparent contra- 
diction were lately verified in my experience : 
passing from the greenhouse to the barn, I 
saw three kittens (for we have so many in 
our retinue) looking with fixed attention on 
iomething v Hieh lay on the threshold of a 
door nailed up. I took but little notice of 

* Dr. Irjmkliii. 



them at first, but a loud hiss engaged me to 
attend more closely, when behold — a viper 
the largest that I remember to have seen, 
rearing itself, darting its forked tongue, and 
ejaculating the aforesaid hiss at the nose of a 
kitten, almost in contact with his lips. I ran 
into the hall for a hoe with a long handle, 
with which I intended to assail him, and re- 
turning in a few seconds, missed him: he 
was gone, and I feared had escaped me. Still, 
however, the kitten sat watching immoveably 
on tho same spot. I concluded, therefore, that 
sliding between the door and the threshold, 
he had found his way out of the garden into 
the yard. I went round immediately, and 
there found him in close conversation with 
the old cat, whose curiosity being excited by 
so novel an appearance, inclined her to pat 
his head repeatedly with her fore foot, with 
her claws however sheathed, and not in anger, 
but in the way of philosophic inquiry and ex- 
amination. To prevent her falling a victim 
to so laudable an exercise of her talents, I 
interposed in a moment with the *hoe, and 
performed upon him an act of decapitation, 
which, though not immediately mortal, proved 
so in the end. Had he slid into the passages, 
where it is dark, or had he, when in the yard, 
met with no interruption from the cat, and 
secreted himself in any of the out-houses, it 
is hardly possible but that some of the family 
must have been bitten ; he might have bser. 
trodden upon without being perceived, and 
have slipped away before the sufferer could 
have distinguished what foe had wounded 
him. Three years ago we discovered one in 
the same place, which the barber slew with 
a trowel. 

Our proposed removal to Mr. Small's Was, 
as you may suppose, a jest, or rather a joco 
serious matter. We never looked upon it as 
entirely feasible, yet we saw in it something 
so like practicability that we did not esteem 
it altogether unworthy of our attention. It 
was one of those projects which people of 
lively imaginations play with and admire for 
a few days, and then break in pieces. Lady 
Austen returned on Thursday from London, 
where she spent the last fortnight, and 
whither she was called by an unexpected op- 
portunity to dispose of the remainder of her 
lease. She has therefore no longer any con- 
nexion with the great city, and no house but 
at Olney. Her abode is to be at the vicarage, 
where she has hired as much room as she 
wants, which she will embellish with her" own 
furniture, and which she will occupy as soon 
as the minister's wife has produced another 
child, which is expected to make its entry in 
October. 

Mr. Bull, a dissenting minister of New- 
port, a learned, ingenious, good-natured, pious 
friend of ours, who sometimes visits us, and h 
whom we visited last weep, put into mv 



138 



COWPER'S WORKS 



hands three volumes of French poetry, com- 
posed by Madame Guion — a quietist, say 
you, and a fanatic, I will have nothing to do 
with her. — 'Tis very well? you are welcome 
to have nothing to do with her, but, in the 
meantime, her verse is the only French verse 
I ever read that I found agreeable ; there is a 
neatness in it equal to that which we applaud, 
with so much reason, in the compositions of 
Prior. I have translated several of them, 
and shall proceed in my translations till I 
have filled a Lilliputian paper-book I happen 
to have by me, which, when filled, I shall pre- 
sent to Mr. Bull. He is her passionate ad- 
mirer ; rode twenty miles to see her picture 
in the house of a stranger, which stranger 
politely insisted on his acceptance of it, and 
it now hangs over his chimney. It is a strik- 
ing portrait, too characteristic not to be a 
strong resemblance, and, were it encompassed 
with a glory, instead of being dressed in a 
nun's hood, might pass for the face of an 
angel. 

Yours, W. C. 

To this letter we annex a very lively lusus 
poeticus from the pen of Cowper, on the sub- 
ject mentioned in the former part of the pre- 
ceding letter. 

THE COLUBRIAD. 

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast, 
Three kittens sat ; each kitten look'd aghast. 
I, passing swift and inattentive by, 
At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; [there, 
Not much concerned to know what they did 
Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 
But presently a loud and furious hiss 
Caus'd me to stop, and to exclaim, '•'■ What's this ?" 
When, lo ! upon the threshold met my view, 
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 
A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. 
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, 
Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; 
Who, having never seen, in field or house, 
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse : 
Only projecting, with attention due, [you V 

Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, " Who are 
On tc the hall went I, with pace not slow, 
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe : 
With which well arm'd I hastened to the spot, 
To find the viper, but I found him not. 
And turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 
Found only — that he was not to be found. 
But still the kittens, sitting as before, 
Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 
" I hope," said I, "the villian I would kill 
Has slipt between the door and the door's sill ; 
And, if I make despatch and follow hard, 
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard ;" 
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 
'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
Ev'n there I found him, there the full-grown cat 
Hi3 head with velvet paw did gently pat: 
As curious as the kittens erst had been 
-To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 
Fill'd with heroic ardor at the sight, 
And fearing every moment he would bite, 



And rob our household of our only cat, 
That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door, 
And taught him never to come there no more, 

Lady Austen became a tenant of the vi- 
carage at Olney. When Mr. Newton occu- 
pied that parsonage, he had opened a door in 
the garden-wall, which admitted him in the 
most commodious manner to visit the se- 
questered poet, who resided in the next 
house. Lady Austen had the advantage of 
this easy intercourse ; and so captivating was 
her society, both to Cowper and to Mrs. 
Unwin, that these intimate neighbors might 
be almost said to make one family, as it be- 
came their custom to dine always together, 
alternately in the houses of the two ladies. 

The musical talents of Lady Austen in- 
duced Cowper to write a few songs of pecu- 
liar sweetness and pathos, to suit particular 
airs that she was accustomed to play on the 
harpsichord. We insert three .of these, as 
proofs that, even in his hours of social 
amusement, the poet loved to dwell on ideas 
of tender devotion and pathetic solemnity. 

SONG WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OP 1783, AT TH1 
REQUEST OP LADY AUSTEN. 

Air — " My fond shepherds of late" &c. 

No longer I follow a sound ; 
No longer a dream I pursue : 

happiness ! not to be found, 
Unattainable treasure, adieu ! 

1 have sought thee in splendor and dress, 
In the regions of pleasure and taste ; 

I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess 
But have proved thee a vision at last. 

An humble ambition and hope 

The voice of true wisdom inspires ! 

'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope 
And the summit of all our desires. 

Peace may be the lot of the mind 
That seeks it in meekness and love; 

But rapture and bliss are confined 
To the glorified spirits above ! 



Air — " The lass of Pattie's mill.' 

When all within is peace, 

How nature seems to smile ! 
Delights that never cease, 

The live-long day beguile. 
From morn to dewy eve, 

With open hand she showers 
Fresh blessings to deceive 

And soothe the silent hours. 

It is content of heart 

Gives Nature power to please ; 
The mind that feels no smart 

Enlivens all it sees ; 
Can make a wint'ry sky 

Seem bright as smiling May 
And evening's closing eye 

As peep of early day. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



13* 



The vast majestic globe, 

So beauteously array'd 
In Nature's various robe, 

With wond'rous skill display 'd, 
is to a mourner's heart 

A dreary wild at best ; 
It flutters to depart. 

And longs to be at rest. 

The following song, adapted to the march 
in Scipio, obtained too great a celebrity not 
to merit insertion in this place. It relates to 
the loss of the Royal George, the flag-ship 
of Admiral Kempenfelt, which went down 
with nine hundred persons on board, (among 
whom was Rear-Admiral Kempenfelt,) at 
Spithead, August 29, 1782. . The song was 
a favorite production of the poet's ; so much 
so, that he amused himself by translating it 
into Latin verse. We take the version from 
one of his subsequent letters, for the sake of 
i/mexing it to the original. 

Sf NG, ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave. 

Whose courage well was tried, 
Had made the vessel heel, 

And laid her on her side. 

1 land-breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset ; 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought ; 

His work of glory done. 

It was not m the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up. 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again. 
Full-charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main.* 

But Kempenfelt is gone. 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 

* Attsmpts have recently been made to recover this 
ressel ; and some of t»e guns have been raised, and 
bund to be in excellent order. 



IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI 0EORGIUS, REG1L1 
NOMEN, INDITUM. 

Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes, 
Patrium propter periere littus 
Bis quater centum ; subito sub alto 
"^iEquore mersi. 

Navis. innitens lateri, jacebat, 
Malus ad summas trepidabat undas, 
Cum levis funes quatiens. ad imum 
Depulit aura. 

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam 
Fortibus vitam voluere parcae, 
Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes 
Nectere laurus. 

Magne. qui nomen. licet incanorum, 
Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! 
At tuos olim memorabit aevuni 
5 Oinne triumphos. 

Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, 
Non mari in clauso scopuh latentes, 
Fissa non rimis abies, nee atrox 
Abstulit ensis. 

Navitae sed turn nimium jocosi 
Voce fallebant hilari laborem, 
Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram un- 
pleverat hems. 

Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, 
Humidum ex alto spolium levate, 
Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos 
Reddite amicis ! 

Hi quidem (sic diis placuit) fuere : 
Sed ratis. nondum putris, ire possit 
Rursus in bellum. Britonumque nomen 
Tollere ad astra. 

Let the reader, who wishes to impress ou 
his mind a just idea of the variety and ex- 
tent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast 
this heroic ballad of exquisite pathos with 
his diverting history of John Gilpin! 

That admirable and highly popular piece 
of pleasantry was composed at the period of 
which we are now speaking. An elegant 
and judicious writer, who has favored the 
public with three interesting volumes relating 
to the early poets of our country,* conjec- 
tures, that a poem, written by the celebrated 
Sir Thomas More in his youth, (the merry 
jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have 
suggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin ; 
but this singularly amusing ballad had a dif- 
ferent origin; and it is a very remarkable 
fact, that, full of gayety and humor as this 
favorite of the public has abundantly proved 
itself to be, it was really composed at a time 
when the spirit of the poet was very deeply 
tinged with his depressive malady. It hap. 
pened one afternoon, in those years when his 
accomplished friend, Lady Austen, made a 
part of his little evening circle, that she ob- 
served him sinking into increasing dejection 

* See Ellis's " Specimens of the early English Poet^ 
with an historical sketch of the rise and progress ol Eng 
lish poetry and language." 



140 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



[t was her custom on these occasions, to try 
all the resources of her sprightly powers for 
his immediate relief. She told him the story 
of John Gilpin (which had been treasured in 
aer memory, from her childhood) to dissipate 
the gloom of the passing hour. Its effect on 
the fancy of Cowper had the air of enchant- 
ment: he informed her the next morning, 
that convulsions of laughter, brought on by 
nis recollection of her story, had kept him 
waking during the greatest part of the night, 
and that he had turned it into a ballad. — So 
arose the pleasant poem of John Gilpin. It 
was eagerly copied, and, finding its way rap- 
idly to the newspapers, it was seized by the 
lively spirit of Henderson the comedian, a 
man, like the Yorick described by Shakspeare, 
" of infinite jest and most excellent fancy." 
By him it was selected as a proper subject for 
the display of his own comic powers, and, by 
reciting it in his public readings, he gave un- 
common celebrity to the ballad, before the 
public suspected to what poet they were in- 
debted for the sudden burst of ludicrous 
amusement. Many readers were astonished 
when the poem made its first authentic ap- 
pearance in the second volume of Cowper. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Sept. 6, 1782. 

My dear Friend,— Yesterday, and not be- 
fore, I received your letter, dated the 11th of j 
June, from the hands of Mr. Small. I should 
have been happy to have known him sooner ; 
but whether being afraid of that horned mon- 
ster, a Methodist, or whether from a principle 
of delicacy, or deterred by a flood, which has 
rolled for some weeks between Clifton and 
Olney, I- know not, — he has favored me only 
with a taste of his company, and will leave 
me on Saturday evening, to regret that our 
acquaintance, so lately begun, must be so 
soon suspended. He will dine with us that 
day, which I reckon a fortunate circumstance, 
as 1 shall have an opportunity to introduce 
nim to the liveliest and most entertaining 
woman in the country, f I have seen him 
out for half an hour, yet, without boasting of 
much discernment, I see that he is polite, easy, 
cheerful, and sensible. An old man thus 
qualified, cannot fail to charm the lady in ques- 
tion. As to his religion, I leave it — I am 
neither his bishop nor his confessor. A man 
of his character, and recommended by you, 
would be welcome here, were he a Gentoo 
or a Mahometan. 

I learn from him that certain friends of 
mine, whom I have been afraid to inquire 
about by letter, are alive and well. The cur- 
rent of twenty years has swept away so many 
tyhom I once knew, that I doubted whether 

* Private correspondence, 
t Lady Austen, 



it might be advisable to send my love to youi 
mother and your sisters. They may have 
thought my silence strange, bu 4 , they haw 
here the reason of it. Assure them of my 
affectionate remembrance, and that nothing 
would make me happier than to receive you 
all in my greenhouse, your own Mrs. Hill 
included. It is fronted with myrtles, and 
lined with mats, and would just hold us, for 
Mr. Small informs me your dimensions are 
much the same as usual. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 4, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — You are too modest ; 
though your last consisted of three sides only, 
I am certainly a letter in your debt. It is 
possible that this present writing may prove 
as short. Yet, short as it may be, it will be 
a letter, and make me creditor, and you my 
debtor. A letter, indeed, ought not to be 
estimated by the length of it, but by the con- 
tents, and how can the contents of any letter 
be more agreeable than your last. 

You tell me that John Gilpin made you 
laugh tears, and that the ladies at court are 
delighted with my poems. Much good may 
they do them ! May they become as wise as 
the writer wishes them, and they will be 
much happier than he ! I know there is in 
the book that wisdom which cometh from 
above, because it was from above that I re 
ceived it. May they receive it too ! For 
whether they drink it out of the cistern, o. 
whether it falls upon them immediately from 
the clouds, as it did on me, it is all one. 11 
is the water of life, which whosoever drinketh 
shall thirst no more. As to the famous horse- 
man above mentioned, he and his feats are an 
inexhaustible source of merriment. At least 
we find him so, and seldom meet without re- 
freshing ourselves with the recollection of 
them. You are perfectly at liberty to deal 
with them as you please. Auctore tantum 
anonymo, imprimantur-; and when printed 
send me a copy. 

I congratulate you on the discharge of youi 
duty and your conscience by the pains you 
have taken for the relief of the prisoners. — 
You proceeded wisely, yet courageously, and 
deserved better success. Your labors, how- 
ever, will be remembered elsewhere, when- 
you shall be forgotten here ; and, if the poor 
folks at Chelmsford should never receive the 
benefit of them, you will yourself receive it 
in heaven. It is pity that men of fortune 
should be determined to acts of benefience, 
sometimes by popular whim or prejudice, and 
sometimes by motives still more unworthy. 
The liberal subscription, raised in behalf of 
the widows of seamen lost in the Royal 



George was an instanee of the former. At 
'.east a plain, short and sensible letter* in the 
newspaper, convinced me at the time that it 
was an unnecessary and injudicious collec- 
tion: and the difficulty you found in effectu- 
ating your benevolent intentions on this occa^ 
sion, constrains me to think that, had it been 
an affair of more notoriety than merely to fur- 
nish a few poor fellows with a little fuel to 
preserve their extremities from the frost, you 
would have succeeded better. Men really 
pious delight in doing good by stealth. But 
nothing less than an ostentatious display of 
bounty will satisfy mankind in general. I 
feel myself disposed to furnish you with an 
opportunity to shine in secret. We do what 
we can. But that can is little. You have 
rich friends, are eloquent on all occasions, 
and know how to be pathetic on a proper one. 
The winter will be severely felt at Olney by 
many, whose sobriety, industry, and honesty, 
recommended them to charitable notice; and 
we think we could tell such persons as Mr. 
, or Mr. , half a dozen tales of dis- 
tress, that would find their way into hearts as 
feeling as theirs. You will do as you see 
good ; and we in the meantime shall remain 
convinced that you will do your best. Lady 
Austen will, no doubt, do something, for she 
has great sensibility aud compassion. 

Yours, my dear Unwin, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL* 

Olney, Nov. 5, 1782. 
c/harissime Taurorum — 

Q,uot sunt, vel fuerunt, vel posthac aliis erunt in 
annis, 

We shall rejoice to see you, and I just write 
to tell you so. Whatever else 1 want, 1 
have, at least, this quality in common with 
publicans and sinners, that I love those that 
love me, and for that reason, you in particular. 
Your warm and affectionate manner demands 
it of me. And, though I consider your love 
as growing out of a mistaken expectation that 
you shall see me a spiritual man hereafter, 1 
do not love you much the less' for it. I only 
regret that 1 did not know you intimately in 
those happier days, when the frame of my 
heart and mind was such as might have made 
a connexion with me not altogether unworthy 
of you. 

I add only Mrs. Unwin's remembrances, 
and that I am glad you believe me to be, 
what I truly am, 

Your faithful and affectionate, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov. 11, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Your shocking scrawl, 

* Private correspondence. 



as you term it, was however a very welcome 
one. The character indeed has not quite thf 
neatness and beauty of an engraving; but 
if it cost me some pains to decipher it, they 
were well rewarded by the minute informa- 
tion it conveyed. I am glad your health is 
such that you have nothing more to complain 
of than may be expected on the down-hil! 
side of life. If mine is better than yours, it 
is to be attributed, I suppose, principally to 
the constant enjoyment of country air and 
retirement; the most perfect regularity in 
matters of eating, drinking, and sleeping ; and 
a happy emancipation from everything that 
wears the face of business. I lead the life I 
always wished for, and, the single circum- 
stance of dependence excepted, (which, be- 
tween ourselves, is very contrary to my pre- 
dominant humor and disposition,) have no 
want left broad enough for another wish to 
stand upon. 

You may not, perhaps, live to see your 
trees attain to the dignity of timber : I never- 
theless approve of your planting, and the dis- 
interested spirit that prompts you to it. Few 
people plant when they are young ; a thou- 
sand other less profitable amusements divert 
their attention ; and. most people, when the 
date of youth is once expired, think it too late 
to begin. I can tell you, however, for your 
comfort and encouragement, that when a 
grove which Major Cowper had planted was 
of eighteen years' growth, it was no small 
ornament to his grounds, and afforded as 
complete a shade as could be desired. Were 
I as old as your mother, in whose longevity 
I rejoice, and the more because I consider it 
as in some sort a pledge and assurance of 
yours, and should come to the possession of 
land worth planting, I would begin to-mor- 
row, and even without previously insisting 
upon a bond from Providence that I should 
live five years longer. 

I saw last week a gentleman who was 
lately at Hastings. I asked him where he 
lodged. He replied at P 's. I next in- 
quired after the poor man's wife, whether 
alive or dead. He answered, dead. So then, # 
said I, she has scolded her last ; and a sensi- 
ble old man will go down to his grave in 

peace. Mr. P , to be sure, is of no great 

consequence either to you or to me; but, 
having so fair an opportunity to inform my- 
self about him, I could not neglect it. If 
gives me pleasure to learn somewhat of a 
man I knew a little of so many years since, 
and for that reason merely I mention the cir- 
cumstance to you. 

I find a single expression in your lette* 
which needs correction. You say I carefull) 
avoid paying you a visit at Wargrave. Not 
so ; but connected as I happily am, and rooted 
where I am, and not having travelled these 
twenty years — being besides of an indolent 



142 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



temper, and having - spirits that cannot bear a 
bustle — all these are so many insuperables in 
the way. They are not however in yours ; 
and if you and Mrs. Hill will make the ex- 
periment, you shall find yourselves as wel- 
come here, both to me and to Mrs. Unwin, as 
it is possible you can be anywhere. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov., 1782. 

My dear Friend, — I am to thank you for a 
very fine cod, which came most opportunely 
to make a figure on our table, on an occa- 
sion that made him singularly welcome. I 
write, and you send me a fish. This is very 
well, but not altogether what I want. I 
wish to hear from you, because the fish, 
though he serves to convince me that you 
have me still in remembrance, says not a 
word of those that sent him ; and, with re- 
spect to your and Mrs. Hill's health, pros- 
perity, and happiness, leaves me as much in 
the dark as before. You are aware, like- 
wise, that where there is an exchange of let- 
ters it is much easier to write. But I know 
the multiplicity of your affairs, and therefore 
perform my part of the correspondence as 
well as I can, convinced that you would not 
omit yours, if you could help it. 

Three days since I received a note from 
old Mr. Small, which was more than civil — 
it was warm and friendly. The good vet- 
eran excuses himself for not calling upon 
me, on account of the feeble state in which 
a fit of the gout had left him. He tells me 
however that he has seen Mrs. Hill, and 
your improvements at Wargrave, which will 
soon become an ornament to the place. May 
they, and may you both live long to enjoy 
them ! I shall be sensibly mortified if the 
season and his gout together should deprive 
me of the pleasure of receiving him here ; 
for he is a man much to my taste, and quite 
an unique in this country. 

My eyes are in general better than I re- 
member them to have been since I first opened 
them upon this sublunary stage, which is 
now a little more than half a century ago. 
We are growing old ; but this is between 
ourselves : the world knows nothing of the 
matter. Mr. Small tells me you look much 
as you did ; and as for me, being grown rather 
plump, the ladies tell me I am as young a;- 
ever. Yours ever, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 18, 1782. 
My dear William,— On the part of the 
pcor, and on our part, be pleased to make 

* Frivfite coi respondencc. 



acknowledgements, such as the occasion calls 

for, to our beneficent friend, Mr. . I 

call him ours, because, having experienced 
his kindness to myself, in a former instance, 
and in the present his disinterested readiness 
to succor the distressed, my ambition will 
be satisfied with nothing less. He may de- 
pend upon the strictest secrecy ; no creature 
shall hear him mentioned, either now or 
hereafter, as the person from whom we have 
received this bounty. But when I speak of 
him, or hear him spoken of by others, which 
sometimes happens, I shall not forget what 
is due to so rare a character. I wish, and 
your mother wishes too, that he could some- 
times take us in his way to : he will 

find us happy to receive a person whom we 
must needs account it an honor to know^ 
We shall exercise our best discretion in the 
disposal of the morey ; but in this town, 
where the gospel has been preached so many 
years, where the people have been favored 
so long with laborious and conscientious 
ministers, it is not an easy thing to find 
those who make no profession of religion at 
all, and are yet proper objects of charity. 
The profane are so profane, so drunken, dis- 
solute, and in every respect worthless, that 
to make them partakers of his bounty would 
be to abuse it. We promise, however, that 
none shall touch it but such as are miserably 
poor, yet at the same time industrious and 
honest, two characters frequently united here, 
Where the most watchful and unremitting 
labor will hardly procure them bread. W 
make none but the cheapest laces, and th« 
price of them is fallen almost to nothing. 
Thanks are due to yourself likewise, and 
are hereby accordingly rendered, for waiving 
your claim in behalf of your own parishion- 
ers. You are always with them, and they 
are always, at least some of them, the better 
for your residence among them. Olney is a 
populous place, inhabited chiefly by th« half- 
starved and the ragged of the earth, and it is 
not possible for our small party and small 
ability to extend their operations so far as to 
be much felt among such numbers. Accept, 
therefore, your share of their gratitude, and 
be convinced that, when they pray for a 
blessing upon those who relieved their wants, 
he that answers that prayer, and when he 
answers it, will remember his servant at 
Stock. 

I little thought when I was writing the 
..istory of John Gilpin, that he would appear 
in print — I intended to laugh, and to make 
two or three others laugh, of whom you 
were one. But now all the world laugh, at 
least if they have the same relish for a tale 
ridiculous in itself, and quaintly told, as we 
have. Well, they do not always laugh so 
innocently, and at so small an expense, for 
in a world like this, abounding with subjects 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



143 



for satire, and with satirical wits to mark 
them, a laugh that hurts nobody has at least 
the grace of novelty to recommend it. Swift's 
darling motto was, Vive la bagatelle ! a good 
wish for a philosopher of his completion, 
the greater part of whose wisdom, whence- 
soever it came, most certainly came not from 
above. La bagatelle has no enemy in me, 
though it has neither so warm a friend nor 
so able a one as it had in him. If I trifle, 
and merely trifle, it is because 1 am reduced 
to it by necessity — a melancholy that noth- 
ing else so effectually disperses engages me 
sometimes in the arduous task of being mer- 
ry by force. And, strange as it may seem, 
the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have 
been written in the saddest mood, and but 
for that saddest mood, perhaps, had never 
been written at all. 

I hear from Mrs. Newton that some great 
persons have spoken with great approbation 
of a certain book — who they are, and what 
they have said, I am to be told in a future 
letter. The Monthly Reviewers, in the mean- 
time, have satisfied me well enough. 
Yours, my dear William, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

My dear William, — Dr. Beattie is a re- 
spectable character.* I account him a man 
of sense, a philosopher, a scholar, a person 
of distinguished genius, and a good writer. 
I believe him too a Christian; with a pro- 
found reverence for the scripture, with great 
zeal and ability to enforce the belief of it, 
both which he exerts with the candor and 
good manners of a gentleman: he seems 
well entitled to that allowance ; and to deny 
it him, would impeach one's right to the ap- 
pellation. With all these good things to 
recommend him, there can be no dearth of 
sufficient reasons to read his writings. You 
favored me some years since with one of his 
volumes ; by which I was both pleased and 
instructed : and I beg you will send me 
the new one, when you can conveniently 
spare it, or rather bring it yourself, while 
the swallows are yet upon the wing : for the 
summer is going down apace. 

You tell me you have been asked, if I am 
intent upon another volume? I reply, not 
at present, not being convinced that I have 
met with sufficient encouragement. I ac- 
count myself happy in having pleased a few, 
but am not rich enough to despise the many. 
[ do not know what sort of market my com- 
modity has found, but, if a slack one, I must 
beware how I make a second attempt. My 
bookseller will not be willing to incur a cer- 
tain loss ; and I can as little afford it. Not- 
withstanding what I have said, I write, and 
* The well-known author of "The Minstrel." 



am even now writing, for the press. I told 
you that I had translated several of the 
poems of Madame Guion. I told you too, 
or I am mistakeu, that Mr. Bull designed to 
print them. That gentleman is gone to the 
sea-side with Mrs. Wilberforce, and will be 
absent six weeks. My intention is to sur- 
prise him at his return with the addition of 
as much more translation as I have already 
given him. This, however, is still less likely 
to be a popular work than my former. Men 
that have no religion would despise it ; and 
men that have no religious experience would 
not understand it. But the strain of simple 
and unaffected piety in the original is sweet 
beyond expression. She sings like an angel, 
and for that very reason has found but few 
admirers. Other things I write too, as you 
will see on the other side, but these merely 
for my amusement.* 



TO MRS. NEWTON.f 

Olney, Nov. 23, 1782. 

My dear Madam, — Accept my thanks for 
the trouble you take in vending my poems, 
and still more for the interest you take in 
their success. My authorship is undoubt- 
edly pleased, when I hear that they are ap- 
proved either by the great or the small ; but 
to be approved by the great, as Horace ob- 
served many years ago, is fame indeed. Hav- 
ing met with encouragement, I consequently 
wish to write again ; but wishes are a very 
small part of the qualifications necessary for 
such a purpose. Many a man, who has suc- 
ceeded tolerably well in his first attempt, 
has spoiled all by the second. But it just 
occurs to me that I told you so once before, 
and, if my memory had served me with the 
intelligence a minute sooner, I would not 
have repeated the observation now. 

The winter sets in with great severity. 
The rigor of the season, and the advanced 
price of grain, are very threatening to the 
poor. It is well with those that can feed 
upon a promise, and wrap themselves up 
warm in the robe of salvation. A good fire- 
side and a well-spread table are but very in- 
different substitutes for these better accom- 
modations ; so very indifferent, that I would 
gladly exchange them both for the rags and 
the unsatisfied hunger of the poorest crea- 
ture that looks forward with hope to a bet- 
ter world, and weeps tears of joy in the 
midst of penury and distress. What a world 
is this ! How mysteriously governed, and in 
appearance left to itself! One man, having 
squandered thousands at a gaming-table, 
finds it convenient to travel ; gives his estate 
to somebody to manage for him; amuses 

* This letter closed with the English and Latin verse* 
on the lo-i* of the [toy il George, inserted before. 
t Private conv-jKnidence. 



144 



COWPER'S WORKS 



himself a few years in France and Italy ; re- 
turns, perhaps, wiser than he went, having 
acquired knowledge which, but for his follies, 
he would never have acquired ; again makes 
a splendid figure at home, shines in the sen- 
ate, governs his country as its minister, is 
admired for his abilities, and, if successful, I 
adored at least by a party. When he dies I 
he is praised as a demi-god, and his monu- \ 
ment records everything but his vices. The 
exact contrast of such a picture is to be 
found in many cottages at Olney. I have 
no need to describe them; you know the 
characters I mean. They love God, they 
trust him, they pray to him in secret, and, 
though he means to reward them openly, 
the day of recompense is delayed. In the 
meantime they suffer everything that infirmi- 
ty and poverty can inflict upon them. Who 
would suepect, that has not a spiritual eye 
to discern it, that the fine gentleman was 
one whom his Maker had in abhorrence, and 
the wretch last-mentioned dear to him as the 
apple of his eye ! It is no wonder that the 
world, who are not in the secret, find them- 
selves obliged, some of them, to doubt a 
Providence, and others absolutely to deny it, 
when almost all the real virtue there is in it 
is to be found living and dying in a state of 
neglected obscurity, and all the vices of 
others cannot exclude them from the privi- 
lege of worship and honor ! But behind the 
curtain the matter is explained; very little, 
wwever, to the satisfaction of the great. 

If you ask me why I have written thus, and 
to you especially, to whom there was no need 
to write thus, I can only reply, that, having a 
letter to write, and no news to communicate, 
r picked up the first subject I found, and pur- 
sued it as far as was convenient for my 
purpose. 

Mr. Newton and I are of one mind on the 
subject of patriotism. Our dispute was no 
sooner begun than it ended. It would be well, 
perhaps, if, when two disputants begin to en- 
gage, their friends would hurry each into a 
separate chaise, and order them to opposite 
points of the compass. Let one travel twenty 
miles east, the other as many west ; then let 
them write their opinions by the post. Much 
altercation and chafing of the spirit would be 
prevented; they would sooner come to a 
right understanding, and running away from 
each other, would carry on the combat more 
judiciously, in exact proportion to the dis- 
tance. 

My love to that gentleman, if you please ; 
and tell him that, like him, though I love my 
country, I hate its follies and its sins, and had j 
rather see it scourged in mercy than judi 
r.ially hardened by prosperity. 
Yours, dear Madam, as ever, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Dec. 7, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — At seven o'clock thia 
evening, being the seventh of December. I 
imagine I see you in your box at the coffee- 
house. No doubt the waiter, as ingenious 
and adroit as his predecessors were before 
him, raises the tea-pot to the ceiling with his 
right hand, while in his left the tea-cup de- 
scending almost to the floor, receives a limpid 
stream ; limpid in its descent, but no sooner 
has it reached its destination, than frothing 
and foaming to the view, it becomes a roaring 
syllabub. This is the nineteenth winter since 
I saw you in this situation ; and if nineteen 
more pass over me before I die, I shall still 
remember a circumstance we have often 
laughed at. 

How different is the complexion of your 
evenings and mine ! — yours, spent amid the 
ceaseless hum that proceeds from the inside of 
fifty noisy and busy periwigs ; mine, by a do- 
mestic fire-side, in a retreat as silent as retire- 
ment can make it, where no noise is made but 
what we make for our own amusement. For 
instance, here are two rustics and your hum- 
ble servant in company. One of the ladies 
has been playing on the harpsichord, while I 
with the other have been playing at battledore 
and shuttlecock. A little dog, in the mean- 
time, howling under the chair of the former, 
performed in the vocal way to admiration. 
This entertainment over, I began my letter, 
and, having nothing more important to com- 
municate, have given you an account of it. 1 
know you love dearly to be idle, when you 
can find an opportunity to be so ; but, as such 
opportunities are rare with you, I thought it 
possible that a short description of the idle- 
ness I enjoy might give you pleasure. The 
happiness we cannot call our own we yet 
seem to possess, while we sympathize with 
our friends who can. 

The papers tell me that peace is at hand, 
and that it is at a great distance ; that the 
siege of Gibralter is abandoned, and that it is 
to be still continued. It is happy for me, 
that, though I love my country, I have but 
little curiosity. There was a time when 
these contradictions would have distressed 
me; but I have learned by experience that it 
is best for little people like myself to be pa- 
tient, and to wait till time affords the intelli- 
gence which no speculations of theirs can 
ever furnish. 

I thank you for a fine cod with oysters 
and hope that ere long I shall have to thank 
you for procuring me Elliott's medicines. 
Every time I feel the least uneasiness in 
either eye, I tremble lest, my iEsculapius be- 
ing departed, my infallible remedy should be 
lost forever. Adieu. Mv respects to Mrs : 
Hill. Yours, faithfully, W. C. 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



145 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. 19, 1783. 

My dear William, — Not to retaliate, but for 
want of opportunity, I have delayed writing. 
From a scene of most uninterrupted retire- 
ment, we have passed at once into a state of 
constant engagement, not that our society is 
much multiplied. The addition of an indi- 
vidual has made all this difference. Lady 
Austen and we pass our days alternately at 
each other's chateau. In the morning I walk 
with one or other of the ladies, and in the 
afternoon wind thread. Thus did Hercules 
and Sampson, and thus do I ; and, were both 
those heroes living, I should not fear to chal- 
lenge them to a trial of skill in that business, 
or doubt to beat them both. As to killing 
lions, and other amusements of that kind, 
with which ihey were so delighted, I should 
be their humble servant, and beg to be ex- 
cused. 

Having no frank, I cannot send you Mr. 
's two letters, as I intended. We corre- 
sponded as long as the occasion required, and 
then ceased. Charmed with his good sense, 
politeness, and liberality to the poor, I was in- 
deed ambitious of continuing a correspond- 
ence with him, and told him so. Perhaps I 
had done more prudently had I never proposed 
it. But warm hearts are not famous for wis- 
dom, and mine was too warm to be very con- 
siderate on such an occasion. I have not 
heard from him since, and have long given up 
all expectation of it. I know he is too busy 
a man to have leisure for me. and I cught to 
have recollected it sooner. He found time to 
do much good, and to employ us, as his agents, 
in doing it, and that might have satisfied me. 
Though laid under the strictest injunctions of 
secrecy, both by him and by you on his be- 
nalf, I consider myself as under no obligation 
to conceal from you the remittances he made. 
Only, in my turn, I beg leave to request se- 
crecy on \our part, because, intimate as you 
are with him, and highly as he values you, I 
cannot yet be sure, that the communication 
would please him, his delicacies on this sub- 
ject being as singular as his benevolence. He 
sent forty pounds, twenty at a time. Olney 
has not had such a friend as this many a day ; 
nor has there been an instance, at any time, 
of a few T families so effectually relieved, or so 
completely encouraged to the pursuit of that 
honest industry, by which, their debts being 
paid, and the parents and children comforta- 
bly clothed, they are now enabled to maintain 
themselves. Their labor was almost in vain 
before ; but now it answers : it earns them 
bread, and all their other wants are plentiful- 
ly supplied.* 

I wish that, by Mr. 's assistance, your 

purpose in behalf of the prisoners may be 

* The benevolent character here alluded to is John 
Thornton, Esq. 



effectuated. A pen so formidable as his 
might do much good, if properly -directed. 
The dread of a bold censure is ten times 
more moving than the most eloquent persua- 
sion. They that cannot feel for others are 
the persons of all the world who feel most 
sensibly for themselves. 

Yours, my dear friend, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Jan. 26, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — It is reported among per 
sons of the best intelligence at Olney — the 
barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of 
a corps quartered at this place — that the bel- 
ligerent powers are at last reconciled, the ar- 
ticles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is 
at the door.f I saw this morning, at nine 
o'clock, a group of about twelve figures, very 
closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, 
upon the same subject. The scene of con- 
sultation was a blacksmith's shed, very com- 
fortably screened from the wind, and directly 
opposed to the morning sun. Some held 
their hands behind them, some had them 
folded across their bosom, and others had 
thrust them into their breeches pockets. 
Every man's posture bespoke a pacific turn 
of mind ; but, the distance being too great for 
their words to reach me, nothing transpired. 
I am willing, however, to hope that the secret 
will not be a secret long, and that you and 
I, equally interested in the event, though not 
perhaps equally well informed, shall soon have 
an opportunity to rejoice in the completion of 
it. The powers of Europe have clashed with 
each other to a fine purpose ;t that the Amer 
icans, at length declared independent, may 
keep themselves so, if they can; and that 
what the parties, who have thought proper to 
dispute upon that point have wrested from 
each other in the course of the conflict may 
be, in the issue of it, restored to the proper 
owner. Nations may be guilty of a conduct 
that would render an individual infamous for- 
ever: and yet carry their heads high, talk 
of their glory, and despise their neighbors. 
Your opinions and mine, I mean our political 
ones, are not exactly of a piece, yet I cannot 
think otherwise upon this subject than I have 
always done. England, more perhaps through 
the fault of her generals than her councils, 
has, in some instances, acted with a spirit of 
cruel animosity she was never chargeable with 
till now. But this is the worst that can be 
said. On the other hand, the Americans, who, 
if they had contented themselves with a strug- 
gle for lawful liberty, would have deserved 

* Private correspondence. 

| Preliminaries of peace with America and France 
were signed at Versailles, Jan. 20th, 1783. 

% France, Spain, and Holland, all of whom united 'Titta 
America against England. 

10 



146 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



applause, seem to me to have incurred the 
guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, 
by making her ruin their favorite object, and 
hv associating themselves with her worst en- 
emy for the accomplishment of their purpose. 
Prance, and of course Spain, have acted a 
treacherous, a thievish part. They have sto- 
len America from England; and, whether they 
are able to posses.s themselves of that jewel or 
not hereafter, it was doubtless what they in- 
tended. Holland appears to me in a meaner 
light than any of them. They quarrelled with 
a friend for an enemy's sake. The French 
led them by the nose, and the English have 
thrashed them for suffering it. My views of 
the contest being, and having been always, 
such, I have consequently brighter hopes for 
England than her situation some time since 
seemed to justify. She is the only injured 
party. America may perhaps call her the ag- 
gressor; but, if she were so, America has not 
only repelled the injury, but done a greater. 
As to the rest, if perfidy, treachery, avarice, 
and ambition, can prove their cause to have 
been a rotten one, those proofs are found 
upon them. I think, therefore, that, what- 
ever scourge may be prepared for England on 
some future day, her ruin is not yet to be 
expected. 

Acknowledge now that I am worthy of a 
place under the shed I described, and that I 
should make no small figure among the quid- 
nuncs of Olney. 

I wish the society yon have formed may 
prosper. Your subjects will be of greater 
importance, and discussed with more suffi- 
ciency.* The earth is a grain of sand, but 
the spiritual interests of man are commensu- 
rate with the heavens. 

Yours, my dear friend, as ever, 

W. C. 

The humor of the following letter in refer- 
ence to the peace, is ingenious and amusing. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.f 

Olney, Feb. 2, 1783. 
I give you joy of the restoration of that 
sincere and firn friendship between the kings 
of England and France, that has been so long 
interrupted. II is a great pity when hearts 
so cordially united are divided by trifles. 
Thirteen pitiful colonies, which the king of 
England chose to keep, and the king of 
France to obtain, if he could, have disturbed 
that harmony which would else no doubt 
have subsisted between those illustrious per- 
sonages to this moment. If the king of 
France, whose greatness of mind is only 

* This passage alludes to the formation of what was 
called "the Eclectic Society," consisting of several pious 
ministers, who statedly met for the purpose of mutual 
edification. It consisted of Newton, Scott, Cecil, Foster, 
fee. It is still in existence. 

t Private correspondence. 



equalled by that of his queen, had regarded 
them, unworthy of his notice as they were, 
with an eye of suitable indifference ; or, had 
he thought it a matter deserving in any de- 
gree his princely attention, lhat they were in 
reality the property of his good friend the 
king of England; or, had the latter been less 
obstinately delermined to hold fast his inter- 
est in them, and could he with that civility 
and politeness in which monarchs are ex- 
pected to excel, have entreated his majesty 
of France to accept a bagatelle, for which he 
seemed to have conceived so strong a predi- 
lection, all this mischief had been prevented. 
But monarchs, alas ! crowned and sceptred 
as they are, are yet but men ; they fall out, 
and are reconciled, just like the meanest of 
their subjects. I cannot, however, sufficient* 
ly admire the moderation and magnanimity 
of the king of England. His dear friend on 
the other side of the Channel has not indeed 
taken actual possession of the colonies in 
question, but he has effectually wrested them 
out of the hands of their original owner, who 
nevertheless, letting fall the extinguisher of 
patience upon the flame of his resentment, 
and glowing with no other flame than that of 
the sincerest affection, embraces the king of 
France again, gives him Senegal and Goree 
in Africa, gives him the islands he had taken 
from him in the West, gives him his con- 
quered territories in the East, gives him a 
fishery upon the banks of Newfoundland; 
and, as if all this were too little, merely be- 
cause he knows that Louis has a partiality 
for the king of Spain, gives to the latter an 
island in the Mediterranean, which thousands 
of English had purchased with their lives; 
and in America all that he wanted, at least 
all that he could ask. No doubt there will 
be great cordiality between this royal trio for 
the future : and, though wars may perhaps be 
kindled between their posterity some ages 
hence, the present generation shall never be 
witnesses of such a calamity again. I ex- 
pect soon to hear that the queen of Fiance, 
who just before this rupture happened, made 
the queen of England a present of a watch, 
has, in acknowledgment of all these acts of 
kindness, sent her also a seal wherewith to 
ratify the treaty. Surely she can do no less, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Feb. 8, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — When I consider the 
peace as the work of our ministers, and re- 
flect that, with more wisdom, or more spirit, 
they might perhaps have procured a better. I 
confess it does not please me.f Such ano- 

* Private correspondence. 

t Lord Shelbunie, who made this peace, was taunted 
in the House of Commons by Mr. Fox with hiving be.»n 
previously averse to it, and even of having c-yi-1 r nat, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



14T 



other peace would ruin us, I suppose, as ef- 
fectually as a war protracted to the extremcst 
inch of our ability to bear if. I do not think 
it just that the French should plunder us and 
be paid fordoing it ; nor does it appear to me 
that there was absolute necessity for such 
tameness on our part as we discover in the 
present treaty. We give away all that is 
demanded, and receive nothing but what was 
our own before. So far as this stain upon 
cur national honor, and this diminution of 
our national property, are a judgment upon 
our iniquities, I submit, and have no doubt 
but that ultimately it will be found to be 
judgment mixed with mercy. But so far as 
I see it to be the effect of French knavery 
and British despondency, I feel it as a dis- 
grace, and grumble at it as a wrong. I dis- 
like it the more, because the peacemaker has 
been so immoderately praised for his per- 
formance, which is, in my opinion, a con- 
temptible one enough. Had he made the 
French smart for their baseness, I would have 
praised him too ; a minister should have 
<;hown his wisdom by securing some points, 
at least for the benefit of his country. A 
schoolboy might have made concessions. 
After all perhaps the worse consequence of 
this awkward business will be dissension in 
the two Houses, and dissatisfaction through- 
out the kingdom. They that love their 
country will be grieved to see her trampled 
upon ; and they that love mischief will have 
a fair opportunity of making it. Were I a 
member of the Commons, even with the 
same religious sentiments as impress me 
now, I should think it my duty to condemn it. 

You will suppose me a politician ; but in 
truth I am nothing less. These are the 
thoughts that occur to me while I read the 
newspaper ; and, when I have laid it down, 
I feel myself more interested in the success 
-)f my early cucumbers than in any part of 
this great and important subject. If I see 
them droop a little, I forget that we have 
been many years at war ; that we have made 
a humiliating peace ; that we are deeply in 
debt, and unable to pay. All these reflec- 
tions are absorbed at once in the anxiety I 
feel for a plant, the fruit of which I cannot 
eat when I have procured it. How wise, 
how consistent, how respectable a creature is 
man ! 

Mrs. Unwin thanks Mrs. Newton for her 
kind letter, and for executing her commis- 

when the independence of America skould be granted, the 
sun of Britain would haoc set ; and that the recognition 
of its independence deserved to be stained with the blood of 
the minister who should sign it. It was in allusion to 
this circumiuince that Mr. Fox applied to him the follow- 
ing ludicrous distich : 

You've done a noble deed, in Nature's spite, 
Tho' you think you are wrong, yet I'm sure you are right. 
Lord Slwlburne's defence was, that he was compelled to 
Ihc measare, and not so much the author as the instru- 
neatof it. See Parliamentary Debates of that time. 



sions. We truly love you both, think of you 
often, and one of us prays for you ; — the 
other will, when he can pray for himself. 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Feb. 13, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — In writing to you 1 
never want a subject. Self is always at 
hand, and self, with its concerns, is always 
interesting to a friend. 

You may think perhaps that, having com- 
menced poet by profession, I am always writ- 
ing verses. Not so ; I have written nothing, 
at least finished nothing, since I published, 
except a certain facetious history of John 
Gilpin, which Mrs. Unwin would send to the 
" Public Advertiser," perhaps you might read 
it without suspecting the author. 

My took procures me favors, which my 
modesty will not permit me to specify, ex- 
cept one, which, modest as I am, I cannot 
suppress, a very handsome letter from Dr. 
Franklin at Passy. These fruits it has 
brought me. 

I have been refreshing myself with a walk 
in the garden, where I find that January (who 
according to Chaucer was the husband of 
May) being dead, February has married the 
widow. 

Yours, &c. W. C 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Feb. 20, 1783. 
Suspecting that I should not have hinted 
at Dr. Franklin's encomium under any other 
influence than that of vanity, I was several 
times on the point of burning my letter for 
that very reason. But, not having time to 
write another by the same post, and believing 
that you would have the grace to pnrdon a 
little self-compLicency in an authu.- on so 
trying an occasion, I let it pass. One sin int. 
urally leads to another and a greater, and thus 
it happens now, for I have no way to gratify 
your curiosity, but by transcribing the letter 
in question. It is addressed, by the way, not 
to me, but to an acquaintance of mine, who 
had transmitted the volume to him without 
my knowledge. 

" Passy,* May 8, 1782. 

" Sir, I received the letter you did me the 
honor of writing to me, and am much obliged 
by your kind present of a book. The relish 
for reading of poetry had long since left me, 
but there is something so new in the man. 
ner, sc easy, and yet so correct in the Ian- 
guag -;.. vio clear in the expression, yet concise, 

* A beautiful village near Paris, on the road to Ve» 

sailles. 



148 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and so just ic the sentiments, that I have read 
the whole' with great pleasure, and some of 
the pieces more than once. I beg you to ac- 
cept my thankful acknowledgments, and to 
present my respects to the author. 

" Your most obedient humble servant, 
"B. Franklin." 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

My dear Friend, — Great revolutions happen 
in this ants' nest of ours. One emmet of il- 
lustrious character and great abilities pushes 
out another ; parties are formed, they range 
themselves in formidable opposition, they 
threaten each other's rain, they cross over and 
are mingled together,* and like the corusca- 
tions of the Northern Aurora amuse the spec- 
tator, at the same time that by some they are 
supposed to be forerunners of a general dis- 
solution. 

There are political earthquakes as well as 
natural ones, the former less shocking to the 
eye, but not always less fatal in their iiiilu T 
ence than the latter. The image which Ne- 
buchadnezzar saw in his dream was made 
up of heterogeneous and incompatible ma- 
terials, and accordingly broken. Whatever is 
so formed must expect a like catastrophe. 

I have an etching of the late Chancellor 
hanging over the parlor chimney. I often 
contemplate it, and call to mind the day when 
I was intimate with the original. It is very 
like him, but he is disguised by his hat, 
which, though fashionable, is awkward ; by 
his great wig, the tie of which is hardly dis- 
cernible in profile, and by his band and gown, 
which give him an appearance clumsily sacer- 
dotal. Our friendship is dead and buried ; 
yours is the only surviving one of all with 
which I was once honored. 

Adieu. W. C. 

The sarcasm conveyed in the close of this 
letter, and evidently pointed at Lord Thur- 
low, is severe, and yet seems to be merited. 
It will be remembered, that Lord Thnrlow 
and Cowper were on terms of great intimacy 
when at Westminster school, though separ- 
ated in after life ; that Cowper subsequently 
presented him with a copy of his poems, ac- 
companied by a letter, reminding him of their 
former friendship ; and that his lordship 
treated him with forgetfulness and neglect. 
It is due, however, to the memory of Lord 
Thurlow, to state that instances are not want- 
ing to prove the benevolence of his character. 
When the south of Europe was recommended 
to Dr. Johnson, to renovate his declining 
strength, he generously offered to advance the 
sum of five hundred pounds for that purpose.f 

* This expression, as well as the allusion to Nebuchad- 
nezzar's image, refers to the famous coalition ministry, 
Under Lord North and Mr. Fox. 

t See Murphy's Life of Johnson. 



Nor ought we to forgot Lord Thurlow'j 

treatment of the poet Crabbe. The latte* 
presented to him one of his poems. " I have 
no time," said Lord Thurlow, " to read verses, 
my avocations do not permit it." " There was 
a time," retorted the poet, " when the encour 
agement of literature was considered to be a 
duty appertaining to the illustrious station 
which your lordship holds." Lord Thurlow 
frankly acknowledged his error, and nobly 
redeemed it. " I ought," he , observed, " to 
have noticed your poem, and I heartily for- 
give your rebuke :" and in proof of his sin- 
cerity he generously transmitted the sum of 
one hundred pounds, and subsequently gave 
him preferment in the church. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Feb. 24, 1783. 

My dear Friend,- — A weakness in one of 
my eyes may possibly shorten my letter, but 
I mean to make it as long as my present 
materials, and my ability to write, can suffice 
for. 

I am almost sorry to say that I am recon- 
ciled to the peace, being reconciled to it not 
upon principles of approbation but necessity. 
The deplorable condition of the country, in- 
sisted on by the friends of administration, 
and not denied by their adversaries, convinces 
me that our only refuge under Heaven was 
in the treaty with which I quarrelled. The 
treaty itself I find less objectionable than I 
did, Lord Shelburne having given a color to 
some of the articles that makes them less 
painful in the contemplation. But my opinion 
upon the whole affair is, that now is the time 
(if indeed there is salvation for the country) 
for Providence to interpose to save it. A 
peace with the greatest political advantages 
would not have healed us ; a peace with none 
may procrastinate our ruin for a season, but 
cannot ultimately prevent it. The prospect 
may make all tremble who have no trust in 
God, and even they that trust nnxy tremble. 
The peace will probably be of short duration; 
and in the ordinary course of things another 
war must end us. A great country in ruins 
will not be beheld with eyes of indifference, 
even by those who have a better country to 
look to. But with them all will be well at 
last. 

As to the Americans, perhaps I do not 
forgive them as I ought; perhaps I shall 
always think of them with some resentment, 
as the destroyers, intentionally the destroyers, 
of this country. They have pushed that point 
farther than the house of Bourbon could have 
carried it in half a century. I may be preju- 
diced against them, but I do not think them 
equal to the task of establishing an empire 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



14! 



Great men are necessary for such a purpose : 
and their great men, I believe, are yet un- 
born.* They have had passion and obstinacy 
enough to do us much mischief; but whether 
the event will be salutary to themselves or 
not, must wait for proof. I agree with you 
that it is possible America may become a land 
of extraordinary evangelical light, f but at the 
same time, I cannot discover anything in their 
new situation peculiarly favorable to such a 
supposition. They cannot have more liberty 
of conscience than they had ; at least, if that. 
liberty was under any restraint, it was a re- 
straint of their own making. Perhaps a new 
settlement in church and state may leave 
them less. — Well — all will be over soon. The 
time is at hand when an empire will be es- 
tablished that shall fill the earth. Neither 
statesmen nor generals will lay the founda- 
tion of it, but it shall rise at the sound of the 
tmmpet. 

I am well in body, but with a mind that 
would wear out a frame of adamant ; yet, 
upon my frame, which is not very robust, its 
effects are not discernable. Mrs. Unwin is in 
health. Accept our unalienable love to you 
both. 

Yours, my dear friend, truly, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.J 

Olney, March 7, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — When will you come and 
tell us what you think of the peace ? Is it a 
good peace in itself, or a good peace only in 
reference to the ruinous condition of our 
country ? I quarrelled most bitterly with it at 
first, finding nothing in the terms of it but 
disgrace and destruction to Great Britain. 
But, having learned since that we are already 
destroyed and disgraced, as much as we can 
be, I like it better, and think myself deeply 
indebted to the King of France for treating 
us with so much lenity. The olive-branch 
indeed has neither leaf nor fruit, but it is still 

* This anticipation has not been fulfilled. America 
has produced materials for national greatness, that have 
laid the foundation of a mighty empire ; and both Gen- 
eral Washington and Franklin were great men. 

t There is a remarkable passage in Herbert's Sacred 
Poems expressive of this expectation, and indicating the 
probable period of its fulfilment. 

"Religion stands on tiptoe in our land, 
Ready to pass to the American strand. 
When height of malice, and prodigious lusts, 
Impudent sinning, witchcrafts, and distrusts. 
The marks of future bane, shall fill our cup 
Unto the brim, and make our measure up ; 
When Seine shall swallow Tiber, and the Thames, 
By letting in them both, pollute her streams ; 
When Italy of us shall have her will, 
And all her calendar of sins, fulfil ; 
Then shall Religion to America flee ; 
They have their times of Gospel ev'n as we." 

Herbert concludes by predicting that Christianity shall 
fcen complete its circuit by returning once more to the 
East, the original source of Empire, of the Arts, and of 
Religion, and so prepare the way for the final consumma- 
tion of all things. 

t Private correspondence. . 



an olive-branch. Mr. Newton and I have ex 
changed several letters on the subject ; some, 
times considering, like grave politicians as w/» 
are, the state of Europe at large ; sometimes 
the state of England in particular ; sometimes 
the conduct of the house of Bourbon ; some 
times that of the Dutch ; but most especially 
that of the Americans. We have not differed 
perhaps very widely, nor even so widely as 
we seemed to do ; but still we have differed. 
We have however managed our dispute with 
temper, and brought it to a peaceable conclu- 
sion. So far at least we have given proof o* 
a wisdom which abler politicians than myself 
would do well to imitate. 

How do you like your northern mountain- 
eers ?* Can a man be a good Christian that 
goes without breeches % You are better quali- 
fied to solve me this question than any man t 
know, having, as I am informed, preached to 
many of them, and conversed, no doubt, with 
some. You must know I love a Highlander, 
and think I can see in them what Englishmen 
once were, but never will be again. Such have 
been the effects of luxury ! 

You know that I kept two hares. I havi 
written nothing since I saw you but an epi- 
taph on one of them, which died last week. 
I send you the first impression of it. 

Here lies, &c.| 

Believe me, my dear friend, affectionate^ 
yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J 

Olney, March 7, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — Were my letters com- 
posed of materials worthy of your acceptance, 
they should be longer. There is a subject 
upon which they who know themselves inter- 
ested in it are never weary of writing. . That 
subject is not within my reach ; and there are 
few others that do not soon fatigue me 
Upon these, however, I might possibly be 
more diffuse, could I forget that I am writing 
to you, to whom I think it just as improper 
and absurd to send a sheet full of trifles, as 
it would be to allow myself that liberty, were 
I writing to one of the four evangelists. But, 
since you measure me with so much exact- 
ness, give me leave to requite you in your own 
way. Your manuscript indeed is close, and 
I do not reckon mine very 1 ax. You make 
no margin, it is true ; if you did, you would 
have need of their Lilliputian art, who can 
enclose the creed within the circle of a shil- 
ling ; for, upon ttr nicest comparison, I find 
your paper an inch smaller every way than 
mine. Were my writing therefore as com 
pact as yours, my letters with a margin would 

* Scotch Highlanders, quartered at Newport Pagna* 
where Mr. Bull lived. 
t Vide Cowper's Poems. 
X Private correspondence. 



be as long as yours without one. Let this 
consideration, added to that of their futility, 
prevail with you to think them, if not long, 
yet long enough. 

Yesterday a body of Highlanders passed 
through Olney. They are part of that regi- 
ment which lately mutinied at Portsmouth. 

Convinced to a man that General had 

sold them to the East India Company, they 
breathe nothing but vengeance, and swear 
they will pull down his house in Scotland, 
as soon as they arrive here. The rest of 
thco are quartered at Dunstable, Woburn, 
and Newport; in all eleven hundred. A 
party of them, it is said, are to continue 
some days at Olney. None of their .principal 
officers are with them ; either conscious of 
guilt, or at least knowing themselves to be 
suspected as privy to and partners in the in-' 
iquitous bargain, they fear the resentment of 
the corps. The design of government seems 
to be to break them into small divisions, that 
they may find themselves, when they reach 
Scotland, too weak to do much mischief.— 
Forty of them attended Mr. Bull, who found 
himself singularly happy in an opportunity to 
address himself to a flock bred upon the 
Caledonian mountains. He told them he 
would walk to John O'Groat's house to hear 
a soldier pray. They are in general so for 
religious that they will hear none but evan- 
gelical preaching ; and many of them are said 

to be truly so. Nevertheless, General 's 

skull was in some danger among them ; for 
he was twiced felled to the ground with the 
butt end of a musket. The sergeant-major 
rescued him, or he would have been forever 
rendered incapable of selling Highlanders to 
the India Company. I am obliged to you 
for your extract from Mr. Bowman's letter. 
I feel myself sensibly pleased by the appro- 
bation of men of taste and learning ; but that 
my vanity may not get too much to windward, 
my spirits are kept under by a total inability 
to renew my enterprises in the poetical way. 

We are tolerably well, and love you both. 
Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, April 5, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — When one has a letter 
to write, there is nothing more useful than 
to make a beginning. In the first placed be- 
cause unless it be begun, there is no good 
reason to hope it will ever be ended ; and 
secondly, because the beginning is half the 
business, it being much more difficult to put 
'.he pen in motion at first, than to continue 
fch' 1 - progress of it when once moved. 

Mrs C 's illness, likely to prove mortal, 

nnd seizing her at such a time, has excited 
much compassion in my breast, and in Mrs. 
Jnwin's, both for her : ad her daughter. To 



have parted with a child she loves so much, 
intending soon to follow her; to find herself 
arrested before she could set out, and at so 
great a distance from her most valued rela. 
tions ; her daughter's life too threatened by 
a disorder not often curable, are circumstan- 
ces truly affecting. She has indeed much 
natural fortitude, and, to make her condition 
still more tolerable, a good Christian hope 
for her support. But so it is, that the dis- 
tresses of those who least need our pity ex- 
cite it most ; the amiableness of the character 
engages our sympathy, and we mourn for 
persons for whom perhaps we might more 
reasonably rejoice. There is still however a 
possibility that she may recover ; an event 
we must wish for, though for her to depart 
would be far better. Thus we would always 
withhold from the skies those who alone can 
reach them, at least till we are ready to bear 
them company. 

Present our love, if you please, to Miss 
C * I saw in the " Gentleman's Maga- 
zine," for last month, an account of a physi- 
cian who has discovered a new method of 
treating consumptive cases, which has suc- 
ceeded wonderfully in the trial. He finds 
the seat of the distemper in the stomach, 
and cures it principally by emetics. The 
old method of encountering the disorder has 
proved so unequal to the task, that 1 should 
be much inclined to any new practice that 
comes well recommended. He is spoken of 
as a sensible and judicious man, but his name 
I have forgot. 

Our love to all under your roof, and in 
particular to Miss Catlett, if she is with you. 
Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney, April 21, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — My device was intended 
to represent, not my own heart, but the 
heart of a Christian, mourning and yet re- 
joicing, pierced with thorns, yet wreathed 
about with roses. I have the thorn without 
the rose. My briar is a wintry one; the 
flowers are withered, but the thorn remains. 
My days are spent in vanity, and it is impossi- 
ble for me to spend them otherwise. No 
man upon earth is more sensible of the un- 
profitableness of a life like mine than I am, 
or groans more heavily under the burden. 
The time when I seem to be most rationally 
employed is when I am reading. My studies 
however are very much confined, and of little 
use, because I have no books but what I bor- 
row, and nobody will lend me a memory. 
My own is almost worn out. I read the Bi- 
ographia and the Review. If all the readers 
of the former had memories like mine, the 

* Miss Cunnir.gham'. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



15, 



compilers of that work would in vain have 
labored to rescue the great names of past 
ages from oblivion, for what I read to day I 
forget to-morrow. A by-stander might say, 
This- is rather an advantage, the book is 
always new ; — but I beg the by-standees par- 
don ; I can recollect, though I cannot remem- 
ber, and with the book in my hand I recog- 
nize those passages which, without the book, 
I should never have thought of more. The 
Review pleases me most, because, if the con- 
tents escape me, I regret them less, being 
a very supercilious reader of most modern 
writers. Either I dislike the subject, or the 
manner of treating it ; the style is affected, or 
the matter is disgusting. 

I see (though he was a learned man, and 

sometimes wrote like a wise one,) laboring 
under invincible prejudices against the truth 
and its professors ; heterodox in his opinions 
upon some religious subjects, and reasoning 
most weakly in support of them. How has 
he toiled to prove that the perdition of the 
wicked is not eternal, that there may be re- 
pentance in hell, and that the devils may be 
saved at last : thus establishing, as far as in 
him lies, the belief of a purgatory. When I 
i.hink of him, I think too of some who shall 
«<ay hereafter, " Have we not prophesied in 
thy name, and in thy name done many won- 
drous works ? Then shall he say unto them, 
Depart from me, for I never knew you." 
But perhaps he might be enlightened in his 
last moments, and saved in the very article 
of dissolution. It is much to be wished, and 
indeed hoped, that he was. Such a man 
reprobated in the great day would be the 
most melancholy spectacle of all that shall 
stand at the left hand hereafter. But I do 
•tot think that many, or indeed any, will be 
found there, who in their lives were sober, 
virtuous, and sincere, truly pious in the use 
of their little light, and, though ignorant of 
God, in comparison with some others, yet, suf- 
ficiently informed to know that He is to be 
feared, loved, and trusted. An operation is 
often performed within the curtains of a dy- 
ing bed, in behalf of such men, that the nurse 
and the doctor (I mean the doctor and the 
nurse) have no suspicion of. The soul 
makes but one step out of darkness into 
light, and makes that step without a witness. 
My brother's case has made me very charita- 
ble in my opinion about the future state of 
yich men. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, May 5, 1783. 
You may suppose that I did not hear Mr. 
• preach, but I heard of him. How dif- 
ferent is that plainness of speech which a 



spiritual theme requires, from that vulgar di« 
alect which this gentleman has mistaken fo! 
it ! Affectation of every sort is odious, es- 
pecially in a minister, and more especially an 
affectation that betrays him into expressions 
fit only for the mouths of the illiterate. 
Truth indeed needs no ornament, neither 
does a beautiful person ; but to clothe it 
therefore in rags, when a decent habit was at 
hand, would be esteemed preposterous and 
absurd. The best-proportioned figure may 
be made offensive by beggary and filth, and 
even truths, which came down from heaven 
though they cannot forego their nature, may 
be disguised and disgraced by unsuitable Lan- 
guage. It is strange that a pupil of yours 
should blunder thus. You may be consoled 
however by reflecting, that he could not havo 
erred so grossly if he had not totally and 
wilfully departed both from your instruction 
and example. Were I to describe your style 
in two words, I should call it plain and neat, 
simplicem munditiis, and I do not know how 
I could give it juster praise, or pay it a greater 
compliment. He that speaks to be under 
stood by a congregation of rustics, and ye 
in terms that would not offend academical 
ears, has found the happy medium. This is 
certainly practicable to men of taste and 
judgment, and the practice of a few proves 
it. Hacienus de concionando. 

We are truly glad to hear that Miss Cat- 
lett is better, and heartily wish you more 
promising accounts from Scotland. Debe- 
mur murli nos nostraque. We all acknowl- 
edge the debt, but are seldom pleased when 
those we love are required to pay it. The 
demand will find you prepared for it. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWTN. 

Olney, May 12, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — A letter written from 
such a place as this is a creation ; and crea- 
tion is a work for which mere mortal man is 
very indifferently qualified. Ex nihilo nihil 
Jit, is a maxim that applies itself in every 
case, where Deity is not concerned. With 
this view of the matter, I should charge my- 
self with extreme folly for pretending to 
work without materials, did I not know that 
although nothing could be the result, even 
that nothing will be welcome. If I can tell 
you no news, I can tell you at least that I 
esteem you highly ; that my friendship with 
you and yours is the only balm of my life ; a 
comfort sufficient to reconcile me to an ex- 
istence destitute of any other. This is not 
the language of to-day, only the effect of a 
transient cloud suddenly brought over me, 
and suddenly to be removed, but punctually 
expressive of my habitual frame of mind, 
such as it has been these ten years. 



152 



COWPER'S WORKS 



In the " Review" of last month, I met with 
an account of a sermon preached by Mr. 
Paley, at the consecration of his friend, 
Bishop L * The critic admires and extols the 
preacher, and devoutly prays the Lord of the 
harvest to send forth more such laborers 
into his vineyard. I rather, differ from him 
in opinion, not being able to conjecture in 
what respect the vineyard will be benefited 
by such a measure. He is certainly in- 
genious, and has stretched his ingenuity to 
the uttermost, in order to exhibit the church 
established, consisting of bishops, priests, and 
deacons, in the most favorable point of view. 
I lay it down for a rule that when much in- 
genuity is necessary to gain an argument 
credit, that argument is unsound at bottom. 
So is his, and so are all the petty devices by 
which he seeks to enforce it. He says first, 
' that the appointment of various orders in 
the church is attended with this good con- 
sequence,- that each class of people is sup- 
plied with a clergy of their own level and 
description, with whom they may live and 
associate on terms of equality." But, in 
order to effect this good purpose, there 
ought to be at least three parsons in every 
parish, one for the gentry, one for traders 
and mechanics, and one for the lowest of the 
vulgar. Neither is it easy to find many par- 
ishes, where the laity at large have any so- 
ciety with their minister at all. This there- 
fore is fanciful, and a mere invention : in the 
next place he says it gives a dignity to the 
ministry itself, and the clergy share in the 
respect paid to their superiors. Much good 
may such participation do them! They 
themselves know how little it amounts to. 
The dignity a parson derives from the lawn 
sleeves and square cap of his diocesan will 
never endanger his humility. 

Pope says truly — 

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow, 
The rest is all but leather or prunella. 

Again — " Rich and splendid situations in 
the church have been justly regarded as 
prizes, held out to invite persons of good 
hopes and ingenuous attainments." Agreed. 
But the prize held out in the Scripture is of 
a very different kind ; and our ecclesiastical 
baits are too often snapped by the worthless, 
and persons of no attainments at all. They 
are. indeed incentives to avarice and ambition, 
but not to those acquirements^ by which only 
the ministerial function can be adorned — zeal 
for the salvation of men, humility, and self- 
denial. Mr. Paley and- I therefore cannot 
agree. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

We think Cowper has treated Paley, as 
well as his subject, with no small portion of 

* Dr. Law, Bishop of Carlisle. 



severity. What Paley's arguments may have 
been, in establishing .his first position, we 
know not, but we should have expected that 
the poet would have admitted the principle 
however he might have disapproved of the 
comment. There was a time when the proper 
constitution of a Christian Church furnished 
a subject of inquiry that engaged the coun- 
cils of princes, convulsed this empire to its 
basis, and left the traces of an awful desola- 
tion behind. We allude to the times of 
Charles the First, and to the momentous 
events that characterized that period. In the 
present age, the matters in dispute are greatly 
changed. The important question now agita- 
ted is the lawfulness of the union of church 
and state, so far as that lawfulness is decided 
by an appeal to the authority of Scripture. 
Upon this subject it is not pur intention to 
enter. For able and masterly argument, in 
defence of establishments, we beg to refer tG 
the work of Dr. Chalmers,* and to the two 
last Visitation Charges of Chancellor Dealtry. 
We trust, however, that we may be allowed 
to express our deep conviction that the timely 
removal of abuses is not only essential to 
the efficiency and preservation of the church 
of England, but also imperatively due to our 
own honor and credit, to the glory of God, 
and to the advancement of true religion. 

In the meantime we would appeal to every 
intelligent observer, whether there has ever 
been a period in the annals of our church, 
more characterized by an acknowledged in- 
crease of true piety than in the era in which 
we are now writing ? — whether there is not a 
perceptible revival of sound doctrine in our 
pulpits, and of devotedness and zeal in the 
lives of the clergy ? Appealing then to these 
facts, which he that runneth may read, may 
we not, though in the spirit of profound hu- 
miliation, exclaim with the wife of Manoah, 
" If the Lord were pleased to kill us, he would 
not have received a burnt-offering and a meat- 
offering at our hands ; neither would he have 
showed us all these things; nor wouJd, as at 
this time, have told us such things as these."f 

Let, then, the sacred edifice be suffered to 
remain, built as it is on the foundation of the 
apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself 
being the chief corner-stone; but let what 
time ha+h impaired, or infirmity hath dis- 
figured, be restored and amended. And let 
this be the language of her friends, as well as 
of every honorable and conscentious oppo- 
nent, which was once expressed by the cele- 
brated Beza : " If now the reformed churches 
of England, administered by the authority of 
bishops and archbishops, do hold on, as this 
hath happened to that church in cur memory 
that she hath had men of that calling, not 
only most notable martyrs of God, but also 

* See Dr. Chalmers on Establishments 
t Judges xiii. 23. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



15a 



excellent pastors and doctors; let her, in 
God's name, enjoy this singular bounty of 
God, which I wish she may hold forever."* 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, May 26, 1783. 

I feel for my uncle, and do not wonder 
that his loss afflicts him. A connexion that 
has subsisted so many years, could not be 
rent asunder without great pain to the sur- 
vivor. I hope, however, and doubt not, but 
when he has had a little more time for recol- 
lection, he will find that consolation in his 
own family, which it is not the lot of every 
father to be blessed with. It seldom happens 
that married persons live together so long, or 
so happily ; but this, which one feels one's 
self ready to suggest as matter of alleviation, 
is the very circumstance that aggravates his 
distress ; therefore *he misses her the more 
and feels that he can but ill spare her. It is, 
however, a necessary tax, which all who live 
long must pay for their longevity, to lose 
many whom they would be glad to detain 
(perhaps those in whom all their happiness 
is centred), and to see them step into the 
grave before them. In one respect, at least, 
this is a merciful appointment. When life 
has lost that to which it owed its principal 
relish, we may ourselves the more cheerfully 
resign it. I beg you would present him with 
my most affectionate remembrance, and tell 
him, if you think fit, how much I wish that 
the evening of his long day may be serene 
and happy. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
• .Olney, May 31, 1783. 

We rather rejoice than mourn with you on 

the occasion of Mrs C 's death. In the 

case of believers, death has lost his sting, not 
only with respect to those he takes away, but 
with respect to survivors also. Nature in- 
deed will always suggest some causes of sor- 
row, when an amiable and Christian friend 
departs, but the Scripture so many more and 
so much more important reasons to rejoice, 
that, on such occasions, perhaps more re- 
markably than on any other, sorrow is turned 
mto joy. The law of our land is affronted if 
we say the king dies, and insists on it that he 
only demises. This, which is a fiction where 
a monarch only is in question, in the case of 
a Christian is reality and truth. He only lays 
aside a body which it is his privilege to be 
encumbered with no longer; and instead of 
dying, in that moment he begins to live. 
But this the world does not understand, there- 
fore the kings of it must go on demising to 
the end of the chapter. W. C. 

* u Fruatur sane ista singulari Dei beneficentia, qua? 
Itinam illi sit perpetua." — Be.za, Rcsp. ad Sarav. p. 111. 
7 Ashley Cowper, Esq., who had recently lost his wife. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 

Olney, June 3, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — My greenhouse fronted 
with myrtles, and where I hear nothing but 
the pattering of a fine shower and the sound 
of distant thunder, wants only the fumes of 
your pipe to make it perfectly delightful 
Tobacco was not known in the golden age. 
So much the worse for the golden age. This 
age of iron or lead would be insupportable 
without it; and, therefore, we may reasonably 
suppose, that the happiness of those better 
days would have been much improved by the 
use of it. We hope that you and your son 
are perfectly recovered. The season has 
been most unfavorable to animal life ; and I, 
who am merely animal, have suffered much 
by it. 

Though I should be glad to write, I write 
little or nothing. The time for such fruit is 
not yet come ; but I expect it, and I wish for 
it. I want amusement, a id, deprived of that, 
have nothing to supply the place of it. I 
send you, however, according to my promise 
to send you everything, two stanzas, com- 
posed at the request of Lady Austen. She 
wanted words to a tune she much admired 
and I wrote her the following, — 

ON PEACE. " 

No longer I follow a sound. &c.-f 

Yours, W C 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, June 8, 1783. 

My dear William, — Our severest winter, 
commonly called the spring, is now over, and 
I find myself seated in my favorite recess, the 
greenhouse. In such a situation, so silent, 
so shady, where no human foot is heard, and 
where only my myrtles presume to peep in 
at the window, you may suppose I have no 
interruption to complain of, and that my 
thoughts are perfectly at my command. But 
the beauties of the spot are themselves an 
interruption, my attention being called upon 
by those very myrtles, by a double row ot 
grass pinks, just beginning to blossom, and 
by a bed of beans already in bloom ; and you 
are to consider it, if you please, as no small 
proof of my regard, that, though you have so 
many powerful rivals, I disengage myself 
from them all, and devote this hour entirely 
to you. 

You are not acquainted with the Rev. Mr. 
Bull of Newport — perhaps it is as well for 
you that you are not. You would regret 
still more than you do, that there are so 
many miles interposed between us. He 
spends part of the day with us to-morrow 

* Private correspondence. 
% Vide Poems. 



154 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



A dissenter, but a liberal one ; a man of let- 
ters, and of geni us ; master of a fine imagi- 
nation, or rather not master of it — an imagi- 
nation which, when he finds himself in the 
company he loves, and can confide in, runs 
away with him into such fields of speculation, 
as amuse and enliven every other imagination 
that has the happiness to be of the party! 
at other times he has a tender and delicate 
sort of melancholy in his disposition, not less 
agreeable in its way. No men are better 
qualified for companions in such a world as 
this than men of such a temperament. Every 
scene of life has two sides, a dark and a 
bright one, and the mind that has an equal 
mixture of melancholy and vivacity is best of 
all qualified for the contemplation of either. 
He can be lively without levity, and pensive 
without dejection. Such a man is Mr. Bull. 
But — he smokes tobacco — nothing is per- 
fect 

Nihil est ab omni 
Parte beatum. 

On the other side I send you a something, 
a song if you please, composed last Thurs- 
day : the incident happened the day before.* 
Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, June 13, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for your 
Dutch communications. The suffrage of 
such respectable men must have given you 
much pleasure, a pleasure only to be ex- 
ceeded by the consciousness you had before 
of having published truth, and of having 
served a good master by doing so. 

I have always regretted that your ecclesi- 
astical history went no further : I never saw 
a work that I thought more likely to serve 
the cause of truth, nor history applied to so 
good a purpose.f The facts incontestable, 
the grand observation upon them all irrefra- 
. gable, and the style, in my judgment, incom- 
parably better than that of Robertson or 
Gibbon. I would give you my reasons for 
thinking so, if I had not a very urgent one 
for declining it. You have no ear for such 
music, whoever may be the performer. What 
you added, but never printed, is quite equal 
to what has appeared, which I think might 
have encouraged you to proceed, though you 

» Here followed his song of " The Rose." 
t Newton's " Review of Ecclesiastical History," so far 
as it proceeded, was much esteemed ,but was incomplete. 
It had the merit, however, of suggesting to the Rev. 
Joseph Milner the first idea of his own more enlarged 
and valuable undertaking, on the same subject. In this 
work the excellent author pursued the design executed 
In part by Newton. Instead of exhibiting the history of 
Christianity as a mere record of facts and events, he 
Jraeed the rise and progress of true religion, and its pre- 
servation through successive ages ; and thus afforded an 
Incontestable evidence of the superintending power and 
faithfulness of God. 



missed that freedom in writing which you 
found before. While you were at Olney 
this was at least possible; in a state of re- 
tirement you had leisure, without which ] 
suppose Paul himself could not have written 
his epistles. But those days are fled, and 
every hope of a continuation is fled with 
them. 

The day of judgment is spoken of not 
only as a surprise, but a snare, a snare upon 
all the inhabitants of the earth. A differ- 
ence indeed will obtain in favor of the godly, 
which is, that though a snare, a sudden, in 
some sense g t unexpected, and in every sense 
an awful, event, yet it will find them prepared 
to meet it. But, the day being thus charac- 
terized, a wide field is consequently open to 
conjecture ; some will look for it at one pe- 
riod, and some at another ; we shall most of 
us prove at last to have been mistaken, and 
if any should prove to have guessed aright, 
they will reap no advantage, the felicity of 
their conjecture being incapable of proof, till 
the day itself shall prove it. My own senti- 
ments upon the subject appear to me per- 
fectly scriptural, though I have no doubt that 
they differ totally from those of all who have 
ever thought about it, being however so sin- 
gular, and of no importance to the happiness 
of mankind, and being moreover difficult to 
swallow just in proportion as they are pecu- 
liar, I keep them to myself. 

I am and always have been a great ob- 
server of natural appearances, but I think not 
a superstitious one. The fallibility of those 
speculations which lead men of fanciful minds 
to interpret scripture by the contingencies of 
the day, is evident from this consideration, 
that what the God^ of the scriptures has seen 
fit to conceal he will not as the God of nature 
publish. He is one and the same in both ca- 
pacities, and consistent with himself and his 
purpose, if he designs a secret impenetrable 
in whatever way we attempt to open it. It 
is impossible however for an observer of nat- 
ural phenomena not to be struck with the 
singularity of the present season. The fogs 
I mentioned in my last- still continue, though 
till yesterday the earth was as dry as intense 
heat could make it. The sun continues to 
rise and set without his rays, and hardly 
shines at noon, even in a cloudless sky. At 
eleven last night the moon was a dull red ; 
she was nearly at her highest elevation, and 
had the color of heated brick. She would 
naturally, I know, have such an appearance 
looking through a misty atmosphere, but that 
such an atmosphere should obtain for so long 
a time, in a country where it has not hap- 
pened in my remembrance, even in winter, 
is rather remarkable. We have had more 
thunder-storms than have 3onsisted well with 
the peace of the fearful maidens in Olney 
though not so many as have happened in 



LIFE OF COWPER 



,53 



places at no great distance, nor so violent. 
Yesterday morning however, at seven o'clock, 
two fire-balls burst either on the steeple or 
close to it. William Andrews saw them 
meet at that point, and immediately after saw 
such a smoke issue from the apertures in the 
steeple, as soon rendered it invisible ; the 
noise of the explosion surpassed all the 
mses I ever heard ; you would have thought 
mat a thousand sledge-hammers were batter- 
ing great stones to powder, all in the same 
instant. The weather is still as hot, and the 
air is full of vapor, as if there had been 
neither rain nor thunder all the summer. 

There was once a periodical paper pub- 
lished, called Mist's Journal: a name well 
adapted to the sheet before you. Misty how- 
ever as I am, I do not mean to be mystical, 
but to be understood, like an almanac-maker, 
according to the letter. As a poet neverthe- 
less, I claim, if any wonderful event should 
follow, a right to apply all and every such 
post-prognostic to the purposes of the tragic 
muse. 

Yours, W. C. 

It is worthy of being recorded that these 
singular appearances presented by the atmo- 
sphere and heavens, with accompanying thun- 
der-storms, were prevalent in many parts of 
England. At Dover, the fog was of such 
long continuance, that the opposite shore 
could not be discerned for three weeks. In 
other places the storms of thunder and light- 
ning were awful, and destructive both to life 
and property. But this phenomenon was 
not confined to England only ; it extended to 
France, Italy, Germany, Hungary, Spain, and 
even to some parts of Africa. In Paris, the 
appearances were so portentous, and the 
alarm so considerable, that the great astron- 
omer Lalande addressed a letter to one of. 
the journals, m order to compose the public 
mind. We subjoin it in a note for the grati- 
fication of the reader, and as illustrating his 
views on the subject.* In the preceding Feb- 

* " It is known to you that for some days past people 
have been incessantly inquiring what is the occasion of 
the thick dry fog which almost constantly covers the 
heavens ? And, as this question is particularly put to 
astronomers, I think myself obliged to say a few words 
on the subject, more especially since a kind of terror 
begins to spread in society. It is said by some, that the 
disasters in Calabria were preceded by similar weather ; 
and by others, that a dangerous comet reigns at present. 
In 1773 I experienced how fast conjectures of this kind, 
which begin amongst the ignorant, even in the most en- 
lightened ages, proceed from mouth to mouth, till they 
reach the best societies, and find their way even to the 
public prints. The multitude, therefore, may easily be 
supposed to draw strange conclusions, when they sh<- the 
Bun pf a blood color, shed a melancholy light, and cause 
a most sultry heat. 

" This, hot 'ever, is nothing more than a very natural 
effect from a hot sun, after a long succession of hea~ y 
rain. The first impression of heat has necessarily and 
Enddenly rarefied a superabundance of watery particles 
with which the earth was deeply impregnated, and given 
Vhem, as they rose, a dimness and rarefaction not usual 
*> comnhm fogs. " De La Lande." 

TV* .'anger to which men of philosophical minds seem 



ruary occurred the calamitous earthquakes in 
Calabria and Sicily ;* by which solemn catas- 
trophe the city of Messina was overthrown 
and the greater portion of its population, 
consisting of thirty thousand souls, whclly 
destroyed. This awful event was preceded 
by an horizon full of black intense fog, the 
earthquake next followed, with two succesive 
shocks, and subsequently a whirlpool of fire 
issued from the earth, which completed th3 
entire destruction of the noble and great ed- 
ifices that still remained. We refer the 
reader for the terrible details of this afflicting 
calamity to the narrative of Sir William 
Hamilton, which cannot be read without 
alarm and terror. Nor can we omit the fol- 
lowing just and impressive moral from tho 
pen of Cowper. 

What then ! were they the wicked above all, 
And we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd islts 
Mov'd not. while theirs was rock'd, like a ligbi 

skiff 
The sport of every wave 1 No : none are clear, 
And none than we more guilty. But, where all 
Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts 
Of wrath obnoxious. God may choose his mark; 
May punish if he please, the less to warn 
The more malignant. If he spar'd not them, 
Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape, 
Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee. 
Taek, book ii. 



to be peculiarly exposed is the habit of accounting for 
the phenomena of nature too exclusively by the opera- 
tion of mere secondary causes; while the supreme 
agency of a first Great Cause is too much overlooked. 
The universality of these appearances occurring at the 
same time in England, France, Italy, and so many other 
countries, awakens reflections of a more solemn cast, in a 
mind imbued with Christian principles. He who reads 
Professor Barruel's work, and the concurring testimony 
adduced by Robinson, as to the extent of infidelity and 
even atheism, gathering at that time in the different 
states of Europe, might, we think, see in these signs in 
the moon, and in the stars, and in the heavens, some in- 
timations of impending judgments, which followed so 
shortly after; and evidences of the power and existence 
of that God, which many so impiously questioned and 
defied. 

* Cowper has selected this awful catastrophe for the 
exercise of his poetic powers. His mind seems to have 
been impregnated with the grandeur of the theme., 
which he has presented to the imagination of the readei 
with all the accuracy of historic detail. We quote ths 
following extracts. 

" Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now 
Lie scatter'd, where the shapely column stood. 
Her palaces are dust. In all her streets 
The voice of singing and the sprightly chord 
Are silent. .... 

The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise — 
The sylvan scene 
Migrates uplifted ; and with all its soil 
Alighting in far distant fields, finds out 
A new possessor, and survives the changw. 
Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought 
To an enormous and o'crbearing height, 
. Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice 

Which winds and waves obey, invades the shor* 
Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, 
Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge, 
Possessed an inland scene. Where now the thronf 
That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, 
Look'd to the sea for safety ?— They are gone, 
Gone with the refluent wave into the deep — 
A prince with half his people !" 

Task> book ii 



156 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, June 17, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — Your letter reached Mr. 

S while Mr. was with him ; whether 

it wrought any change in his opinion of thf.t 
gentleman, as a preacher, I know not ; but for 
my own part I give you full credit for the 
soundness and rectitude of yours. No man 
was ever scolded out of his sins. The heart, 
corrupt as it is, and because it is so, grows 
angry if it be not treated with some manage- 
ment and good manners, and scolds again. 
A surly mastiff will bear perhaps to be 
stroked, though he will growl even under 
that operation, but, if you touch him rough- 
ly, he will bite. There is no grace that the 
spirit of self can counterfeit with more suc- 
cess than a religious zeal. A man thinks he 
is fighting for Christ, and he is fighting for 
his own notions. He thinks that he is skil- 
fully searching the hearts of others, when he 
is only gratifying the malignity of his own, 
and charitably supposes his hearers destitute 
of all grace, that he may shine the more in 
his own eyes by comparison. When he has 
performed this notable task, he wonders 
that they are not converted, " he has given it 
them soundly," and if they do not tremble 
and confess that God is in him of a truth, he 
gives them up as reprobate, incorrigible, and 
lost forever. But a man that loves me, if he 
sees me in an error, will pity me, and endeav- 
or calmly to convince me of it, and persuade 
me to forsake it. If he has great and good 
news to tell me, he will not do it angrily, and 
in much heat and discomposure of spirit. It 
is not therefore easy to conceive on what 
ground a minister can justify a conduct which 
only proves that he does not understand his 
errand. The absurdity of it would cer- 
tainly strike him, if he were not himself de- 
luded. 

A people will always love a minister, if a 
minister seems to love his people. The old 
maxim, Simile agit in simile, is in no case 
more exactly verified; therefore you were 
beloved at Olney, and, if you preached to. 
the Chicksaws and Chactaws, would be 
equally beloved by them. 

W, C. 

Tenderness in a minister is a very impor- 
tant qualification, and indispensable to his 
success. The duty of it is enjoined in an 
apostolical precept, and the wisdom of it in- 
culcated in another passage of scripture. 
" Speaking the truth in love." " He that 
vnnneth souls is wise." We have often 
thought that one reason why a larger portion 
of divine blessing fails to accompany the 
ministrations of the sanctuary, is tl s want 
of more affectionate expostulation, more 
earnest entreaty, and more tenderness and 
sympathy in the preacher. The heart that is 



unmoved by our reproof may perhaps yield 
to the persuasiveness of our appeal. We 
fully admit that it is divine grace alone that 
can subdue the power of sin in the soul ; but 
in the whole economy of grace, as well as oi 
Providence, there is always perceptible a wise 
adaptation of means to the end. Who is 
not impressed by the tenderness and earnest 
solicitations of St. Paul ? Who can contem- 
plate the Saviour weeping over Jerusalem, 
without emotions of the profoundest admi- 
ration ? And who does not know that the 
spectacle of man's misery and guilt first sug- 
gested the great plan of redemption, and that 
the scheme of mercy which divine love de- 
vised in heaven dying love accomplished on 
earth? 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, June 19, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — The translation of your 
letters* into Dutch was news that pleased me 
much. 1 intended plain prose, but a rhyme 
obtruded itself, and I became poetical when 
I least expected it. When you wrote those 
letters, you did not dream that you were de- 
signed for an apostle to the Dutch. Yet, so 
it proves, and such among many others are 
the advantages we derive from the art of 
printing — an art in which indisputably man 
was instructed by the same great Teacher, 
who taught him to embroider for the service 
of the sanctuary, and which amounts almost 
to as great a blessing as the gift of tongues. 

The summer is passing away, and hitherto 
has hardly been either seen or felt. Perpetual 
clouds intercept the influence of the sun, and 
for the most part there is an autumnal cold- 
ness in the weather, though we are almost 
upon the eve of the longest day. 

We are well, and always mindful of you : 
be mindful of us, and assured that we love 
you. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, July 27, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — You cannot have mora 
pleasure in receiving a letter from me than I 
should find in writing it, were it not almosj 
impossible in such a place to find a subject. 

I live in a world abounding with incidents, 
upon which many grave and perhaps some 
profitable observations might be made ; but, 
those incidents never reaching* my unfortu- 
nate ears, both the entertaining narrative, and 
the reflection it might suggest, are to me an- 
nihilated and lost. I look back to the past 
week and say, what did it produce ? I ask 

* Newton's " Cardiphonia," a work of great merit and 
interest, and full of edification. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



151 



the same question of the week preceding, 
and duly receive the same answer from both 
—nothing ! A situation like this, in which I 
am as unknown to the world as I am igno- 
rant of all that passes in it, in which I have 
nothing to do but to think, would exactly suit 
me, were my subject of meditation as agree- 
able as my leisure is uninterrupted : my pas- 
sion for retirement is not at all abated, after 
so many years spent in the most sequestered 
state, but rather increased. A circumstance 
I should esteem wonderful to a degree not to 
,e accounted for, considering the condition of 
my mind, did I not know that we think as we 
are made to think, and of course approve and 
prefer as Providence, who appoints the bounds 
of our habitation, chooses for us. Thus I 
am both free and a prisoner at the same time. 
The world is before me ; I am not shut up 
in the Bastile ; there are no moats about my 
castle, no locks upon my gates, of which I 
have not the key — but an invisible, uncon- 
trollable agency, a local attachment, an incli- 
nation more forcible than I ever felt, even to 
the place of my birth, serves me for prison- 
walls, and for bounds which I cannot pass. 
In former years I have known sorrow, and 
before I had ever tasted of spiritual trouble. 
The effect was an abhorrence of the scene in 
vmich I had suffered so much, and a weari- 
xiess of those objects which I had so long 
looked at with an eye of despondency and 
dejection. But it is otherwise with me now. 
The same cause subsisting, and in a* much 
more powerful degree, fails to produce its 
natural effect. The very stones in the gar- 
den-walls are my intimate acquaintance. I 
should miss almost the minutest object, and 
be disagreeably affected by its removal/ and 
am persuaded that, were it possible I could 
leave this incommodious nook for a twelve- 
month, I should return to it again with rap- 
ture, and be transported with the sight of ob- 
jects, which to all the world beside would be 
at least indifferent; some of them, perhaps, 
such as the ragged thatch and the tottering 
walls of the neighboring cottages, disgusting. 
But so it is, and it is so, because here is to be 
my abode, and because such is the appoint- 
ment of Him that placed me in it. 

Iste terrarum mihi praeter omnes 
Angulus ridet. 

It is the place of all the world J love the 
most, not for any happiness it affords me, but 
because here I can be miserable with most 
convenience to myself, and with the least dis- 
turbance to others. 

You wonder, and (I dare say) unfeignedly, 
because you do not think yourself entitled 
to such praise, that I prefer your style, as an 
historian, to that of the two most renowned 
writers of history the present day has seen. 
That y % u may not suspect me of having said 



more than my real opinion will warrant, ] 
will tell you why. In your style I see np 
affectation, in every line of theirs I see noth 
ing else. They disgust me always ; Robert- 
son with his pomp and his strut, and Gibbon 
with his finical and French mannerc. You 
are as correct as they. You express your- 
self with as much precision. Your words 
are ranged with as much propriety, but you 
do not set your periods to a tune. They dis- 
cover a perpetual desire to exhibit themselves 
tc advantage, whereas your subject engrosser 
you. They sing, and you say ; which, as his- 
tory is a thing to be said and not sung, is ir 
my judgment very much to your advantage, 
A writer that despises their tricks, and is yet 
neither inelegant nor inharmonious, proves 
himself, by that single circumstance, a man 
of superior judgment and ability to them 
both. You have my reasons. I honor a 
manly character, in which good sense and a 
desire of doing good are the predominant 
features — but affectation is an emetic. 

W. (_. 

It is impossible to read the former part ol 
the preceding letter without emotion. Who 
has not felt the force of local associations, 
and their power of presenting affecting recol- 
lections to the mind? 

" I could not bear," says Pope, in one of his 
letters, " to have even an old post removed 
out of the way with which my eyes had been 
familiar from my youth." 

Among the Swiss, the force of association 
is so strong, that it is known by the appella- 
tion of the " maladie du pays ;" and it is re- 
corded that on hearing one of their national 
airs in a foreign land, so overpowering was 
the effect that, though engaged in warfare at 
the time, they threw down their arms and re- 
turned to their own country. The emotions 
awakened by some of the Swiss airs, such as 
the " Rantz des Vaches," and the affecting 
pathos of " La Suissesse au bord du lac," 
when heard on their native lakes, are always 
remembered by the traveller with delight. 
The feelings of a still higher kind connected 
with local associations are expressed with 
so much grace and eloquence in Dr. John- 
son's celebrated allusion to this subject, that 
we close our remarks by inserting the pas- 
sage, — 

" We were now treading that illustrious 
island, which was once the luminary of the 
Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and 
roving barbarians derived the benefits of 
knowledge and the blessings of religion. To 
abstract the mind from all local emotion 
would be impossible, if it were endeavored, 
and would be foolish if it were possible. 
Whatever withdraws us from the power of 
our senses, whatever makes the past, the 
distant, or the future, predominate over the 



158 



COWPER S WORKS 



present, advances us in the dignity of think- 
ing beings. Far from me and far from my 
friends be such frigid philosophy, as may 
conduct us indifferent and unmoved over 
any ground which has been dignified by wis- 
dom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little ! 
Jo be envied, whose patriotism would not | 
gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or 
whose piety would not grow warmer among 
the ruins of Iona."* 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Olney, Aug. 4, 1783. 

My dear William, — I feel myself sensibly ; 
obliged by the interest you take in the sue- i 
cess of my productions. Your feelings upon I 
the subject are such as I should have my- ! 
self, had I an opportunity of calling Johnson j 
aside to make the inquiry you propose. But 
[ am pretty well prepared for the worst, and ' 
so long as I have the opinion of a few capa- 
ble judges in my favor, and am thereby con- 
vinced that I have neither disgraced myself 
nor my subject, shall not feel myself dis- 
posed to any extreme anxiety about the sale. 
To aim, with success, at the spiritual good 
of mankind, and to become popular by writ- 
ing on scriptural subjects, were an unreason- 
able ambition, even for a poet to entertain in 
days like these. Verse may have many 
charms, but has none powerful enough to con- 
quer the aversion of a dissipated age to such 
instruction. Ask the question therefore bold- 
ly, and be not mortified, even though he 
should shake his head, and drop his chin; 
for it is no more than we have reason to ex r 
pect. We will lay the fault upon the vice 
of the times, and we will acquit the poet. 

I am glad you were pleased with my Latin 
ode, and indeed with my English dirge as 
much as I'was myself. The tune laid me 
under a disadvantage, obliging me to write 
in Alexandrines; which, I suppose, would 
suit no ear but a French one ; neither did I 
intend anything more than that the subject 
and the words should be sufficiently accom- 
modated to the music. The ballad is a spe- 
cies of poetry, I believe, peculiar to this 
country, equally adapted to the drollest and 
the most tragical subjects. Simplicity and 
ease are its proper characteristics. Our fore- 
fathers excelled in it ; but we moderns have 
lost the art. It is observed, that we have 
few good English odes. But, to make amends, 
we have many excellent ballads, not inferior, 
perhaps, in true poetical merit to some of 
the very best odes that the Greek or Latin 
languages have to boast of. It is a sort of 
tomposition I was ever fond of, and, if graver 
matters had not called me another way, 
should have addicted myself to it more than 
-', any other. I inherit a taste for it from 

* See his journey to the Western Islands. 



my father, who succeeded well ir. it himself 
and who lived at a time when the best piecea 
in that way were produced. What can be 
prettier than Gay's ballad, or rather Swift's, 
Arbuthnot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What 
do ye call it — "'Twas when the seas were 
roaring." I have been well informed that 
they all contributed, and that the most cele- 
brated association of clever fellows this coun- 
try ever saw, did not think it beneath them 
to unite their strength and abilities in the 
composition of a song. The success, how- 
ever, answered their wishts. The ballads 
that Bourne has translated, beautiful in them- 
selves, are still more beautiful in his version 
of them, infinitely surpassing in my judg- 
ment all that Ovid or Tibullus have left be- 
hind tjiem. They are quite as elegant, and 
far more touching and pathetic, than the 
tenderest strokes of either. 

So much for ballads and ballad-writers.— 
"A worthy subject," you will say, "for a 
man whose head might be filled with better 
things ;" — and it is filled with better things, 
but to so ill a purpose, that I thrust into it 
all manner of topics that may prove more 
amusing ; as, for instance, I have two gold- 
finches, which in the summer occupy the 
greenhouse. A few days since, being em- 
ployed in cleaning out their cages, I placed 
that which I had in hand upon the table, 
while the other hung against the wall : the 
windows and the doors stood wide open. I 
went to fill the fountain at the pump, and, 
on my return, was not a little surprised to 
find a goldfinch sitting on the top of the 
cage I had been cleaning, and singing to and 
kissing the goldfinch within. I approached 
him, and he discovered no fear; still nearer, 
and he discovered none. I advanced my 
hand towards him, and he took no notice of 
it. I seized him, and supposed I had caught 
a new bird, but, casting my eye upon the 
other cage, perceived my mistake. Its in- 
habitant, during my absence, had contrived 
to find an opening, where the wire had been 
a little bent, and" made no other use of the 
escape it afforded him than to salute hia 
friend, and to converse with him more inti 
mately than he had done before. I returned 
him to his proper mansion, but in vain. In 
less than a minute, he had thrust his little 
person through the aperture again, and again 
perched upon his neighbor's cage, kissing 
him, as at the first, and singing, as if trans- 
ported with the fortunate adventure. I could 
not but respect such friendship, as for the 
sake of its gratification, had twice declined 
an opportunity to be free, and consenting to 
their union, resolved that for the future one 
cage should hold them both. I am glad of 
such incidents. For at a pinch, and when I 

eed entertainment, the versification of thf'ui 

erves to diver; me. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



151 



* I transcribe for you a piece of Madam 
Guion, not as the best, but as being shorter 
than many, and as good as most of them. 
Yours ever, W. C. 

The following letter contains a judicious 
and excellent critique on the writings of 
Madame Guion, and on the school of mys- 
tics to which she belonged. The defect at- 
tributed to that school is too much famil- 
iarity of address, and a warmth of devotional 
fervor in their approach to the Deity, ex- 
ceeding the bounds of just propriety. There 
is, however, much to quicken piety, and to 
elevate the affections of the heart. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNsVlN. 

Olney, Sept. 7, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — So long a silence ueeds 
wi apology. I have been hindered by a 
three-weeks' visit from our Hoxton fnends,* 
and by a cold and feverish complaint which 
are but just removed. 

The French poetess is certainly charge 
able with the fault you mention, though .<! 
thought it not so glaring in the piece 1 sent 
you. I have endeavored indeed, in all the 
translations I have made, to cure her of that 
evil, either by the suppression of passages 
exceptionable upon that account, or by a 
more sober and respectful manner of expres- 
sion. Still, however, she will be found to 
have conversed familiarly with God, but I 
hope not fulsomely, nor so as to give rea- 
sonable disgust to a religious reader. That 
God should deal familiarly with man, or, 
which is the same thing, that he should per- 
mit man to deal familiarly with him, seems 
not very difficult to conceive, or presump- 
tuous to suppose, when some things are 
taken into consideration. Woe to the sin- 
ner, that shall dare to take a liberty with 
him that is not warranted by his word, or to 
which he himself has not encouraged him. 
When he assumed man's nature, he revealed 
himself as the friend of man, as the brother 
of every soul that loves him. He conversed 
freely with man while he was on earth, and 
as in. Ay with him after his resurrection. I 
doubt not, therefore, that it is possible to 
enjoy an access to him even now, unincum- 
bered with ceremonious awe, easy, delightful, 
and without constraint. This, however, can 
only b9 the lot of those who make it the 
business of their lives to please him, and to 
cultivate communion with him. And then I 
presume there can be no danger of offence, 
because such a habit of the soul is of his 
own creation, and, near as we come, we 
oome nc nearer to him than he is pleased to 
draw us. If we address him as children, it is 
•ecause he tells us he is our father. If we 
* Mr. and Mrs. Newton. 



unbosom ourselves to him as to a friend, it is 
because he calls us friends, and if we speal to 
him in the language of love, it is because he 
first u»ed it, thereby teaching us that it is the 
language he delights to hear from his peo- 
ple. But I confess that, through the weak- 
ness, the folly, and corruption of human 
nature, this privilege, like all other Christian 
privileges, is liable to abuse. There is a 
mixture of evil in everything we do ; indul 
gence encourages us to encroach ; and, while 
we exercise the rights of children, wc be- 
come childish. Here I think is the point in 
which my authoress failed, and here it is that 
I have particularly guarded my translation, 
not afraid of representing her as dealing with 
God familiarly, but foolishly, irreverently, 
and without due attention to his majesty, of 
which she is somewhat guilty. A wonderful 
fault for such a woman to fall into, who 
spent her life in the contemplation of his 
glory, who seems to have been alway im- 
pressed with a sense of it, and sometimes 
quite absorbed by the views she had of it. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Sept. 8, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — Mrs. Unwin would have 
\nswered your kind note from Bedford, had 
not a pain in her side prevented her. I, 
who am her secretary upon such occasions, 
shouU certainly have answered it for her, 
but was hindered by illness, having been 
myself seized with a "fever immediately after 
your departure. The account of your re- 
covery gave us great pleasure, and I am per- 
suaded that you will feel yourself repaid by 
the information that I give you of mine. 
The reveries your head was filled with, while 
your disorder was most prevalent, though 
they were but reveries, and the offspring of 
a heated imagination, afforded you yet a 
comfortable evidence of the predominant bias 
of your heart and mind to the best subjects. 
I had none such— indeed I was in no degree 
delirious, nor has anything less than a fever 
really dangerous ever made me so. In this 
respect, if in no other, I may be said to have 
a strong head, and, perhaps, for the same 
reason that wine would never make me 
drunk, an ordinary degree of fever has no 
effect upon my understanding. The epi- 
demic begins to be more mortal as the au- 
tumn comes* on, and in Bedfordshire it is 
reported, how truly I cannot say, to be 
nearly as fatal as the plague. I heard lately 
of a clerk in a public office, whose chief em- 
ployment it was for many years to admin- 
ister oaths, who being light-headed in a 
fever, of which he died, spent the last week 
of his life, in crying d ly and night — "So 
help you God — kiss the bouk — give me a 



160 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Bnilling." What a wretch in comparison 
with you ! 

Mr. Scott has been ill almost ever since 
you left us, and last Saturday, as on many 
foregoing Saturdays, was obliged to clap on 
a blister by way of preparation for his Sun- 
iay labors. He cannot draw breath upon any 
other terms. If holy orders were always 
conferred upon such conditions, I question 
but even bishoprics themselves would want 
An occupant. But he is easy and cheerful. 

I beg you will mention me kindly to Mr. 
Bacon, and make him sensible that if I did not 
write the paragraph he wished for, it was not 
owing to any want of respect for the desire he 
expressed, but to mere inability. If, in a 
state of mind that almost disqualifies me for 
society, I could possibly wish to form a new 
connexion, I should wish to know him ; but I 
never shall, and, things being as they are, I 
do not regret it. You are my old friend, 
therefore I do not spare you ; having known 
you in better days, I make you pay for any 
pleasure I might then afford you by a com- 
munication of my present pains. But I have 
no claims of this sort upon Mr. Bacon. 

Be pleased to remember us both, with 
much affection, to Mrs. Newton, and to her 

and your Eliza : to Miss C ,* likewise, if 

she is with you. Poor Eliza droops and lan- 
guishes; but in the land to which she is go- 
ing, she will hold up her head and droop no 
more. A sickness that leads the way to ev- 
erlasting life is better than the health of an 
antediluvian. Accept our united love. 
My dear friend, sincerely yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney, Sept. 15, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — I have been lately more 
dejected and more distressed than usual : 
more harassed by dreams in the night, and 
more deeply poisoned by them in the follow- 
ing day. I know not what is portended by 
an alteration for the worse after eleven years 
of misery; but firmly believe that it is not 
designed as the introduction of a change for 
the better. You know not what I suffered 
while you were here, nor was there any need 
you should. Your friendship for me would 
have made you in some degree a partaker of 
my woes; and your share in them would 
have been increased by your inability to help 
me. Perhaps, indeed, they took a keener 
edge from the consideration of your presence. 
The friend of my heart, the person with 
whom, I had formerly taken sweet counsel, 
no longer useful to me as a minister, no lon- 
ger pleasant to me as a Christian, was a spec- 

* The yours, lady here alluded to is Miss Eliza Cun- 
tinghani, a niece of Mr. Newton's. 
t Private correspondence. 



tacle that must necessarily add the bitterness 
of mortification to the sadness of despair, 
now see a long winter before me, and am to 
get through it as I can. I know the ground 
before I tread upon it. It is hollow ; it ia 
agitated ; it suffers shocks in every direction ; 
it is like the soil of Calabria — all whirlpool 
and undulation. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Sept. 23, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — We are glad that, having 
been attacked by a fever, which has often 
proved fatal, and almost always leaves the 
sufferer debilitated to the last degree, you 
find yourself so soon restored to health, and 
your strength recovered. Your health and 
strength are useful to others, and, in that 
view, important in his account who dispenses 
both, and by your means a more precious gift 
than either. For my own part, though I have 
not been laid up, I have never been perfectly 
well since you left us. A smart fever, which 
lasted indeed but a few hours, succeeded by 
lassitude and want of spirits that seemed still 
to indicate a feverish habit, has made for some 
time, and still makes me very unfit for my fa- 
vorite occupations, writing and reading; so 
that even a letter, and even a letter to you, is 
not without its burden. 

John has had the epidemic, and has it 

still, but grows better. When he was first 
seized with it, he gave notice that he should 
die, but in this only instance of prophetic ex- 
ertion he seems to have been mistaken : he 
has, however, been very near it, I should 
have told you that poor John has been very 
ready to depart, and much comforted through 
his whole illness. He, you know, though a 
silent, has been a very steady professor. He 
indeed fights battles and gains victories, but 
makes no noise. Europe is not astonished at 
his feats, foreign academies do not seek him 
for a member, he will never discover the art 
of flying, or send a globe of taffeta up to 
heaven. But he will go thither himself. 

Since you went, we dined with Mr. . 

I had sent him notice of our visit a week be- 
fore, which, like a contemplative studious 
man as he is, he put in his pocket and forgot. 
When we arrived, the parlor windows were 
shut, and the house had the appearance of be- 
ing uninhabited. After waiting some time, 
however, the maid opened the door, and the 
master presented himself. It is hardly worth 
while to observe so repeatedly, that his gar- 
den seems a spot contrived only for the 
growth of melancholy, but being always af- 
fected by it in the same way, I cannot help 
it. He showed me a nook, in which he had 
placed a bench, and where he said he found 
it very refreshing to smoke his pipe and me- 



LIFL OF COWPER. 



J 6i 



ditate. Here he sits with his back against one 
brick wall and his nose against another, which 
must, you know, be very refreshing-, and 
greatly assist meditation. He rejoices the 
more in this niche, because it is an acquisi- 
tion made at some expense, and with no small 
labor ; several loads of earth were removed in 
order to make it, which loads of earth, had 
I the management of them, I should carry 
thither again, and till up a place more fit in 
appearance to be a repository for the dead 
than the living. I would on no account put 
any man out of conceit with his innocent en- 
joyments, and therefore never tell him my 
thoughts upon this subject; but he is not 
seldom low-spirited, and I cannot but suspect 
that his situation helps to make him so. 

I shall be obliged to you for Hawkes- 
worth's Voyages when it can be sent conve- 
niently. The long evenings are beginning, 
and nothing shortens them so effectually as 
reading aloud. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



fO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Sept. 29, 1783. 
My dear William, — We are sorry that you 
and your household partake so largely of the 
ill effects of this unhealthy season. You are 
happy, however, in having hitherto escaped 
the epidemic fever which has prevailed much 
in this part of the kingdom, and carried many 
off. Your mother and I are well. After 
more than a fortnight's indisposition, which 
slight appellation is quite inadequate to the 
description of all I suffered, I am at length 
restored by a grain or two of emetic tartar. 
It is a tax I generally pay in autumn. By 
this time, I hope, a purer ether than we have 
seen for months, and these brighter suns than 
the summer had to boast, have cheered your 
spirits, and made your existence more com- 
fortable. We are. rational : but we are animal 
too ; and therefore subject to the influences 
of the weather. The cattle in the fields show 
evident symptoms of lassitude and disgust in 
an unpleasant season ; and we, their lords 
and masters, are constrained to sympathize 
with them : the only difference between us is, 
that they know not the cause of their dejec- 
tion, and we do, but, for our humiliation, are 
equally at a loss to cure it. Upon this ac- 
count I have sometimes wished myself a phi- 
losopher. How happy, in comparison with 
myself, does the sagacious investigator of 
nature seem, whose fancy is ever employed 
in the invention of hypotheses, and his reason 
in the support of them ! While he is account- 
ing for the origm of the winds, he has no 
leisure, to attend to their influence upon him- 
self; and, while he considers what the sun is 
made of, forgets that he has not shone for a 



month. One project, indeed, supplants an- 
other. The vortices of Descartes gave way 
to the gravitation of Newton, and this again 
is threatened by the electrical fluid of a mod- 
em.* One generation blows bubbles, and 
the next breaks them. But in the meantime 
your philosopher is a happy man. He es- 
capes a thousand inquietudes to which the in- 
dolent are subject, and finds his occupation, 
whether it be the pursuit of a butterfly or a 
demonstration, the wholesomest exercise in 
the world. As he proceeds, he applauds him- 
self. His discoveries, though eventually per- 
haps they prove but dreams, are to him real- 
ities. The world gaze at him as he does at 
new phenomena in the heavens, and perhaps 
understand him as little. But this does not 
prevent their praises, nor at all disturb him in 
the enjoyment of that self-complacence, to 
which his imaginary success entitles him. 
He wears his honors while he lives, and, if 
another strips them off when he has been deaa 
a century, it is no great matter; he can then 
make shift without them. 

I have said a great deal upon this subject, 
and kwow not what it all amounts to. I did 
not intend a syllable of it when I began. 
But, currente calamo, I stumbled upon it. 
My end is to amuse myself and you. The 
former of these two points is secured. I shall 
be happy if I do not miss the latter. 

By the way, what is your opinion of these 
air balloons? lam quite charmed with the 
discovery. Is it not possible (do you sup- 
pose?) to convey such a quantity of inflam- 
mable air into the stomach and abdomen, that 
the philosopher, no longer gravitating to a 
centre, shall ascend by his own comparative 
levity, and never stop till he has reached the 
medium exactly in equilibrio with himself? 
May he not, by the help of a'pasteboard rud- 
der attached to his posteriors, steer himself 
in ih at purer element with ease, and again by 
a slow and gradual discharge of his aerial 
contents, recover his former tendency to the 
earth, and descend without the smallest dan- 
ger or inconvenience? These things are 
worth inquiry, and (I dare say) they will be 
inquired after as they deserve : the penna 
non homini datcc are likely to be less regret- 
ted than they were ; and perlmps a flight of 
academicians and a covey of fine ladies may 
be no uncommon spectacle in the next gen- 
eration. A letter which appeared in the pub- 
lic prints last week convinces me that the 
learned are not without hopes of some such 
improvement upon this discovery. The au- 
thor is a sensible and ingenious man, and, 
under a reasonable apprehension that the ig- 
norant may feel themselves inclined to laugh 
upon a subject that affects himself with the 
utmost seriousness, with much good manners 
and management bespeaks their patience, 

* Dr. Franklin. 
11 



162 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Buggesting many good consequences that 
may result from a course of experiments 
upon this machine, and amongst others, that 
it may be of use in ascertaining the shape of 
continents and islands, and the face of wide- 
extended and far distant countries, an end 
not to be hoped for, unless by these me:ms 
of extraordinary elevation, the human pros- 
pect may be immensely enlarged, and the 
philosopher, exalted to the skies, attain a view 
of the whole hemisphere at once. But whe- 
ther he is to ascend by the mere inflation of 
his person, as hinted above, or whether in a 
sort of band-box, supported upon balloons, is 
riot yet apparent, nor (I suppose) even in his 
own idea perfectly decided. 

Yours, my dear William, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Oct. 6, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — It is indeed a melancholy 
ponsideration, that the gospel, whose direct 
tendency is to promote the happiness of man- 
kind, in the present as well as in the life to 
come, and which so effectually answers the 
design of its author, whenever it is well under- 
stood and sincerely believed, should, through 
the ignorance, the bigotry, the superstition of 
its professors, and the ambition of popes, and 
princes, the tools of popes, have produced in- 
cidentally so much mischief; only furnishing 
the world with a plausible excuse to worry 
each other, while they sanctified the worst 
cause with the specious pretext of zeal for 
the furtherance of the best. 

Angels descend from heaven to publish 
peace between man and his Maker — the Prince 
of Peace himself comes to confirm and estab- 
lish it, and war; hatred, and desolation, are 
the consequence. Thousands quarrel about 
the interpretation of a book which none of 
them understand. He that is slain dies firmly 
persuaded that the crown of martyrdom ex- 
pects him, and he that slew him is equally 
convinced that he has done God service.* In 
reality, they are both mistaken, and equally 
unentitled to the honor they arrogate to 
themselves. If a multitude of blind m^n 
should set out for a certain city, and dispute 
about the right road till a battle ensued be- 
tween them, the probable effect would be, 
that none of them would ever reach it ; and 
such a fray, preposterous and shocking in the 

* The bitter dissensions of professing Christians have 
always afforded ground for the ridicule and scoff of the 
infidel. Voltaire parodied those well-known words, " See 
how these Christians love one another," in the following 
sarcastic manner,— " See how these Christians hate one 
another." It is related of Charles the Fifth, that, after 
his voluntary abdication of the throne, he amused him 
self by the occupation of making watches ; and, finding 
that he never could, by any contrivance, make two 
watches to agree together, he exclaimed against his own 
folly, m having spent Bo large a portion of his life in en- 
ivavortag to make men agree on the subject of religion. 



extreme, would exhibit a picture in some de« 
grce resembling the original of which we have 
been speaking. And why is not the world 
thus occupied at present ? even because they 
have exchanged a zeal that was no better than 
madness for an indifference equally pitiable 
and absurd. The Holy Sepulchre has lost 
its importance in the eyes of nations called 
Christian, not because the light of true wis- 
dom has delivered them from a superstitious 
attachment to the spot, but because he that 
was buried in it is no longer regarded by them 
as the Savior of the world. The exercise of 
reason, enlightened by philosophy has cured 
them indeed of the misery of an abused under- 
standing ; but, together with the delusion, they 
have lost the substance, and, for the sake of 
the lies that were grafted upon it, have quar- 
relled with the truth itself. Here then. we 
see the ne phis ultra of human wisdom, at least, 
in affairs of religion. It enlightens the mind 
with respect to non-essentials, but, with re- 
spect to that in which the essence of Chris- 
tianity consists, leaves it perfectly in the dark. 
It can discover many errors that in different 
ages have disgraced the faith, but it is only to 
make way for the admission of one more fatal 
than them all, which represents that faith it- 
self as a delusion. Why those evils have 
been permitted shall be known hereafter. 
One tiling in the mean time is certain ; that 
the folly and frenzy of the professed disciples 
of the gospel have been more dangerous to 
its interests than all the avowed hostilities oi 
its adversaries, and perhaps for this cause 
these mischiefs might be suffered to prevail 
for a season, that its divine original and na- 
ture might be the more illustrated, when it 
should appear that it was able to stand its 
ground for ages against that most formidable 
of all attacks, the indiscretion of its friends. 
The outrages that have followed this perver- 
sion of the truth have proved indeed a stum- 
bling-block to individuals; the wise of this 
world, with all their wisdom, have not been 
able to distinguish between the blessing and 
abuse of it. Voltaire was offended, and Gib- 
bon has turned his back; but the flock of 
Christ is still nourished and still increases, 
notwithstanding the unbelief of a philosopher 
is able to convert bread into a stone and a 
fish into a serpent. 

I am much obliged to you for the Voyages, 
which I received* and began to read last 
night. My imagination is so captivated upon 
these occasions, that I seem to partake with 
the navigators in all the dangers they encou/a- 
tered.f I lose my anchor; my main-sail is 

* Hawkesworth's. 

t * He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, 

Ascend his ';opmast, through his peering eyes 
Discover countries, with a kindred heart 
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes; 
While fancy, like the fmgej; of a clock. 
Run* the great circuit, ar I is st : Jl at home." 

. Task, book iv 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



165 



rent into shreds ; I kill a shark, and by signs 
converse with a Patagonian, and all this with- 
out moving from the fireside. The principal 
fruits of these circuits that have been made 
round the globe seem likely to be the amuse- 
ment of those that stayed at home. Discov- 
eries have been made, but such discoveries as 
will hardly satisfy the expense of such under- 
takings. We brought away an Indian, and, 
having debauched him, we sent him home 
again to communicate the infection to his 
country — fine sport to be sure, but such as 
will not defray the cost. Nations that live 
upon bread-fruit, and have no mines to make 
them worthy of our acquaintance, will be but 
little visited for the future. So much the 
better for them ; their poverty is indeed their 
mercy. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Oct. 10, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — I have nothing to say on 
political subjects, for two reasons ; first, be- 
cause I know none that at present would 
prove very amusing, especially to you, who 
love your country; and, secondly, because 
there are none that I have the vanity to think 
myself qualified to discuss. I must beg leave, 
however, to rejoice a little at the failure of 
the Caisse d'Escomptes, because I think the 
French have well deserved it ; and to mourn 
equally that the Royal George cannot be 
weighed; the rather, because I wrote two 
poems, one Latin and one English, to encour- 
age the attempt.f The former of these only 
having been published, which the sailors 
would understand but little of, may be the 
reason, perhaps, why they have not succeeded. 
Believe me, my friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

* Private correspondence. 

t An elegant monucnent, erected above the grave of 
thirty-nine sailors, whose bodies were subsequently 
found, was erected in the churchyard of Portsea, to com- 
memorate the melancholy loss of the Royal George. We 
subjoin the interesting epitaph, which is inscribed on 
black marble, in gold letters. 

" READER, 

WITH SOLEMN THOUGHT 

SURVEY THIS GRAVE, 

AND REFLECT 

ON THE UNTIMELY DEATH 

OF THY FELLOW MORTALS J 

AND WHILST 

A8 A MAN, A BRITON, AND A PATRIOT, 

THOU READEST 

THE MELANCHOLY NARRATIVE, 

DROP A TEAR 

FOR THY COUNTRY'S 

LOSS." 

At the bottom of the monument, in a compartment bv 
Itself, are the following lines, in allusion to the brave 
Admiral Kempenfelt : 

" 'Tis not this stone, regretted chief, thy name, 
Thy worth and merit shall extend to fame : 
Brilliant achievements have thy name imprest, 
In lasting characters, on Albion's breast." 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Oct. 13, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I am much obliged to 
you for your American anecdotes, and ieel 
the obligation perhaps more sensibly, the la- 
bor of transcribing being in particular that to 
which I myself have tiie greatest aversion. 
The loyalists are much to be pitied: driven 
from all the comforts that depend upon, and 
are intimately connected with, a residence in 
their native land, and sent to cultivate a dis- 
tant one, without the means of doing it, 
abandoned too through a deplorable neces- 
sity, by the government to which they sacri- 
ficed all,* they exhibit a spectacle of distress, 
which one cannot view, even a't this distance, 
without participating in what they feel. Why 
could not some of our useless wastes and 
forests have been allotted to their support ? 
To have built them houses indeed, and fur- 
nished them with implements of husbandry, 
would have put us to no small expense ; but 
I suppose the increase of population and the 
improvement of the soil, would soon have 
been felt as a national advantage, and have 
indemnified the state if not enriched it. We 
are bountiful to foreigners, and neglect those 
of our own household. I remember that, 
compassionating the miseries of the Portu- 
guese, at the time of the Lisbon earthquake,f 
we sent them' a ship-load of tools to clear 
away the rubbish with, and to assist them in 
rebuilding the city.. I remember too it was 
reported at the time that the court of Portu- 
gal accepted our wheelbarrows and spades 
with a very ill grace, and treated our bounty 
with contempt. An act like this in behalf of 
our brethren, carried only a little farther, 
might possibly have redeemed them from ruin, 
have resulted in emolument to ourselves, have 
been received with joy and repaid with grati- 
tude. -.Such are my speculations upon the 
subject, who, not being a politician by profes- 
sion, and 'very seidom giving my atto.i Men for 
a moment to such a matter, may not be aware 
of difficulties and objections, which they of 
the cabinet can discern with half an eye. 
Perhaps to have taken under our protection 
a race of men proscribed by the Congress, 
might be thought dangerous to the interests 
we hope to have hereafter in their high and 
mighty regards and affections. It is ever the 
way of those who rule the earth, to leave out 
of their reckoning Him who rules the uni- 
verse. They forget that the poor have a 
friend more powerful to avenge than they 
can be to oppress, and that treachery and 
perfidy must therefore prove bad policy in the 
end. The Americans themselves appear to 

* In the terras of peace concluded with America, the 
loyalists, who adhered in their allegiance to Great Brit 
ain. were not sufficiently remembered, considering the 
sacrifices they had made," and thus had the misfortune of 
being persecuted by America, and neglected by England 

t This event occurred in the year 1756. 



164 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



me to be in a situation litle less pitiable than 
that of the deserted loyalists. Their fears 
of arbitrary imposition were certainly well 
founded. A struggle therefore might be ne- 
cessary, in order to prevent it, and this end 
might surely have been answered without a 
renunciation of dependence. But the pas- 
sions of a whole people, once put in motion, 
are not soon quieted. Contests beget aver- 
sion, a little success inspires more ambitious 
hopes, and thus a slight quarrel terminates at 
last in a breach never to be healed, and per- 
haps in the ruin of both parties. It does not 
sp.em likely that a country so distinguished 
by the Creator with everything that can make 
it desirable should be given up to desolation 
forever; and they possibly have reason on 
their sid**, who suppose that in time it will 
have the pre-eminence over all others ; but 
the day of such prosperity seems far distant 
— Omnipotence indeed can hasten it, and it 
may dawn when it is least expected. But 
we govern ourselves in all our reasonings 
by present appearances. Persons at least 
no better informed than myself are con- 
strained to do so. 

I intended to have taken another subject 
when I began, and I wish I had. No man 
living is less qualified to settle nations than I 
am ; but when I write to you, I talk, that is I 
write as fast as my pen can run, and on this 
occasion it ran away with me. I acknowledge 
myself in your debt for your last favor, but 
cannot pay you now, unless you will accept 
as payment, what I know you value more 
than all I can say beside, the most unfeigned 
assurances of my affection for you and yours. 
Yours, &c, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Oct. 20, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — I have made a point of 
saying no fine things to Mr. Bacon,f upon an 
occasion that would well have justified them ; 
deterred by a caveat he entered in his letter. 
Nothing can be more handsome than the pres- 
ent, nor more obliging than the maimer in 
which he has made it. I take it for granted 
that the plate is, line for line, and stroke for 
stroke, an exact representation of his per- 
formance, as nearly, at least, as light and 
shade can exhibit, upon a flat surface, the ef- 
fect of a piece of statuary. I may be allowed 
therefore to say that I admire it. My situa- 
tion affords me no opportunity to cultivate 
the science of connoisseurship ; neither would 
there be much propriety in my speaking the 
language of one to you, who disclaim the 
character. But we both know when we are 

* Private correspondence. 

t The celebrated statuary who executed the noble 
monument to the memory of Lord Chatham, in West- 
minster Abbej; 



pleased. It occurs to me, however, that 1 
ought to say what it is that pleases me, for a 
general commendation, where there are so 
many particular beauties, would be insipid 
and unjust. 

I think the figure of Lord Chatham singu- 
larly graceful, and his countenance full of the 
character that belongs to him. It speaks not 
only great ability and consummate skill, but 
a tender and heartfelt interest in the welfare 
of the charge committed to him. In the figure 
of the City, there is all that empressement^ 
(pardon a French term, it expresses my idea 
better than any English one that occurs,) that 
the importance of her errand calls for; and it 
is noble in its air, though in a posture of sup- 
plication. But the figure of Commerce is in- 
deed a perfect beauty. It is a literal truth, 
that I felt the tears flush into my eyes while 
I looked at her. The idea of so much elegance 
and grace having found so powerful a protec- 
tion, was irresistible. There is a complacency 
and serenity in the air and countenance of 
Britannia, more suited to her dignity than 
that exultation and triumph which a less ju- 
dicious hand might have dressed her in. She 
seems happy to sit at the feet of her deliverer. 
I have most of the monuments in the Abbey 
by heart, but I recollect none that ever gave 
me so much pleasure. The faces are all ex- 
pressive, and the figures are all graceful. If 
you think the opinion of so unlearned a spec- 
tator worth communicating, and that I have 
not said more than Mr. Bacon's modesty can 
bear without offence, you are welcome to 
make him privy to my sentiments. I know 
not why he should be hurt by just praise; 
his fine talent is a gift, and all the merit of it 
is His property who gave it. 
Believe me, my dear friend, 

Sincerely and affectionately yours. 

I am out of your debt. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Oct. 20, 1783. 

I should not have been thus long silent, 
had I known with certainty where a letter of 
mine might find you. Your summer excur- 
sions however are new at an end, and, ad- 
dressing a line to you in the centre of the 
busy scene, in which you spend your winter 
I am pretty sure of my mark. 

I see the winter approaching without much 
concern, though a passionate lover of fine 
weather, and the pleasant scenes of summer ; 
but the long evenings have their comforts too, 
and there is hardly to be found upon earth, I 
suppose, so snug a creature as an Englishman 
by his fire-side in the winter. I mean, how 
ever, an Englishman that lives in the country 
for in London it is not very easy to avoid in 
trusion. I have two ladies to read to, som^ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



165 



times more, but never less — at present we 
are circumnavigating the globe, and I find the 
old story with which I amused myself some 
years since, through the great felicity of a 
memory not very retentive, almost new. I 
am however sadly at a loss for Cook's Voy- 
age — can you send it? I shall be glad of 
Fosters too. These together will make the 
winter pass merrily, and you will much oblige 
me. W. C. 

The last letter contains a slight sketch of 
those happy winter evenings, which the poet 
has painted so exquisitely in verse.* The two 
] adies whom he mentions as his constant 
auditors, were Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen. 
The public, already indebted to the friendly 
and cheerful spirit of the latter, for the 
pleasant ballad of John Gilpin, had soon to 
thank her inspiring benevolence for a work 
of superior dignity, the masterpiece of Cow- 
per's rich and fertile imagination. 

This lady happened, as an admirer of Mil- 
ton, to be partial to blank verse, and often 
solicited her poetical friend to try his powers 
in that species of composition. After re- 
peated solicitation, he promised her, if she 
would furnish the subject, to comply with 
her request. "Oh!" she replied, "you can 
never be in want of a subject : — you can 
write upon any : write upon this sofa !" The 
poet obeyed her command, and from the 
lively repartee of familiar conversation arose 
a poem of many thousand verses, unexampled 
perhaps both in its origin and excellence — 
a poem of such infinite variety, that it seems 
to include every subject and every style with- 
out any violation of harmony and order; 
whi#h delineates nature, under her most at- 
tractive forms, and breathes a spirit of the 
purest and most exalted morality. 

A great part of the " Task" appears to have 
been composed in the winter — a circumstance 
the more remarkable, as the wintry months 
were generally unfavorable to the health of 
the poet. In the commencement of the poem, 
he marks both the season and the year, in the 
ender address to his companion. 

" Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
Fast lock'd in mine." 

Any circumstances which tena to illustrate 
the origin and progress of this poem deserve 
to be recorded with minute attention. We 
select a series of passages from Cowper's 
Letters to Mr. Bull, as affording this interest- 
ing information. 

August 3. 1 783. — " Your sea-side situation, 
vour beautiful prospects, your fine rides, and 
«he sight of the palaces which you have seen, 
we have not envied you ; but we are glad that 
you have enjoyed them. Why should we envy 
wiy man. Is not our greenhouse a cabinet 
* See Task, book iv. 



of perfumes? It is at this moment frcnted 
with carnations and balsams, with mignonette 
and roses, with jessamine and woodbine, and 
wants nothing but your pipe to make it truly 
Arabian ; — a wilderness of sweets ! The ' Sofa' 
is ended, but not finished ; a paradox, which 
your natural acumen, sharpened by nabits o' 
logical attention, will enable you to reconcile 
in a moment. Do not imagine however that 
I lounge over it — on the contrary I find it 
severe exercise to mould and fashion it to my 
mind !" 

February 22, 1 784. — " I congratulate you on 
the thaw : I suppose it is an universal bles- 
sing, and probably felt all over Europe. I 
myself am the better for it who wanted noth- 
ing that might make the frost supportable : 
what reason, therefore, have they to rejoice, 
who, being in want of all things, were ex- 
posed to its utmost rigor ? The ice in my 
ink however is not yet dissolved. It was 
long before the frost seized it, but it at lasl 
| prevailed. The ' Sofa' has consequently re- 
ceived little or no addition since. It consists 
at present of four books and part of a fifth : 
j when the sixth is finished, the work is accom- 
! plished; but, if I may judge by my present 
I inability, that period is at a considerable dis- 
| tance." 

The following extract, not only mentions 
the completion of his great work, but gives 
1 a particular account of his next production. 

November 8, 1784.— "'The Task,' as you 
know, is gone to the press; since it went I 
have been employed in w T riting another poem, 
which I am now transcribing, and which in a 
short time I design shall follow. It is enti 
tied ' Tirocinium, or a Review of Schools ; 
the business and purpose of it are to censure 
the want of discipline, and the scandalous 
inattention to morals, that obtain in them, es- 
pecially in the largest; and to recommend 
private tuition as a mode of education prefer- 
able on all accounts; to call upon fathers to 
become tutors to their own sons, where that 
is practicable ; to take home a domestic tu- 
tor, where it is not; and, if neither can be 
done, to place them under the care of such 
a man as he to whom I am writing; some 
rural parson, whose attention is limited to a 
few." 

The reader will find the poet himself relat- 
ing, in more than one letter of the next year 
some particulars of the time in which his 
great work. " The Task," was composed. 
Writing to Mr. Newton, on the 20th of Oc- 
tober, 1784, Cowper says of his "Task, 
then in the press, " I began it about this time 
twelvemonth." These words of hasty and 
imperfect recollection might give rise to a 
persuasion, that this extensive and admirable 
production was completed in a year. But, 
as it is proved by the first extract from the 
poet's etters to Mr. Bull, that the first book 



166 



COWPER'S WORKS 



(entitled the " Sofa ') was ended on the 3rd 
of August, 1783, we may reasonably conclude 
that this interesting poem was begun in June 
or July. It was not imparted, as it advanced, 
to any of the poet's confidential friends, ex- 
cept to the two ladies with whom he lived at 
the time of its commencement, and to his 
kind and sympathizing neighbor, Mr. Bull, 
who had shown his benevolent zeal in en- 
couraging the spirit of Cowper to cheer and 
amuse itself in poetical studies. The final 
verses of " The Task" were probably written 
in September, 1784, as Cowper sent a tran- 
script of the poem for the press to his favor- 
ite young friend, Mr. Unwin, early in October. 
His modest reserve appea/s very remarkable 
in his not having. communicated this compo- 
sition even to Mr. Unwin, till it was abso- 
lutely finished, and his tender delicacy of re- 
gard and attention to that young friend was 
amiably displayed in assigning to him the 
honorable office of revising and consigning 
to the press a work so important. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON * 

Olney, Nov. 3, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — My time is short, and 
my opportunity not the most favorable. My 
letter will consequently be short likewise, 
and perhaps not very intelligible. I find it 
no very easy matter to bring my mind into 
that degree of composure, which is necessary 
to the arrangement either of words or matter. 
You will naturally expect to receive some 
account of this confusion that I describe, 
some reason given for it. On Saturday night, 
at eleven o'clock, when I had not been in bed 
five minutes, I was alarmed by a cry of fire, 
announced by two or three shrill screams upon 
our staircase. Our servants, who were going 
to bed, saw it from their wiudows; and, in 
appearance, so near, that they thought our 
house in danger. I immediately rose, and 
putting by the curtain, saw sheets of fire 
rising above the ridge of Mr. Palmer's house, 
opposite to ours. The deception was such 
that I had no doubt it had begun with him, 
but soon found that it was rather farther off. 
In fact, it was at three places. Having broke 
out in three different parts, it is supposed to 
have been maliciously kindled. A tar-barrel 
and a quantity of tallow made a most tre- 
mendous blaze; and the buildings it had 
seized upon being all thatched, the appear- 
ance became every moment more formidable. 
Providentially the night was perfectly calm, 
so calm that candles, without lanterns, of 
^hich there were multitudes in tl e street, 
burnt as steadily as in the house. By four 
in the morning it was so far reduced that all 
danger seemed to be over ; but the confusion 
ft had occasioned was almost infinite. Every 
* Private correspondence. 



man who supposed his dwelling-house is 
jeopardy, emptied it as fast as he could, and 
conveyed his moveables to the house of some 
neighbor, supposed to be more secure. Ours, 
in the space of two hours, was so filled with 
all sorts of lumber, that we had not ever 
room for a chair by the fire-side. George 

is the principal sufferer. He gave eigh- 

teen guineas, or nearly that sum, to a woman, 
whom, in his hurry, he mistook for his wife; 
but the supposed wife walked off with the 
money, and he -will probably never recover it. 
He has likewise lost forty pounds' worth of 
wool. London never exhibited a scene of 
greater depredation, drunkenness and riot. 
Everything was stolen that could be got at, 
and every drop of liquor drunk that was not 
guarded. Only one thief has yet been de- 
tected ; a woman of the name of J , who 

was stopped by yonng Handscomb with an 
apron full of plunder. He was forced to 
strike her down, before he could wrest it 
from her. Could you visit the place, ^ou 
would see a most striking proof of a Provi 
dence interposing to stop the progress of the 
flames. They had almost reached, that is to 
say, within six yards of Daniel Raban's wood- 
pile, in which were fifty pounds' worth of 
faggots and furze; and exactly there they 
were extinguished; otherwise, especially if 
a breath of air had happened to move, all that 
side of the town must probably have been 
consumed. After all this dreadful conflagra- 
tion, we find nothing burnt but the out- 
houses ; and the dwellings to which they be- 
longed have suffered only the damage of 
being unroofed on that side next the fire. 
No lives were lost, nor any limbs, broken. 
Mrs. Unwin, whose spirits served her while 
the hubbub lasted, and the day after, begins 
to feel the effect of it now. But I hope she 
will be relieved from it soon, being better this 
evening than I expected. As for me, I am 
impregnable to all such assaults. I have 
nothing, however, but this subject in my 
mind, and jit is in vain that I invite any other 
into it. Having, therefore, exhausted this, I 
finish, assuring you of our united love, and 
hoping to find myself in a frame of mind 
more suited to my employment when I write 
next. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 10, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — I have lost and wasted 
almost all my writing time, in making an al 
teration in the verses I either enclose or sub 
join, for I know, not which will be the case 
at present. If prose comes readily, I shall 
transcribe them on another sheet, otherwise 
on this. You will understand before you 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



161 



nave read many of them, that they are not for 
the press. I lay you under no other injunc- 
tions. The unkind behavior of our acquaint- 
ance, thought it is possible that in some in- 
stances it may not much affect our happiness, 
nor engage many of our thoughts, will some- 
times obtrude itself upon us with a degree 
of importunity not easily resisted, and then, 
perhaps, though almost insensible of it be- 
fore, we feel more than the occasion will 
justify. In such a moment it was that I con- 
ceived this poem, and gave loose to a degree 
of resentment which, perhaps, I ought not to 
have indulged, but which in a cooler hour I 
cannot altogether condemn. My former in- 
timacy with the two characters was such, that 
I could not but feel myself provoked by the 
neglect with which they both treated me on 
a late occasion.* So much by way of pre- 
face. 

You ought not to have supposed that, if 
you had visited us last summer, the pleasure 
of the interview would have been all your 
own. By such an imagination you wrong 
both yourself and us. Do you suppose we 
do not love you ? You cannot suspect your 
mother of coldness, and as to me, assure 
yourself I have no friend in the world with 
whom I communicate without the least re- 
serve, yourself excepted. Take heart then, 
and when you find a favorable opportunity 
to come, assure yourself of such a welcome 
from us both as you have a right to look for. 
But I have observed in your two last letters 
somewhat of a dejection and melancholy, that 
I am afraid you do not sufficiently strive 
against. I suspect you of being too seden- 
tary. " You cannot walk." Why you can- 
not is best known to yourself. I am sure 
vour legs are long enough, and your person 
does not overload them. But I beseech you 
ride, and ride often. I think I have heard 
you say you cannot even do that without an 
object. Is not health an object? Is not a 
new prospect, which in most countries is 
gained at the end of every mile, an object ? 
Assure yourself that easy chairs are no 
friends to cheerfulness, and that a long win- 
ter spent by the fireside is a prelude to an 
unhealthy spring. Everything I see in the 
fields is to me an object ; and I can look at 
the same rivulet, or at a handsome tree, every 
day of my life with new pleasure. This in- 
deed is partly the effect of a natural taste for 
rural beauty, and partly the effect of habit, 
for I never in all my life have let slip the op- 
portunity of breathing fresh air, and convers- 
ing with nature, when I could fairly catch it. 
I earnestly recommend a cultivation of the 
same taste to you, suspecting that you have 
neglected it, and suffer for doing so. 

Last Saturday se'nnight, the moment I had 

* Lord Thurlow and Colmao, to whom he presented 
lis first volume, and received no acknowledgment. 



composed myself in my bed, your mothe* 
too having just got into hers, we were 
alarmed by a cry of fire, on the staircase. 1 
immediately rose, and saw sheets of flame 
above the roof of Mr. Palmer's house, our 
opposite neighbor. The mischief, however 
was not so near to him as it seemed to be? 
having begun at a butcher's yarpl, at a little 
distance. We made all haste down stairs, 
and soon threw open the street door, for the 
reception of as much lumber, of all sorts, as 
our house would hold, brought into it by 
several who thought it necessary to move 
their furniture. In two hours' time we had 
so much that we could hold no more, even 
the uninhabited part of our building being 
filled. Not that we ourselves were entirely 
secure — an adjoining thatch, on which fell 
showers of sparks, being rather a dangerous 
neighbor. Providentially, however, the night 
was perfectly calm, and we escaped. By four 
in the morning it was extinguished, having 
consumed many out-buildings, but no dwell- 
ing-house. Your mother suffered a little in 
her health, from the fatigue and bustle of 
the night, but soon recovered ; as for me, it 
hurt me not. The slightest wind would have 
carried the fire to the very extremity of the 
town, there being multitudes of thatched 
buildings, and faggot-piles so near to each 
other, that they must have proved infallible 
conductors. 

The balloons prosper ; I congratulate you 
upon it. Thanks to Montgolfier, we shall fly 
at last. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Nov. 17, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — The country around us 
is much alarmed with apprehensions of fire, 
two have happened since that of Olney. One 
at Hitchin, where the damage is said to 
amount to eleven thousand pounds, and an- 
other at a place not far from Hitchin, oi 
which I have not learned the name. Letters 
have been dropped at Bedford, threatening to 
burn the town ; and the inhabitants have 
been so intimidated as to have placed a guard 
in many parts of it, several nights past 
Since our conflagration here, we have sent 
two women and a boy to the justice for dep- 
redation ; S R , for stealing a piece 

of beef, which, in her excuse she said she in- 
tended to take care of. This lady, whom 
you well remember, escaped for want of evi- 
dence ; not that evidence was indeed want- 
ing, but our men of Gotham judged it 
unnecessary to send it. With her went the 
woman whom I mentioned before, who, it 
seems, has made some sort of profession, but 

* Private correspondence. 



168 



COWPER S WORKS, 



upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude 
of conduct rather inconsistent with it, having 
filled her apron with wearing apparel, which 
^he likewise intended to take care of. She 
would have gone to the county gaol, had 
William Raban, the baker's son, who prosecu- 
ted, insisted upon it ; but he good-naturedly, 
though, I think, weakly, interposed in her 
favor, and begged her off. The young gen- 
tleman who accompanied these fair ones is 
the junior son of Molly Boswell. He had 
stolen some iron-work, the property of 
Griggs, the butcher. Being convicted, he was 
ordered to be whipped, which operation he 
underwent at the cart's tail, from the stone- 
house to the high arch and back again. He 
seemed to show great fortitude, but it was 
all an imposition upon the public. The bea- 
dle, who performed it, had filled his left hand 
with red ochre, through which after every 
stroke he drew the lash of his whip, leaving 
the appearance of a wound upon the skin, 
but in reality not hurting him at all. This 

being perceived by Mr. Constable H , 

who followed the beadle, he applied his 
cane, without any such management or pre- 
caution, to the shoulders of the too merciful 
executioner. The scene immediately became 
more interesting. The beadle could by no 
means be prevailed upon to strike hard, 
which provoked the constable to strike 
harder ; and this double flogging continued, 
till a lass of Silver-end, pitying the pitiful 
beadle thus suffering under the hands of the 
pitiless constable, joined the procession, and 
placing herself immediately behind the latter 
seized him by his capillary club, and pulling 
him backwards by the same, slapped his face 
with a most Amazonian fury. This concate- 
nation of events has taken up more of my 
paper than I intended it should, but I could 
not forbear to inform you how the beadle 
thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle, 
and the lady the constable, and how the thief 
was the only person concerned who suffered 
nothing. Mr. Teedon has been here, and is 
gone again. He came to thank me for some 
left-off clothes. In answer to our inquiries 
after his health, he replied that he had a slow 
fever, which made him take all possible care 
not to inflame his blood. I admitted his pru- 
dence, but in his particular instance could not 
very clearly discern the need of it. Pump 
water will not heat him much ; and, to speak 
a little in his own style, more inebriating 
fluids are to him, I fancy, not very attainable. 
He brought us news, the truth of which, 
however, I do not vouch for, that the town 
of Bedford was actually on fire yesterday, 
and the flames not extinguished when the 
bearer of the tidings left it.* 



* A considerable fire occurred at this time in the town 
or Bedford, and thirty-nine houses were consumed, but 
it is said from accidental causes. 



Swift observes, when he is giving his rea. 
sons why the preacher is elevated alwaya 
above his hearers, that, let the cro tvd be aa 
great as it will below, there is always room 
enough overhead. If the French philoso- 
phers can carry their art of flying to the per- 
fection they desire, the observation may be 
reversed, the crowd will be overhead, and 
they will have most room who stay below. 
I can assure you, however, upon my own ex- 
perience, that this way of travelling is very 
delightful. I dreamt a night or two since, 
that I drove myself through the upper re- 
gions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest 
ease and security. Having finished the tour 
I intended, I made a short turn, and with one 
flourish of my whip descended; my horses 
prancing and curvetting with an infinite share 
of spirit, and without the least danger either 
to me or my vehicle. The time, w 7 e may sup- 
pose, is at hand, and seems to be prognosti- 
cated by my dream, w-hen these airy excur- 
sions will be universal, when judges will fly 
the circuit and bishops their visitations ; and 
when the tour of Europe will be performed 
with much greater speed, and with equal ad- 
vantage, by all who travel merely for the 
sake of having it to say, that they have made 
t.* 

I beg you will accept for yourself and 
yours our unfeigned love, and remember me 
affectionately to Mr. Bacon, when you see 
him. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Olney, Nov 23, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — Your opinion of voyages 
and travels would spoil an appetite less keen 
than mine ; but being pretty much, perhaps 
more than any man who can be said to enjoy 
his liberty, confined to a spot, and being very 
desirous of knowing all that can be known 
of this same planet of ours while I have the 
honor to belong to it — and having, besides, 
no other means of information at my com- 
mand — I am constrained to be satisfied with 
narratives, not alw T ays, indeed, to be implicitly 
depended upon, but which, being subjected 
to the exercise of a little consideration, can- 
not materially deceive us. Swinburn's is a 
book I had fixed upon, and determined if 
possible to procure, being pleased with some 
extracts from it which I found in the Review. 
I need hardly add, that I shall be much ob- 
liged to Mrs. Hill for a sight of it. I ac- 
count myself truly and much indebted to 
that lady for the trouble she is so kind as to 
take upon my account, and shall esteem my- 

* The discovery of balloons had attracted the attention 
of the public at this period, and various specu'atiocfl 
were indulged as to the probable result. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



169 



self her debtor for all the amusement I meet 
with in the southern hemisphere, should I be 
bo fortunate as to get there. My reading is 
pretty much circumscribed both by want of 
books and the influence of particular reasons. 
Politics are my abhorrence, being almost al- 
tvays hypothetical, fluctuating, and impractica- 
ble. Philosophy — I should have said natural 
philosophy, mathematically studied, does not 
suit me ; and such exhibitions of that subject 
as are calculated *br less learned readers, I 
have read in form »r days and remember in 
the present. Poetry English poetry, I never 
touch, being pretty much addicted to the 
writing of it, and knowing that much inter- 
course with those gentlemen betrays us una- 
voidably into a habit of imitation, which I 
hate and despise most cordially. 

If he be the happiest man who has least 
money in the funds, there are few upon 
earth whom I have any occasion to envy. I 
would consent, however, to have my pounds 
multiplied into thousands, even at the hazard 
of all I might feel from that tormenting pas- 
sion. I send nothing to the papers myself, 
but Unwin sometimes sends for me. His re- 
ceptacle of my squibs is the Public Adver- 
tiser ; but they are very few, and my present 
occupations are of a kind that will still have 
a tendency to make them fewer. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 

The neglect which Cowper had experienced 
from a high quarter seems deeply to have 
wounded his sensitive spirit, and to have dic- 
tated some of the remarks to be found in the 
following letter. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 24, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — An evening unexpect- 
edly retired, and which your mother and I 
spend without company (an occurrence far 
from frequent), affords me a favorable op- 
portunity to write by to-morrow's post, 
which else I could not have found. You are 
very good to consider my literary necessities 
with so much attention, and I feel propor- 
tionably grateful. Blair's Lectures (though 
I suppose they must make a part of my pri- 
vate studies, not being ad captumfceminai'um) 
will be perfectly welcome. You say you felt 
my verses ; I assure you that in this you fol- 
lowed my example, for I felt them first. A 
man's lordship is nothing to me, any farther 
than in connexion with qualities that entitle 
Aim to my respect. If he thinks himself 
privileged by it to treat me with neglect, I 
am his humble servant, and shall never be at 
a loss to render him an equivalent. I will 
not however belie my knowledge of mankind 
so much as to seem surprised at a treatment 
which I had abundant reason to expect. To 



these men, with whom I was once intimate, 
and for many years, I am no longer neces- 
sary, no longer convenient, or in any respect 
an object. They think of me as of the man 
in the moon, and, whether I have a lantern, 
or a dog and faggot, or whether 1 have nei- 
ther of these desirable accommodations, is to 
them a matter of perfect indifference : upon 
that point we are agreed ; our indifference is 
mutual ; and, were I to publish again, which 
is not possible, I should give them a proof 
of it. 

L'Estrange's Josephus has lately furnished 
us with evening lectures. But the historian 
is so tediously circumstantial, and the trans- 
lator so insupportably coarse and vulgar, that 
we are all three weary of him. How would 
Tacitus, have shone upon such a subject, 
great master as he was of the art of descrip- 
tion, concise without obscurity, and affecting 
without being poetical. But so it was or- 
dered, and for wise reasons no doubt, that 
the greatest calamities any people ever suf 
fered, and an accomplishment of one of the 
most signal prophecies in the scripture, 
should be recorded by one of the worst wri- 
ters. The man was a temporizer too, and 
courted the favor of his Roman masters at 
the expense of his own creed, or else an in- 
fidel and absolutely disbelieved it. You will 
think me very difficult to please ; I quarrel 
with Jooephus for the want of elegance, and 
with some of our modern historians for hav- 
ing too much — with him for running right 
forward like a gazette, without stopping to 
make a single observation by the way, and 
with them for pretending to delineate char- 
acters that existed two thousand years ago, 
and to discover the motives by which they 
were influenced, with the same precision as if 
they had been their contemporaries. Sim- 
plicity is become a very rare quality in a wri- 
ter. In the decline of great kingdoms, and 
where refinement in all the arts is carried to 
an excess, I suppose it is always rare. The 
latter Roman writers are remarkable for false 
ornament, they were yet no doubt admired 
by the readers of their own day ; and with 
respect to authors of the present era, the 
most popular among them appear to me 
equally censurable on the same account. 
Swift and Addison were simple. 

Your mother wants room for a postscript, 
so my lecture must conclude abruptly. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Nov. 30, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I have neither long visits 
to pay nor to receive, nor ladies to spend 
hours in telling me that which might be tild 
* Private correspondence. 



170 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



in five minutes, yet ofterj find myself obliged 
to be an economist of ti me, and to make the 
most of a short opportunity. Let our sta- 
tion be as retired as it may, there is no want 
of playthings and avocations, nor much need 
to seek them, in this world of ours. Busi- 
ness, or what presents itself to us under 
that imposing character, . will find us out, 
even in the stillest retreat, and plead its im- 
portance, however trivial in reality, as a just 
demand upon our attention. It is wonder- 
ful how, by means of such real or seeming 
necessities, my time is stolen away. I have 
just time to observe that time is short, and, 
by the time I have made the observation, 
time is gone. I have wondered in former 
days at the patience of the antediluvian 
world, that they could endure a life almost 
millenary, with so little variety as seems to 
have fallen to their share. It is probable 
that they had much fewer employments than 
we. Their affairs lay in a narrower com- 
pass; their libraries were indifferently fur- 
nished ; philosophical researches were carried 
on with much less industry and acuteness 
of penetration, and fiddles, perhaps, were not 
even invented. How then could seven or 
eight hundred years of life be supportable ? 
I have asked this question formerly, and 
been at a loss to resolve it; but I think I 
can answer it now. I will suppose myself 
born a thousand years before Noah was 
born or thought of. I rise with the sun ; I 
worship ; I prepare my breakfast ; I swallow 
a bucket of goats' milk, and a dozen good 
sizeable cakes* I fasten a new string to my 
bow, and my youngest boy, a lad of about 
thirty years of age, having played with my 
arrows till he has stripped off all the feath- 
ers, I find myself obliged to repair them. 
The morning is thus spent in preparing for 
the chase, and it is become necessary that I 
should dine. I dig up my roots ; I wash 
them ; I boil them ; I find them not done 
enough, Iboil them again; my wife is an- 
gry ; we dispute ; we settle the point ; but 
in the meantime the fire goes out, and must 
be kindled again. All this is very amusing. 
I hunt ; I bring home the prey ; with the 
skin of it I mend an old coat, or I make a 
new one. By this time the day is far spent ; 
I feel myself fatigued, and retire to rest. 
Thus, what with tilling the ground, and eat- 
ing the fruit of it, hunting, and walking, and 
running, and mending old clothes, and sleep- 
ing and rising again, I can suppose an in- 
habitant of the primaeval world so much 
occupied as to sigh over the shortness of 
life, and to find, at the end of many centu- 
ries, that they had all slipped through his 
fingers, and were passed away like a shadow. 
What wonder then that I, who live in a day 
of so much greater refinement, when there 
Is so much more to be wanted, and wished, 



and to be enjoyed, should feel myself now 
and then pinched in point of opportunity 
and at some loss for leisure to fill four sides 
of a sheet like this? Thus, however, it is, 
and, if the ancient gentlemen to whom ] 
have referred, and their complaints of the 
disproportion of time to. the occasions thej 
had for it, will not serve me as an excuse, I 
must even plead guilty, and confess that 1 
am often in haste, when I have no good rea- 
son for being so. 

This by way of introduction ; now for m t y 
letter. Mr. Scott is desired by Mr. De Coet- 
logon to contribute to the " Theological 
Review," of which I suppose that gentleman' 
is a manager. He says he has ensured your 
assistance, and at the same time desires 
mine, either in prose or verse. He did well 
to apply to you, because you can afford him 
substantial help; but as for me, had he 
known me better, he would never have sus- 
pected me for a theologian, either in rhyme 
or otherwise. 

Lord Dartmouth's Mr. Wright spent near 
two hours with me this morning ; a respect- 
able old man, whom I always see with 
pleasure, both for his master's sake and for 
his own. I was glad to "learn from him that 
his lordship has better health than he has 
enjoyed for some years. 

Believe me, my dear friend, 

Your affectionate W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Dec. 15, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I know not how it fares 
with you, at a time when philosophy has 
just brought forth her most extradordinary 
production, not excepting, perhaps, that prod- 
igy, a ship, in all respects complete, and 
equal to the task of circumnavigating the 
globe. My ' mind, however, is frequently 
getting into these balloons, and is busy in 
multiplying speculations as airy as the re- 
gions through which they pass. The last 
account from France, which seems so well 
authenticated, has changed my jocularity 
upon this occasion into serious expectation. 
The invention of these new vehicles is yet 
in its infancy, yet already they seem to have 
attained a degree of perfection which navi- 
gation did not reach, till ages of experience 
had matured it, and science had exhauster 
both her industry and her skill in its im- 
provement. I am aware, indeed, that the 
first boat or canoe that was ever formed, 
though rude in its construction — perhaps 
not constructed at all, being only a hollow 
tree that had fallen casually into the water, 
and which, though furnished with neither 
sails new oars, might yet be guided by a 
pole — was a more perfect creature in its 

* Private correspondence. 



kind than a ballon at present; the single 
circumstance of its manageable nature giv- 
ing it a clear superiority both in respect of 
safety and convenience. But the atmosphere, 
though a much thinner medium, we well 
know, resists the impression made upon it 
by the tail of a bird, as effectually as the 
water that of a ship's rudder. Pope, when 
inculcating one of his few useful lessons, 
md directing mankind to the providence of 
God, as the true source of all their wisdom, 
says beautifully — 

Learn of the little Nautilus to sail, 

Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. 

It is easy to parody these lines, so as to 
give them an accommodation and suitable- 
ness to the present purpose. 

Learn of the circle-making kite to fly, 
Spread the fan-tail, and wheel about the sky. 

It is certain at least that nothing within 
the reach of human ingenuity will be left 
unattempted to accomplish and add all that 
is wanting to this last effort of philosophical 
contrivance.* The approximating powers of 
the telescope, and the powers by which the 
thunder-storm is delivered of its contents 
peaceably and without mischief, were once 
perhaps in appearance more remote from 
discovery, and seemed less practicable, than 
we may now suppose it to give direction to 
that which is already buoyant; especially 
possessed as we are of such consummate 
mechanical skill, already masters of prin- 
ciples which we have nothing to do but to 
apply, of which we have already availed our- 
selves in the similar case of navigation, and 
having in every fowl of the air a pattern, 
which now at length it may be sufficient to 
imitate. Wings and a tail indeed were of 
little use, while the body, so much heavier 
than the space of air it occupied, was sure 
to sink by its own weight, and could never 
be held in equipoise by any implements of 
the kind which human strength could man- 
age. But now we float; at random indeed, 
pretty much, and as the wind drives us ; for 
want of nothing, however, but that steerage 
which invention, the conqueror of many 
equal, if not superior, difficulties may be ex- 
pected to supply. Should the point be car- 
ried, and man at last become as familiar with 
the air as he has long been with the ocean, 
will it in its consequences prove a mercy or a 
judgment? I think, a judgment. First, be- 
cause, if a power to convey himself from place 
to place, like a bird, would have been good for 
him, his Maker would have formed him with 
such a capacity. But he has been a grovel- 

* What would Cowper have thought, if he had lived to 
Bee the modern invention of railroads, and the possibility 
»f travelling thirty miles in one hour and twenty min- 
ites, by means of the operation of steam ? 



ler upon the earth for six thousand years, 
and now at last, when the close of this pres- 
ent state of things approaches, begins to 
exalt himself above it. So much the worse 
for him. Like a truant school-boy, he break* 
his bounds, and will have reason to repent 
of his presumption. Secondly, I think it 
will prove a judgment, because with the ex. 
ercise of a very little foresight, it is easy to 
prognosticate a thousand evils, which the 
project must necessarily bring after it; 
amounting at last to the confusion of all or- 
der, the annihilation of all authority, with 
dangers both to property and person, and 
impunity to the offenders. Were I an abso- 
lute legislator, I would therefore make it 
death for a man to be convicted of flying, 
the moment he could be caught; and to 
bring him down from his altitude by a bullet 
sent through his head or his carriage should 
be no murder. Philsophers would call me a 
Vandal ; the scholar would say that, had it 
not been for me, the fable of Daedalus would 
have been realized ; and historians would 
load my memory with reproaches of phlegm, 
and stupidity, and oppression; but in the 
meantime the world would go on quietly, 
and, if it enjoyed less liberty, would at least 
be more secure. 

I know not what are your sentiments 
upon the subject of the East India bill.* 
This, too, has frequently afforded me matter 
of speculation. I can easily see that it is 
not without its blemishes ; but its beauties, 
in my eye, are much predominant. What- 
ever may be its author's views, if he delivers 
so large a portion of mankind from such 
horrible tyranny as the East has so long 
suffered, he deserves a statue much more 
than Montgolner,f who, it seems, is to re- 

* As repeated allusion is made to the affairs of the East 
India Company, by Cowper, in the following letters, for 
the information of those who may not be conversant 
with this subject, we add the following information. 

The great abuses that were imputed to the system of 
government established in that country, where a com- 
pany of merchants exercised the supreme sway, led Mr 
Fox, in 1783, (the period in which he was a member 
of administration,) to introduce his celebrated East 
India Bill, in which he proposed to annihilate the char- 
ter of the Company, and to dispossess them of their 
power. The measure passed in the Commons, but was 
thrown out by the Lords ; and royal influence was said 
to have been exerted to procure its rejection. The fail- 
ure of this bill led to the dissolution of that administra- 
tion, in the December of the same year. In the succeed- 
ing January of 1784, Mr. Pitt introduced his no less cele- 
brated bill. Instead of going the length of violating the 
charter, granted in the time of William III., (the great 
defect attributed to Mr. Fox's preceding bill,) his object 
was to preserve it inviolate, but with certain modifica- 
tions. The main feature in his plan was to separate the 
commercial from the territorial concerns of the Com- 
pany, and to vest the latter in a board, nominated by 
government; thus withdrawing from the East India 
Company the exercise of powers belonging only to the 
supreme authority. This bill, though more just and 
popular than the preceding, was nevertheless rejected 
by a majority of eight ; but it was subsequently renewed, 
and carried, and is the origin of that Board of Control 
which is now so well known, as superintending and 
regulating the concerns of our Indian empire. 

t The inventor of balloons. 



172 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



eeive that honor. Perhaps he may bring his 
own freedom into jeopardy ; but to do this 
for the sake of emancipating nations so 
nuch more numerous than ourselves is at 
^ast generous, and a design that should 
have my encouragement, if I had any en- 
couragement to afford it! 

We are well, and love you. Remember us, 
as I doubt not you do, with the same affec- 
tion, and be content with my sentiments upon 
subjects such as these, till I can send you, if 
that day should- ever come, a letter more 
worthy of your reception. 

Nous sommes les votres, 

GUILLAUME ET MARIE. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Dec. 27, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — Thanks to the patriotic 
>unto whose efforts have staved off the ex- 
pected dissolution, franks have not yet lost 
their currency. Ignorant as they were that 
my writing by this post depended upon the 
existence of the present parliament, they have 
conducted their deliberations with a sturdi- 
ness and magnanimity that would almost 
tempt one to suppose that they had known 
it. So true it is that the actions of men are 
connected with consequences they are little 
aware of ; and that events, comparatively tri- 
vial in themselves, may give birth to the most 
important. 

My thoughts of ministers and men in pow- 
er are nearly akin to yours. It is well for the 
public, when the rulers of a state are actuated 
by principles that may happen to coincide 
with its interests. ' The ambition of an indi- 
vidual has often been made subservient to 
the general good; and many a man has served 
his country merely for the sake of immortal- 
izing himself by doing it. So far, it seems 
to me, the natural man is to be trusted, and 
no farther. Self it is at the bottom of all his 
conduct. If self can be pleased, flattered, 
enriched, exalted by his exertions, and his 
talents are such as qualify him for great use- 
fulness, his country shall be the better for him. 
And this, perhaps, is all the patriotism we 
have a right to look for. In the meantime, 
however, I cannot but think such a man in 
some degree a respectable character, and am 
willing at least to do him honor so far as I 
feel myself benefited by him. Ambition and 
the love of fame are certainly no Christian 
principles, but they are such as commonly 
belong to men of superior minds, and the 
fruits they produce may often plead their 
apology. The great men of the world are of 
a piece with the world to which they belong ; 
they are raised up to govern it, and in the 
government of it are prompted by worldly 
* Private correspondence. 



motives : but it prospers perhaps under then 
management ; and, when it does, the Chris, 
tian world, which is totally a distinct creation, 
partaking of the advantage, has cause to be 
thankful. The sun is a glorious creature ; he 
does much good, but without intending it. 
I, however, who am conscious of the good he 
does, though I know not what religion he is 
of, or whether he has any or none, rejoice in 
his effects, admire him, and am sensible that 
it is every man's duty to be thankful for him. 
In this sentiment I know you agree with me, 
for I believe he has not a warmer votary than 
yourself. 

We say the king can do no wrong ; and 
it is well for poor George the Third that 
he cannot. In my opinion, however, he has 
lately been within a hair's-breadth of that pre- 
dicament.* His advisers, indeed, are guilty, 
and not he : but he will probably find, how- 
ever hard it may seem, that if he can do no 
wrong, he may yet suffer the consequences of 
the wrong he cannot do. He has dismissed 
his servants, but not disgraced them; they 
triumph in their degradation, and no man is 
willing to supply their places. Must their 
offices remain unoccupied, or must they be 
courted to resume them ? Never was such a 
distracted state of things within my remem- 
brance ; and I much fear that this is but the 
beginning of sorrows. It is not a time of day 
for a king to take liberties with the people : 
there is a spirit in the Commons that will not 
endure it : and his Majesty's advisers must be 
less acquainted with the temper of the times 
than it is possible to suppose them, if they 
imagine that such strides of prerogative will 
not be resented. The address will gall him. 
I am sorry that he has exposed himself to 
such a reprehension, but I think it warranted 
by the occasion. I pity him ; but, king as he 
is, and much as I have always honored him, 
had I been a member, I should have voted 
for it. 

I am obliged to Mr. Bacon for thinking of 
me. That expression, however, does not do 
justice to my feelings. Even with the little 
knowledge I ha^e of him, I should love him, 
had I no reason to suppose myself at any 
time an object of his attention ; but, knowing 
that I am so happy as to have a share in his 
remembrance, I certainly love him the more. 
Truly, I am not in his debt : I cannot say 
wherefore it is so, but certainly few days pass 
in which I do not remember him. The print, 
indeed, with which he favored me, and which 
is always in my view, must often suggest the 
recollection of him ; but though I greatly val- 
ue it, I do not believe it is my only prompter 

* This alludes to the influence supposed to have been 
exercised by the king against the passing of Mr. Fox'o 
celebrated East India Bill ; and to his having commis- 
sioned Lord Temple, afterwards Lord Buckingham, to 
make known his sentiments on that subject. This event 
led to the dissolution of the famous coalition viinistry. 



I finish with what I wish may make you 
.augh, as it did me. Mr. Scott, exhorting the 
people to frequent prayer, closed his address 
thus : — " You have nothing to do but to ask 
and you will ever find him ready to be- 
stow. Open your wide mouths, and he will 
fill them." 

Mrs. Unwin is well. Accept an old but a 
true conclusion — our united love to you and 
yours, and believe me, my dear friend, 

Your ever affectionate W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

No date. 

My dear Friend, — It is hard upon us strip- 
lings, who have uncles still living (N. B. I 
myself have an uncle still alive) that those 
venerable gentlemen should stand in our way, 
even when the ladies are in question ; that I, 
for instance, should find in one page of your 
letter a hope that Miss Shuttle worth would 
be of your party, and be told in the next that 
she is engaged to your uncle. Well, we may 
perhaps never be uncles, but we may reason- 
ably hope that the time is coming, when 
others, as young as we are now, shall envy 
us the privilege of old age, and see us engross 
that share in the attention of the ladies, to 
which their youth must aspire in vain. Make 
our compliments, if you please, to your sister 
Eliza, and tell her that we are both mortified 
at having missed the pleasure of seeing her. 

Balloons are so much the mode, that even 
in this country we have attempted a balloon. 
You may possibly remember that at a place 
called Weston, a little more than a' mile from 
Olney, there lives a family whose name is 
Throckmorton. The present possessor is a 
young man, whom I remember a boy. He has 
a wife, who is young, genteel, and handsome. 
They are Papists, but much more amiable 
than many Protestants. We never had any 
intercourse with the family, though ever since 
we lived here, we have enjoyed the range of 
their pleasure grounds, having been favored 
with a key, which admits us into all. When 
this man succeeded to the estate, on the death 
of his elder brother, and came to settle at 
Weston, 1 sent him a complimentary card, 
requesting the continuance of that privilege, 
having till then enjoyed it by favor of his 
mother, who on that occasion went to finish 
her davs at Bath. You may conclude that he 
grantbd it, and for about two years nothing 
more passed between us. A fortnight ago, I 
received an invitation, in the civil est terms, in 
which he told me that the next day he should 
attempt to fill a balloon, and if it would be 
any pleasure to me to be present, should be 
happy to see me. Your mother and I went. 
The whole country were there, but the bal- 
loon could not be filled. The endeavor was, 



I believe, very philosophically made, but such 
a process depends, for its success, upon sucb 
niceties as make it very precarious. Our re. 
ception was, however, flattering to a great 
degree, insomuch that more notice seemed to 
be taken of us than we could possibly have 
expected, indeed rather more than of any of 
his other guests. They even seemed anxious 
to recommend themselves to our regards. 
We drank chocolate, and were asked to dine, 
but were engaged. A day or two afterwards 
Mrs. Unwin and I walked that way, and were 
overtaken in a shower. I found a tree that I 
thought would shelter us both, a large elm, in 
a grove that fronts the mansion. Mrs. T. ob- 
served us, and, running towards us in the rain, 
insisted on our walking in. He was gone out. 
We sat chatting with her till the weather 
cleared up, and then at her instance took a 
walk with her in the garden. The garden is 
almost their only walk, and is certainly their 
only retreat in which they are not liable to 
interruption. She offered us a key of it, in 
a manner that made it impossible not to ac 
cept it, and said she would send us one. A 
few days afterwards, in the cool of the even 
ing, we walked that way again. We saw 
them going towards the house, and exchangee 
bows and courtesies at a distance, but did not 
join them. In a few minutes, when we ha<s 
passed the house, and had almost reached the 
gate that opens out of the park into the ad- 
joining field, I heard the iron gate belonging 
to the court-yard ring, and saw Mr. T. ad- 
vancing hastily towards us. We made equai 
haste to meet him ; he presented to us th<» 
lley, which I told him I esteemed a singular 
favor ; and, after a few such speeches as are 
made on such occasions, we parted. This 
happened about a week ago. I concluded 
nothing less than that all this civility and at- 
tention was designed, on their part, as a pre- 
lude to a nearer acquaintance; but here at 
present the matter rests. I should like ex- 
ceedingly to be on an easy footing there, to 
give a morning call now and then, and to re- 
ceive one, but nothing more. For, though 
he is one of the most agreeable men I ever 
saw, I could not wish to visit him in any 
other way ; neither our house, furniture, ser- 
vants, nor income, being such as qualify us 
to make entertainments ; neither would I on 
any account be introduced to the neighboring 
gentry. Mr: T. is altogether a man of fashion, 
and respectable on every account.* 

I have told you a long story. Farewell 
We number the days as they pass, and are 
glad that we shall see you and your sister 
soon. 

Yours, &c, W. C. 

The year 1784 was a memorable period in 

* He afterwards succeeded to the title of Sir John 
Throckmorton. 



174 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the life of the poet, not only as it witnessed 
the completion of one extensive performance, 
and the commencement of another (his trans- 
lation of Homer,) but as it terminated his in- 
tercourse with that highly pleasing and valu- 
able friend, whose unremitting attention and 
seasonable advice had» induced him to. engage 
in both. 

Delightful and advantageous as his friend- 
ship with Lady Austen had proved, he now 
began to feel that it grew impossible to pre- 
serve that triple cord which his own pure 
heart had led him to suppose not speedily to 
be broken. Mrs. Unwin, though by no means 
destitute of mental accomplishments, was 
eclipsed by the brilliancy of the poet's new 
friend, and naturally became apprehensive of 
losing that influence which she had so long 
experienced over a man of genius and virtue, 
and that honorable share in his affections 
which she had previously enjoyed without the 
fear of witnessing its diminution. 

Cowper perceived the painful necessity of 
sacrificing a great portion of his present grati- 
fications. He felt that he must relinquish 
that long-established friendship which had 
formed the delight and happiness of his past 
life, or the new associate, whom he cherished 
as a sister, and whose heart and mind were so 
peculiarly congenial with his own. His grati- 
tude for past services of unexampled magni- 
tude and weight would not allow him to hesi- 
tate ■ with a resolution and delicacy that do 
the nighest honor to his feelings, he wrote a 
farewell letter to Lady Austen, explaining 
and lamenting the circumstances that forced 
him to renounce the society of a friend, whose 
enchanting talents and kindness had proved 
so agreeably instrumental to the revival of 
his spirits and to the exercise of his fancy. 

As Hayley's further account of this event 
is minute and particular, we shall present it 
to the reader in his own words. 

"In those very interesting conversations 
with which I was honored by Lady Austen, I 
was irresistibly led to express an anxious de- 
sire for the sight of a letter written by Cow- 
per in a situation that must have called forth 
all the finest powers of his eloquence as a 
monitor and a friend. The lady confirmed 
me in my opinion that a more admirable let- 
ter could not be written ; and, had it existed 
at that time, I am persuaded from her nobble 
frankness and zeal for the honor of the de- 
parted poet, she would have given me a copy ; 
but she ingenuously confessed that in a mo- 
ment of natural mortification she burnt this 
very tender yet resolute letter. I mention 
the circumstance, because a literary corres- 
pondent whom I have great reason to esteem, 
has recently expressed to me a wish (which 
may perhaps be general) that I could intro- 
duce into this compilation the letter in ques- 
tion. Had it been confided to my care, 1 am 



persuaded I should have thought it very 
proper for publication, as it displayed both 
the tenderness and the magnanimity of Cow- 
per ; nor could I have deemed it a want of 
delicacy towards the memory of Lady Austen, 
to exhibit a proof that, animated by the warm- 
est admiration of the great poet, whose faacy 
she could so successfully call forth, she was 
willing to devote her life and fortune to his 
service and protection. The sentiment is to 
be regarded as honorable to the lady ; it is 
still more honorable to the poet, that with 
such feelings as rendered him perfectly sen- 
sible of all Lady Austen's fascinating powers, 
he could return her tenderness with innocent 
regard, and yet resolutely preclude himself 
from her society when he could no longer 
enjoy it without compromising what he owed 
to the compassionate and generous guardian 
of his sequestered life. No person can justly 
blame Mrs. Unwin for feeling apprehensive 
that Cowper's intimacy with a lady of such 
extraordinary talents might lead him into per- 
plexities of which he was by no means aware. 
This remark was suggested by a few ele- 
gant and tender verses, addressed by the 
poet to Lady Austen, and shown to me by 
that lady. 

" Those who were acquainted with the un- 
suspecting innocence and sportive gayety of 
Cowper would readily allow, if they had seer 
the verses to which I allude, that they are 
such as he might have addressed to a real 
sister ; but a lady only called by that endear- 
ing name may be easily pardoned if she was 
induced by them to hope that they might pos- 
sibly be a prelude to a still dearer alliance. 
To me they appeared expressive of. that pe- 
culiarity in his character, a gay and tender 
gallantry, perfectly distinct from the attach- 
ment of love. If the lady who was the sub- 
ject of the verses, had given them to me with 
a permission to print them, I should have 
thought the poet himself might have approved 
of their appearance, accompanied with such a 
commentary. 

" In the whole course of this work I have 
endeavored to recollect, on every doubtful 
occasion, the feelings of Cowper, and made it 
a rule to reject whatever my perfect intimacy 
with those feelings could lead me to suppose 
the spirit of the departed poet might wish me 
to lay aside as unfit for publication. I con- 
sider an editor as guilty of the basest injury 
to the dead who admits into the posthumous 
volumes of an author, whom he professes to 
love and admire, any composition which his 
own conscience informs him that author, if he 
could speak from the tomb, would direct him 
to suppress. On this principle I have declined 
to print some letters which entered, more 
than I think the public ought to enter, into 
the history of a trifling feminine discord that 
disturbed the perfect harmony of the happy 



LIFE OF COWPEB, 



175 



trio at OLney, when Lady Austen and IVfrs. 
Unwin were the united inspirers of the poet. 
Yet as the brief and true account which I gave 
of their separation has been thought to cast a 
shade of -'ensure on the temper of Mrs. Unwin, 
which I was far from intending,- in justice to 
the memory of that exemplary and sublime 
female friend, I here introduce a passage from 
a letter of Cowper to the Rev. William Un- 
win, honorable to both the ladies in question, 
as it describes them in a moment of generous 
reconciliation. 

"'I enclose a letter from Lady Austen, 
which I beg you to return me in your next. — 
We are reconciled. She seized the first op- 
portunity to embrace your mother with tears 
of the tenderest affection, and I of course am 
satisfied. We were all a little awkward at 
first, but now are as easy as ever.' 

" This letter happens to have no date, but 
the expressions I have cited from it are suf- 
ficient to prove that Mrs. Unwin, instead of 
having shown an envious infirmity of temper 
on this occasion, must have conducted herself 
with a delicate liberality of mind." 

We now enter upon the correspondence of 
the year. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. 3, 1784. 

My dear William, — Your silence began to 
be distressing to both your mother and me, 
and had I not received a letter from you 
last night, I should have written by this 
post to inquire after your health. How can 
it be that you, who are not stationary like 
me, but often change your situation, and mix 
with a variety of company, should suppose 
me furnished with such abundant materials 
and yourself destitute ? I assure you faith- 
fully that I do not find the soil of Olney pro- 
lific in the growth of such articles as make 
letter-writing a desirable employment. No 
place contributes less to the catalogue of in- 
cidents, or is more scantily supplied with an- 
ecdotes worth notice. 

We have 

One parson, one poet, one bellman, one cryer, 
And the poor poet is our only 'squire. 

Guess then if I have not more reason to ex- 
pect two letters from you than you one from 
me. The principal occurrence, and that which 
affents me most at present, came to pass this 
moment. The stair-foot door being swelled 
by the thaw would do anything better than it 
would open. An attempt to force it upon 
that office has been attended with such a hor- 
rible dissolution of its parts that we were im- 
mediately obliged to introduce a chirurgeon, 
commonly called a carpenter, whose applica- 
tions we have some hope will cure it of a 
«cked jaw, and heal its numerous fractures. 



His medicines are powerful chalybeates and 
a certain glutinous salve, which he tells me 
is made of the tails and ears of animals. 
The consequences however are rather unfa- 
vorable to my present employment, which 
does not well brook noise, bustle, and inter- 
ruption. 

This being the case, I shall not perhaps be 
either so perspicuous or so diffuse on the 
subject of which you desire my sentiments as 
I should be, but I will do my best. Know 
then that I have learned long since, of Abbe 
Raynal, to hate all monopolies as injurious, 
howsoever managed, to the interests of com- 
merce at large ; consequently the charter in 
question would not at any rate be a favorite 
of mine. This however is of itself I confess 
no sufficient reason to justify the resumption 
of it.. But such reasons I think are not want- 
ing. A grant of that kind, it is well known, 
is always forfeited by the non-performance of 
the conditions. And why not equally for- 
feited if those conditions are exceeded ; if the 
design of it be perverted, and its operation 
extended to objects which were never in the 
contemplation of the donor ? This appears 
to me to be no misrepresentation of their 
case, whose charter is supposed to be in dan- 
ger. It constitutes them a trading company, 
and gives them an exclusive right to traffic in 
the East Indies. But it does no more. It in- 
vests them with no sovereignty ; it does not 
convey to them the royal prerogatr ro of 
making war and peace, which the king can- 
not alienate if he would. But this preroga- 
tive they have exercised, and, forgetting the 
terms of their institution, have possessed, 
themselves of an immense territory, which 
they have ruled with a rod of iron, to which 
it is impossible they should even have a right, 
unless such a one as it is a disgrace to plead — « 
the right of conquest. The potentates of this 
country they dash in pieces like a potter's ves- 
sel, as often as they please, making the hap- 
piness of thirty millions of mankind a con- 
sideration subordinate to that of their own 
emolument, oppressing them as often as it 
may serve a lucrative purpose, and in no in- 
stance, that I have ever heard, consulting their 
interest or . advantage. That government 
therefore is bound to interfere and to unking 
these tyrants is to me self-evident. And if, 
having subjugated so much of this miserable 
world, it is therefore necessary that we must 
keep possession of it, it appears to me a duty 
so binding on the legislature to resume it from 
the hands of those usurpers, that I should 
think a curse, and a bitter one, must follow 
the neglect of it. But, suppose this were 
done, can they be legally deprived of their 
charter? In truth I think so. If the abuse 
and perversion of a charter can amount to a 
defeis.nce of it, never were they so grossly 
p.ilpable as in this instance ; never was char 



176 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ter so justly forfeited. Neither am I at all 
afraid that such a measure should be draw>\ 
into precedent, unless it could be alleged, &s 
a sufficient reason for not hanging a rogue, 
that perhaps magistracy might grow wanton 
in the exercise of such a power, and now and 
then hang up an honest man for its amuse- 
ment. When the Governors of the Bank 
shall have deserved the same severity, I hope 
hey will meet with it. In the meantime I 
lo not think them a whit more in jeopardy 
oecause a corporation of plunderers have been 
brought to justice. 

We are well and love you all. I never 
♦vrote in such a hurry, nor in such disturb- 
ance. Pardon the effects, and believe me 
yours affectionately, . W. C. 



TO MRS. HILL."* 

Oluey, Jan. 5, 1784. 

Dear Madam, — You will readily pardon the 
trouble I give you by this line, when I plead 
my attention to your husband's convenience 
in my excuse. I know him to be so busy a 
man, that I cannot in conscience trouble him 
with a commission, which I know it is im- 
possible he should have leisure to execute. 
After all, the labor would devolve upon you, 
and therefore I may as well address you in 
the first instance. 

I have read and return the books you were 
so kind as to procure for me. Mr. Hill gave 
me hopes, in his last, that from the library, to 
which I have subscribed, T might still be sup- 
plied with more. I have not many more to 
wish for, nor do I mean to make any un- 
reasonable use of your kindness. In about 
a fortnight I shall be favored, by a friend in 
Essex, with as many as will serve me during 
the rest of the winter. In summer I read but 
little. In the meantime, I shall be much 
obliged to you for Forsters NarratiAe of the 
same voyage, if your librarian has it; and 
likewise for " Swinburn's Travels" which Mr. 
Hill mentioned. If they can be sent at once, 
which perhaps the terms of subscription may 
not allow, I shall be glad to receive them so. 
If not, then Forster\s first, and Swinburn 
afterwards : and Swinburn, at any rate, if 
Forster is not to be procured. 

Reading over what I have written, I find it 
perfectly free and easy ; so much indeed in 
that style, that had I not had repeated proofs 
of your good-nature in other instances, I 
should have modesty enough to suppress it, 
and attempt something more civil, and becom- 
ing a person who has never had the hap- 
piness of seeing you. But I have always ob- 
served that sensible people are best pleased 
with what is natural and unaffected. Nor 
can I tell you a plainer truth, than that I am, 

* Private correspondence. 



without the leas,'-, dissimulation, and with £ 
warm remembrance of past favors, 
My dear Madam, 
Your affectionate humble servant, 

w. c. 

I beg to be remembered to Mr. Hill. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Jan. 8, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I wish you had moie 
leisure, that you might often er favor me with 
a page of politics. The authority of a news- 
paper is not of sufficient weight to determine 
my opinions, and I have no other documents 
to be set down by. I therefore on this sub- 
ject am suspended in a sta ». of constant 
scepticism, the most uneasy condition in 
which the judgment can find itself. But ijour 
politics have weight with me, because I know 
your independent spirit, the justness of your 
reasonings, and the opportunities you have 
of information. But I know likewise the 
urgency and the multiplicity of your con- 
cerns; and therefore, like a neglected clock, 
must be contented to go wrong, except when 
perhaps twice in the year you shall come to 
set me right, 

Public credit is indeed shaken, and the 
funds at a low ebb. How can they be other- 
wise when our western wing is already clip- 
ped to the stumps, and the shears at this 
moment threaten our eastern. Low however 
as our public stock is, it is not lower than my 
private one; and this being the article that 
touches me most nearly at present, I shall be 
obliged to you if you will have recourse to 
such ways and means for the replenishment 
of my exchequer as your wisdom may sug 
gest and your best ability suffice to execute 
The experience I have had of your readiness 
upon all similar occasions has been very 
agreeable to me ; and I doubt not but upon 
the present I shall find you equally prompt to 
serve me. So, 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Jan. 18, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I too have taken leave of 
the old year, and parted with it just when you 
did, but with very different sentiments and 
feelings upon the occasion. I looked back 
upon all the passages and occurrences of it 
as a traveller looks back upon a wilderness, 
through which he has passed with weariness 
and sorrow of heart, reaping no other fruit of 
his labor than the poor consolation that, 
dreary as the desert was, he has left it all be. 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



1T7 



hind him. The traveller would find even this 
comfort considerably lessened, if, us soon as 
he had passed one wilderness, another of 
equal length and equally desolate should ex. 
pect him. In this particular, his experience 
and mine would exactly tally. I should re- 
joice indeed that the old year is over and 
gone, if I had not every reason to prophesy 
a new one similar to it. 

I am glad you have found so much hidden 
treasure ; and Mrs. Unwin desires me to tell 
you, that you did her no more than justice in 
believing that she would rejoice in it. It is 
not easy to surmise the reason why the 
Reverend Doctor, your predecessor, concealed 
it. Being a subject of a free government, 
and I suppose full of the divinity most in 
fashion, he could not fear lest his great riches 
should expose him to persecution. Nor can 
I suppose that he held it any disgrace for a 
dignitary of the church to be wealthy, at a 
time when churchmen in general spare no 
pains to become so. But ttic wisdom of 
some men has a droll sort of knavishness in 
it, much like that of the magpie, who hides 
what he finds with a deal of contrivance, 
merely for the pleasure of doing it. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jan., 1784. 

My dear William, — When I first resolved 
to write an answer to your last this evening, 
I had no thought of anything more sublime 
than prose. But before I began it occured 
to me that perhaps you would not be dis- 
pleased with an attempt to give a poetical 
translation of the lines you sent me. They 
are so beautiful, that I felt the temptation ir- 
resistible. At least, as the French say, it was 
-plus forte que moi ; and I accordingly com- 
plied. By this means I have lost an hour; 
and whether I shall be able to fill my sheet 
before supper is as yet doubtful. But I will 
do my best. 

For your remarks, I think them perfectly 
just. You have no reason to distrust your 
taste, or to submit the trial of it to me. You 
understand the use and the force of language 
as well as any man. You have quick feel- 
ings and you are fond of poetry. How is it 
possible then that you should not be a judge 
of it? I venture to hazard on\y one alter- 
ation, which, as it appears to me, would 
amount to a little improvement. The seventh 
and eighth lines I think I should like better 
thus — 

Aspirante Ievi zephyro et redeunte serena 
Anni temperie foecundo e cespite surgunt. 

My reason is, that the word cum is re- 
peated too soon. At least my ear does not 
like it, and when it can be done without in- 



jury to the sense, there seems to be an ele- 
gance in diversifying the expression, as much 
as possible, upon similar occasions. It dis- 
covers a command of phrase, and gives a 
more masterly air to the piece; If exlincta 
stood unconnected with telis, I should prefer 
your word micant, to the doctor's vige.nl. 
But the latter seems to stand more in direct 
opposition to that sort of extinction which 
is effected by a shaft or arrow. In the 
daytime the stars may be said to die,' and in 
the night to recover their strength. Perhaps 
the doctor had in his eye that noble line of 
Gray's, 

Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts 
of war ! 

But it is a beautiful composition. It is ten- 
der, touching and elegant. It is not easy to 
do it justice in English, as for example.* 

Many thanks for the books, which being 
most admirably packed came safe. They 
will furnish us with mary a winter evening's 
amusement. We are glad that you intend to 
be the carrier back. 

We rejoice too that your cousin has re- 
membered you in her will. The money she 
left to those who attended her hearse, would 
have been better bestowed upon you : and by 
this time perhaps she thinks so. Alas ! what 
an inquiry does that thought suggest, and 
how impossible to make it to any purpose ! 
What are the employments of the departed 
spirit? and where does it subsist? Has it 
any cognizance of earthly things ? Is it trans- 
ported to an immeasurable distance ; or is it 
still, though imperceptible to us, conversant 
with the same scene, and interested in what 
passes here ? How little we know of a state 
to which we are all destined; and how docc the 
obscurity that hangs over that undiscovered 
country increase the anxiety we sometimes 
feel as we are journeying towards it ! It is 
sufficient however for such as you and a few 
more of my aquaintance to know that in your 
separate state you will be happy. Provision 
is made for your reception; and you will 
have no cause to regret aught that you have 
left behind. 

I have written to Mr. . My letter 

went this morning. How I love and honor 
that man ! For many reasons I dare not tell 
him how much. But I hate the frigidity of 
the style in which I am forced to address him. 
That line of Horace, 

Dii tibi divitias dederunt artemque fruendi, 

was nc-er so applicable to the poet's friend, 
as to Mr. . My bosom burns to immor- 
talize him. But prudence says, " Forbear !" 
and, though a poet, I pay respect to her injunc- 
tions.f 

* The verses appearing again with the original in the 
next letter, are omitted. 

t John Thornton, Esq., is the person here alluded to. 
12 



178 



COWPER'S WOK.K8. 



I sincerely give you joy of the good you 
have unconsciously done by your example 
and conversation. That you seem to your- 
self not to deserve the acknowledgment 
your friend makes of it, is a proof that you 
do. Grace is blind to its own beauty, where- 
as such virtues as men may reach without 
it are remarkable self-admirers. May you 
make such impressions upon many of your 
order! I know none that need them more. 

You do not want my praises of your con- 
duct towards Mr. . It is well for him 

however, and still better for yourself, that 
you are capable of such a part. It was said 
of some good man (my memory does not 
serve me with his name) " do him an ill turn 
and you make him your friend forever." 
But it is Christianity only that forms such 
friends. I wish his father may be duly af- 
fected by this instance and proof of your 
superiority to those ideas of you which he 
has so unreasonably harbored. He is not in 
my favor now, nor will be upon any other 
terms. 

I laughed at the comments you make on 
your own feelings, when the subject of them 
was a newspaper eulogium. But it was a 
laugh of pleasure, and approbation : such in- 
deed is the heart, and so is it made up. 
There are few that can do good, and keep 
their own secret, none perhaps without a 

struggle. Yourself and your friend are 

no very common instances of the fortitude 
that is necessary in such a conflict. In for- 
mer days I have felt my heart beat and every 
vein throb upon such an occasion. To pub- 
lish my own deed was wrong. I knew it to 
be so. But to conceal it seemed like a vol- 
untary injury to myself. Sometimes I could 
and sometimes I could not succeed. My oc- 
casions for such conflicts indeed were not 
very numerous. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Jan. 25, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — This contention about 
East Indian patronage seems not unlikely to 
avenge upon us by its consequences the mis- 
chiefs we have done there. The matter in 
dispute is too precious to be relinquished by 
either party ; and each is jealous of the influ- 
ence the other would derive from the posses- 
sion of it. In a country whose politics have so 
long rolled upon the wheels of corruption, an 
affair of such value must prove a weight in 
either scale, absolutely destructive of the very 
idea of a balance. Every man has his senti- 
ments upon this subject, and I have mine. 
Were I constituted umpire of this strife, with 
full powers to decide it, I would tie a talent 
of lead about the neck of this patronage, and 



plunge it into the depths of the sea. To 
speak less figuratively, I would abandon all 
territorial interest in a country to which we 
can have no right, and which we cannot gov- 
ern with any security to the happiness of the 
inhabitants, or without the danger of incur- 
ring either perpetual broils, or the most in- 
supportable tyranny at home. That sort of 
tyranny I mean, which flatters and tantalizes 
the subject with a show of freedom, and in 
reality allows him nothing more, bribing to 
the right and left, rich enough to afford the 
purchase of a thousand consciences, and 
consequently strong enough, if it happen to 
meet with an incorruptible one, to render all 
the efforts of that man, or of twenty such 
men, if they could be found, romantic and 
of no effect. I am the king's most loyal sub- 
ject, and most obedient humble servant. But, 
by his majesty's leave, I must acknowledge I 
am not altogether convinced of the rectitude 
even of his own measures, or of the simplic- 
ity of his views ; and, if I were satisfied that 
he himself is to be trusted, it is nevertheless 
palpable that he cannot answer for his suc- 
cessors. At the same time he Ms my king, 
and I reverence him as such. I account his 
prerogative sacred, and shall never wish pros- 
perity to a party that invades it, and under 
that pretence of patriotism, would annihilate 
all the consequence of a character essential 
to the very being of the constitution. For 
these reasons I am sorry that we have any 
dominion in the East ; that we have any such 
emoluments to contend about. Their im- 
mense value will probably prolong the dis- 
pute, and such struggles having been already 
made in the conduct of it as have shaken our 
very foundations, it seems not unreasonable 
to suppose that still greater efforts and more 
fatal are behind ; and, after all, the decision 
in favor of either side may be ruinous to the 
whole. In the meantime, that the Company 
themselves are but indifferently qualified for 
the kingship is most deplorably evident. 
What shall I say therefore 1 I distrust the 
court, I suspect the patriots ; I put the Com- 
pany entirely aside, as having forfeited all 
claim to confidence in such a businsss, and 
see no remedy of course, but in the annihi- 
lation, if that could be accomplished, of the 
very existence of our authority in the East 
Indies. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

It was natural for Cowper to indulge in 
such a reflection, if we consider, that in his 
time India presented a melancholy scene tf 
rapine and corruption. It used to be said by 
Mr. Burke, that every man became unbaptized 
in going to India, and that, should it please 
Providence, by some unforeseen dispensation, 
to deprive Great Britain of her Indian empire, 
she Vrould leave behind no memorial but the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



17k 



evidences of her ambition, and the traces of 
her desolating wars. 

Happily we have lived to see a great moral 
revolution, and England has at length re- 
deemed her character. She has ennobled the 
triumphs of her arnfe, by making ihetn sub- 
servient to the introduction oi* the Gospel ; 
and seems evidently destined by Providence 
to be the honored instrument of evangelizing 
the nations of the East. Already the sacred 
Scriptures have been translated, in whole or 
in part, into nearly forty of the Oriental lan- 
guages or dialects. Schools have been es- 
tablished, and are rapidly multiplying in the 
three presidencies. The apparently insur- 
mountable barrier of caste is giving way, and 
the great fabric of Indian superstition is 
crumbling into dust, while on its ruins will 
arise the everlasting empire of righteousness 
and truth. 

The following lines, written by Dr. Jortin, 
to which we subjoin Cowper's translation, 
were inclosed in the last letter. 

IN BREVITATEM VITJE SPATII, HOMINIBUS 
CONCESSI. ^ 

Hei mihi ! Lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit, 

Lunaque mutatas repavat dispendia formae, 

Astraque, purpurei telis extincta diei, 

Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris alumni, 

Graminis herba virens, et florum. picta propago, 

Q,uos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit 

Cum zephyri vox bland a vocat. rediitque sereni 

Temperies anni, foecundo c cespite surgunt. 

Nos domini rerum nos. magna et pulchra minati, 

Cum breve ver vitas robustaque transiit setas, 

Deficimus; nee nos ordo revolubilis auras 

R« ddit in aetherias, tumuli neque claustra resolvit. 

ON THR SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. 

Suns that set. and moons that wane, 
Rise, and are restored again. 
Stars, that orient day subdues, 
Night at her return renews. 
Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth 
Of the genial womb of earth, 
' Suffer but a transient death 
From the winter's cruel breath. 
Zephyr speaks ; serener skies 
Warm the glebe, and they arise. 
We, alas ! earth's haughty kings, 
We, that promise mighty things. 
Losing soon life's happy prime, 
Droop, and fade, in little time. 
Spring returns, but not our bloom, 
Still 'tis winter in the tomb. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Feb., 1784. 
My deai Friend, — I am glad that you have 
finished a .vork, of which I well remember 
the beginning, and which I was sorry you 
thought it expedient to discontinue.* Your 
reason for not proceeding was, however, such 
* The "Review of Ecclesiastical History. 



as I was obliged to acquiesce in, being sug- 
gested by a jealousy you felt, "lest your 
spirit should be betrayed into acrimony, in 
writing upon such a subject." I doubt not 
you have sufficiently guarded that point ; and 
indeed, at the time I could not discover that 
you had failed in it. I have busied myself 
this morning in contriving a Greek title, and 
in seeking a motto. The motto you mention 
is certainly apposite. But I think it an ob- 
jection that it has been so much in use; al- 
most every writer that has claimed a liberty 
to think for himself, upon whatever subject, 
having choserr it. I therefore send you one 
which I never saw in that shape yet, and which 
appears to me equally apt and proper. The 
Greek word J^o^ which signifies literally a 
slwckle, may figuratively serve to express 
those chains which bigotry and prejudice cast 
upon the mind. It seems therefore, to speak 
like a lawyer, no misnomer of your book to 
call it— 

~M.iaoSea^Oi. 

The following pleases me most of all the 
mottos I have thought of. But with respect 
both to that and the title you will use your 
pleasure. 

Querelis 
Haud justis assurgis, et irrita jurgia jactas 

Mn. x. 94. 

From the little I have seen, and the much 
I have heard, of the manager of the Review 
you mention, I cannot feel even the smallest 
push of a desire to serve him in the capacity 
of a poet. Indeed I dislike him so much 
that, had I a drawer full of pieces fit for his 
purpose, I hardly think I should contribute 
to his collection. It* is possible too that I 
may live to be once more a publisher myself; 
in which case, I should be glad to find myself 
in possession of any such original pieces as 
might decently make their appearance in a 
volume of my own. At present, Ik-., ever, I 
have nothing that would be of use to fwa, 
nor have I many opportunities of compObi..g. 
Sunday being the only day in the week which 
we spend alone. 

I am at this moment pinched for time, but 
was desirous of proving to jou with what 
alacrity my Greek and Latin memory are al- 
ways ready to obey you, and therefore, by 
the first post, have to the best of my ability 
complied with your request. 

Believe me, my dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Feb. 10, 178*. 
My dear Friend, — The morning is my 
vriting time, and in the morning I have no 
spirits. So much the worse for my corre 



180 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Bpondents. Sleep, that refreshes my body, 
seems to cripple me in every other respect. 
As the evening approaches, I grow more 
alert, and when I am retiring to bed am more 
fit for mental occupation than at any other 
time. So it fares with us whom they call 
nervous. By a strange inversion of the ani- 
mal economy, we are ready to sleep when 
we have most need to be awake, and go to bed 
just when we might sit up to some purpose. 
The watch is irregularly wound up, it goes 
in the night when it is not wanted, and in the 
day stands still. In many respects we have 
the advantage of our forefathers, the Picts. 
We sleep in a whole skin, are not obliged to 
submit to the painful operation of puncturing 
ourselves from head to foot in order that we 
may be decently dressed, and lit to appear 
abroad. But, on the other hand, we have 
reason enough to envy them their tone of 
nerves, and that flow of spirits which effect- 
ually secured them from all uncomfortable im- 
pressions of a gloomy atmosphere, and from 
every shade of melancholy from every other, 
cause. They understood, I suppose, the use 
of vulnerary herbs, having frequent occasion 
for some skill in surgery, but physicians I pre- 
sume they had none, having no need of any. 
Is it possible that a creature like myself can 
be descended from such progenitors, in whom 
there appears not a single trace of /amity re- 
semblance? What an alteration have a few 
ages made ! They, without clothing, would 
defy the severest season, and I, with all the 
accommodations that art has since invented, 
am hardly secure even in the mildest. If the 
wind blows upon me when my pores are 
open, I catch cold. A cough is the conse- 
quence. I suppose, if such a disorder could 
have seized a Pict, his friends would have 
concluded that a bone had stuck in his 
throat, and that he^was in some danger of 
choking. They would perhaps have ad- 
dressed themselves to the cure of his cough 
by thrusting their fingers into his gullet, 
which would only have exasperated the case. 
But they would never have thought of ad- 
ministering laudanum, my only remedy. For 
this difference however that has obtained be- 
tween me and my ancestors, I am indebted 
to the luxurious practices and enfeebling 
self-indulgence of a long line of grandsires, 
who from generation to generation have 
been employed in deteriorating the breed, till 
at last the collected effects of all their follies 
have centred in my puny self — a man, in- 
deed, but not in the image of those that 
went before me — a man who sighs and 
groans, who wears out life in dejection and 
oppression of spirits, and who never thinks 
of the aborigines of the country to which I 
belong, without wishing that I had been born 
imong them. The evil is without a remedy, 
unless the ages that are passed could be re- 



e-alled, my whole pedigree be permitted ta 
live again, and being properly admunished to 
beware of enervating sloth and refinement, 
would preserve their hardiness of nature un- 
impaired, and transmit the desirable quality 
to their posterity. I once saw Adam in a 
dream. We sometimes say of a picture that 
we doubt not its likeness to the original, 
though we never saw him ; a judgment we 
have some reason to form, when the face is 
strongly charactered, and the features full of 
expression. So I think of my visionary 
Adam, and for a similar reason. His figure 
was awkward indeed in the extreme. It was 
evident that he had never been taught by a 
Frenchman to hold his head erect, or to turn 
out his toes ; to dispose of his arms, or to 
simper without a meaning. But, if Mr. Ba- 
con' was called upon to produce a statue of 
Hercules, he need not wish for a juster pat- 
tern. He stood like a rock; the size of his 
limbs, the prominence of his muscles, and the 
height of his stature, all conspired to bespeak 
him a creature whose strength had suffered 
no diminution, and who, being the first of his 
race, did not come into the world under a 
necessity of sustaining a load of infirmities, 
derived to him from the intemperance of 
others. He was as much stouter than a Pict, 
as I suppose a Pict to be than I. Upon my 
hypothesis, therefore, there has been a gradual 
declension in point of bodily vigor, from 
Adam down to me; at least, if my dream 
were a j ust representation of that gentleman 
and deserve the credit I cannot help giving 
it, such must have been the case. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Feb., 1784. . 
My dear Friend, — I give you joy of a thaw 
that has put an end to a frost of nine weeks' 
continuance with very little interruption; the 
longest that has happened since the year 
1739. May I presume that you feel yourself 
indebted to me for intelligence, which per- 
haps no other of your, correspondents will 
vouchsafe to communicate, though they are 
as well apprised of it, and as much convinced 
of the truth of it, as myself? It is I sup- 
pose everywhere felt as a blessing, but no- 
where more sensibly than at Olney ; though 
even at Olney the severity of it has been al- 
leviated in behalf of many. The same 
benefactor, who befriended them last year, 
has with equal liberality administered a sup- 
ply to their necessities in the present. Like 
the subterraneous flue that warms my myr- 
tles, he does good and is unseen. His in- 
junctions of secrecy are still as rigorous as 
ever, and must therefore be observed with 
the same attention. He however is a happy 
man, whose philanthropy is not like mine, an 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



18<i 



impotent principle, spending itself in fruitless 
wishes At the same time I confess it is a 
consolation, and I feel it an honor, to be em- 
ployed as the conductor, and to be trusted as 
the dispenser, of another man's bounty. 
Some have been saved from perishing, and 
all that could partake of it from the most 
pitiable distress. 

I will not apologize for my politics, or 
suspect them of error, merely because they 
are taken up from the newspapers. I uike it 
for granted that those reporters of the wis- 
dom of our representatives are tolerably cor- 
rect and faithful. Were they not, and were 
they guilty of frequent and gross misrepre- 
sentation, assuredly they would be chastised 
by the rod of parliamentary criticism. Could 
I be present at the debates, I should indeed 
have a better opinion of my documents. But 
if the House of Commons be the best school 
of British politics, which I think an undeni- 
able assertion, then he that reads what passes 
there has opportunities of information infe- 
rior only to theirs who hear for themselves, 
and can be present upon the spot. Thus 
qualified, I take courage; and when a certain 
reverend neighbor of ours curls his nose at 
me, and holds my opinions cheap, merely be- 
cause he has passed through London, I am 
not altogether convinced that he has reason 
on his side. I do not know that the air of 
the metropolis has a power to brighten the 
intellects, or that to sleep a night in the great 
city is a necessary cause of wisdom. He tells 
me that Mr. Fox is a rascal, and that Lord 
North is a villain ; that every creature execrates 
them both, and that I ought to do so too. 
But I beg to be excused. Villain and rascal 
are appellations which we, who do not converse 
with great men, are rather sparing in the use 
of. I can conceive them both to be most en- 
tirely persuaded of the rectitude of their 
conduct, and the rather because T feel myself 
much inclined to believe that, being so, they 
are not mistaken. I cannot think that secret 
influence is a bugbear, a phantom conjured 
up to serve a purpose, the mere shibbo- 
' Leth of a party:* and being, and having al- 
ways been, somewhat of an enthusiast on 
the subject of British, liberty, I am not able 
to withhold my reverence and good wishes 
from the*man, whoever he be, that exerts 
himself in a constitutional way to oppose it. 

Caraccioli upon the subject of self-ac- 
quaintance was never I believe translated. I 
have sometimes thought that the Theological 
Miscellany might be glad of a chapter of it 
monthly. It is a work which .1 much admire. 

* The secret influence, here mentioned, was at this 
time, and often afterwards, said to be employed by the 
Court ; and being highly unconstitutional, was frequently 
adverted to, in strong language of reprehension, in the 
House of Commous. Mr. Powys, afterwards Lord Lil- 
\>rd, called it " a fourth estate in the realm ■;" and Mr. 
Burke denominated it " a power behind the throte greater 
lia?t tk : th -one itself." 



You, who are master of their plan, can tel. 
me whether such a contribution would be 
welcome. If you think it would, I wouK 
be punctual in my remittances ; and a labor 
of that sort would suit me better in mj 
present state of mind than original composi- 
tion on religious subjects. 

Remember us as those that love you, ana 
are never unmindful, of you. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 

Olney, Feb. 22, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — 1 owe you thanks for 
your kind remembrance of me in your letter 
sent me on occasion of your departure, and 
as many for that which I received last night. 
I should have answered, had I known where 
a line or two from me might find you ; but, 
uncertain whether you were at home or 
abroad, my diligence I confess wanted the 
necessary spur. 

It makes a capital figure among the com- 
forts we enjoyed during the long severity of 
the season, that the same incognito to ail ex- 
cept ourselves made us his almoners this 
year likewise, as he did the last, and to the 
same amount. Some we have been enabled 
I suppose to save from perishing, and cer- 
tainly many from the most pinching neces- 
sity. Are you not afraid, Tory as you are, 
to avow your principles to me, who am a 
Whig ? Know that I am in the opposition ; 
that, though I pity the king, I do not wish 
him success in the present contest.f But 
this is too long a battle to fight upon paper. 
Make haste, that we may decide it face to 
face. 

Our respects wait upon Mrs. Bull, and our 
love upon the young Hebrsean.J I wish you 
joy of his proficiency, and am glad that you 
can say, with the old man in Terence, 

Omnes continuo laudare fortunas meas, 
Qui natum habeam tali ingenio praeditum. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney. Feb. 29, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — We are glad that you 
have such a Lord Petre in your neighbor- 
hood. He must be a man of a liberal turn to 
employ a heretic in such a service. I wish 
you a further acquaintance with him, not 
doubting that the more he knows you, he will 
find you the more agreeable. You despair 

* Private correspondence. 

t This alludes to Mr. Pitt being retained in office, 
though frequently outvoted in Parliament. 

t Mr. Bull's son, who afterwards succeeded his father, 
both in the ministerial office, and also in the seminar; 
2stablished at Newport Pagnel, a' d with no less claini 
to respect and esteem. 



J 82 



COWPER'S WORKS 



of becoming a prebendary, for want of cer- 
tain rhythmical talents, which you suppose 
me possessed of. But what think you of a 
cardinal's hat? Perhaps his lordship may 
have interest at Rome, and that greater honor 
may await you. Seriously, however, I re- 
spect his character, and should not be sorry 
if there were many such Papists in the land. 

Mr. has given free scope to his gene- 
rosity, and contributed as largely to the relief 
of Olney as he did last year. Soon after 1 
had given you notice of his first remittance, 
we received a second to the same amount, ac- 
companied indeed with an intimation that we 
were to consider it as an anticipated supply, 
which, but for the uncommon severity of the 
present winter, he should have reserved for 
the next. The inference is that next winter 
we are to expect nothing. But the man, and 
his beneficent turn of mind considered, there 
is some reason to hope that, logical as the in- 
ference seems, it may yet be disappointed. 

Adverting to your letter again, I perceive 
that you wish for my opinion of your answer 
to his lordship. Had I forgot to tell you 
that I approve of it, I know you well enough 
to be aware of the misinterpretation you 
vould have put upon my silence. I am glad 
therefore that 1 happened to cast my eye upon 
your appeal to my opinion, before it was too 
late. A modest man, however able, has 
always some reason to distrust himself upon 
extraordinary occasions. Nothing is so apt 
to betray us into absurdity as too great a 
dread of it; and the application of more 
strength $han enough is sometimes as fatal as 
too little : but you have escaped very well. 
For my own part, when I write to a stranger, 
I feel myself deprived of half my intellects. 
I suspect that I shall write nonsense, and I 
do so. I tremble at the thought of an inac- 
curacy, and become absolutely ungrammati- 
cal. I feel myself sweat. I have recourse to 
the knife and the pounce. I correct half a 
dozen blunders, which in a common case I 
should not have committed, and have no 
sooner despatched what I have written, than 
I recollect how much better I could have 
made it ; how easily and genteelly I could 
have relaxed the stiffness of the phrase, and 
have cured the insufferable awkwardness of 
the whole, had they struck me a little earlier. 
Thus we stand in awe of we know not what, 
and miscarry through mere desire to excel. 

I read Johnson's Prefaces every night, ex- 
cept when the newspaper calls m 3 off. At a 
time like the present, what author can stand 
in competition with a newspaper; or who, 
that has a spark of patriotism, does not point 
&11 his attention to the present crisis. 

W. C. 



I am so disgusted with -, for allow- 
ing himself to be silent, when so loudly called 



upon to write to you, that I do not choose t« 
express my feelings. Woe to the man whom 
kindness cannot soften ! 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 8, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for the two 
first numbers of the Theological Miscellany. 
I have not read them regularly through, but 
sufficiently to observe that they are much in- 
debted to Omicron.* An essay, signed Par- 
vulus, pleased me likewise ; and I shall be 
glad if a neighbor of ours, to whom I have 
lent them, should be able to apply to his own 
use the lesson it inculcates. On' farther con- 
sideration, I have seen reason to forego my 
purpose of translating Caraccioli. Though 
I think no book more calculated to teach 
the art of pious meditation, or to enforce a 
conviction of the vanity of all pursuits that 
have not the soul's interests for their object, 
I can yet see a flaw in his manner of instruct- 
ing, that in a country so enlightened as ours 
would escape nobody's notice. Not enjoying 
the advantage of evangelical ordinances and 
Christian communion, he falls into a mistake, 
natural in his situation, ascribing always the 
pleasures he found in a holy life, to his own 
industrious perseverance in a contemplative 
course, and not to the immediate agency of 
the great Comforter of his people, and direct- 
ing the eye of his readers to a spiritual prin- 
ciple within, which he supposes to subsist in 
the soul of every man, as the source of all 
divine enjoyment, and not to Christ, as he 
would gladly have done, had he fallen under 
Christian teachers. Allowing for these de- 
fects, he is a charming writer, and by those 
who know how to make such allowances 
may be read with great delight and improve- 
ment. But, with these defects in his man- 
ner, though, I believe, no man ever had a heart 
more devoted to God, he does not seem 
dressed with sufficient exactness to be fit for 
the public eye, where man is known to be 
nothing, and Jesus all in all. He must there- 
fore be dismissed, as ah unsuccessful candi- 
date for a place in this Miscellany, and will 
be less mortified at being rejected in the first 
instance than if he had met with a refusal 
from the publisher. I can only therefore re- 
peat what I said before, that, when I find a 
proper subject, and myself at liberty to pur- 
sue it, I will endeavor to contribute my 
quota. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 11, 1784 
I return you many thanks for your Apol- 
ogy, which I have read with great pleasure 
You know of old that your style always 
* The signature assumed by Mr. Newton. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



193 



pleases me ; and having, in a former letter, 
given you the reasons for whieh 1 like it, I 
spare you now the pain of a repetition. The 
spirit too in which you write pleases me as 
much, But [ perceive that in some eases it 
is possible to be severe, and at ihe same time 
perfectly good-tempered; in all cases, I sup- 
pose, where we suffer by an injurious and un- 
reasonable attack, and can justify our conduct 
by a plain and simple narrative. On such oc- 
casions truth itself seems a satire, because by 
implication at least it convicts our adversaries 
of the want of charity and candor. For this 
reason perhaps you will rind that you have 
made many angry, though you are not so ; and 
it is possible they may be the more angry upon 
that very account. To assert and to prove 
that an enlightened minister of the gospel 
may, without any violation of his conscience, 
and even upon the ground of prudence and 
propriety, continue in the Establishment, and 
to do this with the most absolute composure, 
must be very provoking to the dignity of 
some dissenting doctors ; and, to nettle them 
still more, you in a manner impose upon them 
the necessity of being silent, by declaring that 
you will be so yourself. Upon the whole, 
however, I have no doubt that your 'Apology 
will do good. If it should irritate some who 
have more zeal than knowledge, and more of 
bigotry than of either, it may serve to enlarge 
the views of others, and to convince them 
that there may be grace, truth, and efficacy 
in the ministry of a church of which they are 
not members. I wish it success, and all that 
attention to which, both from the nature of 
the subject and the manner in which you 
have treated it, it is so well entitled. 

The patronage of the East Indies will be 
a dangerous weapon, in whatever hands. 1 
have no prospect of deliverance for this 
country, but the same that I have of a possi- 
bility that we may one day be disencumbered 
of our ruinous possessions in the East. 

Our good neighbors,* who have so success- 
fully knocked away our western crutch from 
under us, seem to design us the same favor 
on the opposite side, in which case we shall 
be poor, but I think we shall stand a better 
chance to be free; and I had rather drink 
water gruel for breakfast, and be no man's 
slave, than wear a chain, and drink tea. 

I have just room to add that we love you 
as' usual, and are your very affectionate 
William and Mary. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney, March 15, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — I converse, you say, upon 
other subjects than that of despair, and may 

* The French nalion, who ait led America in her strug- 
gle for icdependen73. 
+ Pri late correspondence. 



therefore write upon others. Indeed, m) 
friend, I am a man of very little conversatioa 
upon any subject. From that of despair I 
abstain as much as possible, for the sake of 
my company ; but I will venture to say that 
it is never out of my mind one minute in the 
whole day. I do not mean to say that I am 
never cheerful. I am often so ; always in- 
deed when my nights have been undisturbed 
for a season. But the effect of such couth* 
ual listening to the language of a heart hope, 
less and deserted is that I can never give 
much more than half my attention to what 'a 
started by others, and very rarely start any- 
thing myself. My silence, however, and my 
absence of mind, make me sometimes as en- 
tertaining as if I had wit. They furnish an 
occasion for friendly and good-natured rail- 
lery ; they raise a laugh, and I partake of it. 
But you will easily perceive that a mind thus 
occupied is but indifferently qualified for the 
consideratiou of theological matters. The 
most useful and the most delightful topics 
of that kind are to me forbidden fruit ; — I 
tremble if I approach them. It has happened 
to me sometimes that I have found myself 
imperceptibly drawn in, and made a party in 
such discourse. The consequence has been, 
dissatisfaction and self-reproach. You will 
tell me, perhaps, that I have written upon 
these subjects in verse, and may therefore, if 
I please, in prose. But there is a difference. 
The search after poetical expression, the 
rhyme, and the numbers, are all affairs of 
some difficulty ; they amuse, indeed, but are 
not to be attained without study, and en- 
gross, perhaps, a larger share of the attention 
than the subject itself. Persons fond of 
music will sometimes find pleasure in the 
tune, when the words afford them none. 
There are, however, subjects that do not 
always terrify me by their importance; such 
I mean as relate to Christian life and man- 
ners ; and when such a one presents itself, 
and finds me in a frame of mind that does ndt 
absolutely forbid the employment, I shall 
most readily give it my attention, for the 
sake, however, of your request merely. — • 
Verse is my favorite occupation, and what I 
compose in that way I reserve for my own 
use hereafter. 

I have lately finished eight volumes of 
Johnson's Prefaces, or Lives of the Poets 
In all that number I observe but one ma»r— 
a poet of no great fame — of whom I did not 
know that he existed till I found him there, 
whose mind seems to have had the slightest 
tincture of religion ; and he was hardly in 
his senses. His name was Collins. He 
sank into a state of melancholy, and died 
young. Not long before his death he was 
found at his lodgings in Islington, by his 
biographer, with the New Testament in his 
hand. He said to Johnson, " I have but one 



book, but it is the best." Of him, therefore, 
there are some hopes. But from the lives 
of all the rest there is but one inference to 
be drawn — that poets are a very worthless, 
wicked set of people. 

Yours, my dear friend, truly, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 19, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I wish it were in my 
power to give you any account of the Mar- 
quis Caraccioli. Some years since I saw a 
short history of him in the ' Review,' of 
which I recollect no particulars, except that 
he was (and for aught I know may be still) 
an officer in the Prussian service. I have 
two volumes of his works, lent me by Lady 
Austen. One is upon the subject of self- 
acquaintance, and the other treats of the art 
of conversing with the same gentleman. 
Had I pursued my purpose of translating 
him, my design was to have furnished my- 
self, if possible, with some authentic account 
of him, which I suppose may be procured at 
any bookseller's who deals in foreign publi- 
cations. But for the reasons given in my 
last I have laid aside the design. There is 
something in his style that touches me ex- 
ceedingly, and which I do not know how to 
describe. I should call it pathetic, if it were 
occasional only, and never occurred but when 
his subject happened to be particularly affect- 
ing. But it is universal ; he has not a sen- 
tence that is not marked with it. Perhaps 
therefore I may describe it better by 4 saying 
that his whole work has an air of pious and 
tender melancholy, which to me at least is 
extremely agreeable. This property of it, 
which depends perhaps altogether upon the 
arrangement of his words, and the modula- 
tion of his sentences, it would be very diffi- 
cult to preserve in a translation. I do not 
know that our language is capable of being 
so managed, and rather suspect that it is 
not, and that it is peculiar to the French, be- 
cause it is not unfrequent among their writ- 
ers, and I never saw anything similar to it in 
our own. 

My evenings are devoted to books. I 
read aloud for the entertainment of the 
party, thus making amends by a vociferation 
of two hours for my silence at other times. 
We are in good health, and waiting as pa- 
tiently as we can for the end of this second 
winter. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

The following letter will be read with in- 
terest as expressing. Cowper's sentiments on 
Dr. Johnson's " Lives of the Poets." 



TO THE REV. WM. T7NW1N.* 

Olney, March 21, 1784. 

My dear William, — I thank you for the 
entertainment you have afforded me. I often 
wish for a library, often regret my folly in 
selling a good collection, but I have one in 
Essex. It is rather remote indeed, too dis- 
tant for occasional reference; but it serves 
the purpose of amusement, and a wagon be- 
ing a very suitable vehicle for an author, ] 
find myself commodiously supplied. Last' 
night I made an end of -reading " Johnson's 
Prefaces ;" but the number of poets whom 
he has vouchsafed to chronicle being fifty- 
six, there must be many with whose history 
I am not yet acquainted. These, or some 
of these, if it suits you to give them a part 
of your chaise when you come, will be heart- 
ily welcome. I am very much the biogra- 
pher's humble admirer. His uncommon share 
of good sense, and his forcible expression, 
secure to him that tribute from all his read- 
ers. He has a penetrating insight into char- 
acter, and a happy talent of correcting the 
popular opinoin upon all occasions where it 
is erroneous ; and this be does with the 
boldness of a man who will think for him- 
self, but at the same time with a justness of 
sentiment that convinces us he does not dif- 
fer from others through affectation, but be- 
cause he has a sounder judgment. This 
remark, however, has his narrative for its 
object rather than his critical performance. 
In the latter I do not think him always just, 
when he departs from the general opinion. 
He finds no beauties in Milton's Lycidas. 
He pours contempt upon Prior, to such a 
degree, that, were he really as undeserving 
of notice as he represents him, he ought no 
longer to be numbered among the poets. 
These indeed are the two capital instances 
in which he has offended me. There are 
others less important, which I have not room 
to enumerate, and in which L am less con- 
fident that he is wrong. What suggested to 
him the thought that the Alma was written 
in imitation of Hudibras., I cannot conceive. 
In former years, they were both favorites of 
mine, and I often read them ; but never saw 
in them the least resemblance to each other ; 
nor do I now, except that they are composed 
in verse of the same measure. After all, it 
is a melancholy observation, which it is 
impossible not to make, after having run 
through this series of poetical lives, that 
where there were such shining talents there 
should be so little virtue. These luminaries 
of our country seem to have been kindled 
into a brighter blaze than others only that 
their spots might be more noticed ! So 
much can nature do for our intellectual part, 
and so little for our moral. What vanity 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



18* 



what petulance in Pope! How painfully 
sensible of censure, and yet how restless in 
provocation ! To what mean artifices could 
Addison stoop, in hopes of injuring the repu- 
tation of his friend ! Savage, how sordidly 
vicious! and the more condemned for the 
pains that are taken to palliate his vices. 
Offensive as they appear through a veil, how 
would they disgust without one ! What a 
sycophant to the public taste was Dryden; 
sinning against his feelings, lewd in his writ- 
ings, though chaste in his conversation. I 
know not but one might search these eight 
volumes with a candle, as the prophet says, 
to find a man, and not find one, unless per- 
haps Arbuthnot were he. I shall begin 
Beattie this evening, and propose to myself 
much satisfaction in reading him. In him at 
least I shall find a man whose faculties have 
now and then a glimpse from heaven upon 
them; a man, not indeed in possession of 
much evangelical light, but faithful to what 
he has, and never neglecting an opportunity 
to use it! How much more respectable 
such a character than that of thousands who 
would call him blind, and yet have not the 
grace to practise half his virtues ! He too is 
a poet and wrote the Minstrel. The speci- 
mens which I have seen of it pleased me 
much. If you have the whole, I should be 
glad to read it. I may perhaps, since you 
allow me the liberty, indulge myself here 
and there with a marginal annotation, but 
shall not use that allowance wantonly, so as 
to deface the volumes. 

Yours, my dear William, W. G. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 29, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — It being his majesty's 
p.easure that I should yet have another op- 
portunity to write before he dissolves the 
parliament, I avail myself of it with all pos- 
sible alacrity. I thank you for your last, 
which was not the less welcome for coming, 
like an extraordinary gazette, at a time when 
it was not expected. 

As, when the sea is uncommonly agitated, 
the water finds its way into creeks and holes 
of rocks, which in its calmer state it never 
reaches, in like manner the effect of these 
turbulent times is felt even at Orchard-side, 
where in general we live as undisturbed by 
the political element as shrimps or cockles, 
that have been accidentally deposited in 
some hollow beyond the water-mark, by the 
usual dashing of the waves. We were sit- 
ting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies 
and myself, very composedly, and without 
the least apprehension of any such intrusion 
in our snug parlor, one lady knitting, the 
other netting, and the gentlem-m winding 
«voi sted, when, to our unspeakable surprise, 



a mob appeared before the window ; a smart 
rap was heard at the door, the boys hallooed 

and the maid announced Mr. G . Puss* 

was unfortunately let out of her box, so that 
the candidate, with all his good friends at 
his heels, was refused admittance at th6 
grand entry, and referred to the back-door, 
as the only possible way of approach. 

Candidates are creatures not very suscep- 
tible of affronts, and would rather, I sup- 
pose, climb in at a window than be abso- 
lutely excluded. In a minute, the yard, the 
kitchen, and the parlor were filled. Mr. 

G , advancing toward me, shook me by 

the hand with a degree of cordiality that was 
extremely seducing. As soon as he and as 
many more as could find chairs were seated, 
he began to open the intent of his visit. I 
told him I had no vote, for which he readily 
gave me credit. I assured him I had no 
influence, which he was not equally inclined 
to believe, and the less, no doubt, because 

Mr. A , addressing himself to me at that 

moment, informed me that I had a great 
deal. Supposing that I could not be pos- 
sessed of such a treasure without knowing 
it, I ventured to confirm my first assertion, by 
saying that if I had any, I was utterly at a 
loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein 
it consisted. Thus ended the conference. 

Mr. G squeezed me by the hand again, 

kissed the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed 
likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed 
upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind- 
hearted gentleman. He is very young, gen- 
teel, and handsome. He has a pair of very 
good eyes in his head, which not being suffi- 
cient as it should seem for the many nice 
and difficult purposes of a senator, he has a 
third also, which he wore suspended by a 
ribbon from his button-hole. The boys hal- 
looed, the dogs barked, Puss scampered, the 
hero, with his long train of obsequious fol- 
lowers, withdrew. We made ourselves very 
merry with the adventure, and in a short 
time settled into our former tranquillity, 
never probably to be thus interrupted more. 
I thought myself however happy in being 
able to affirm* truly that I had not that influ- 
ence for which he sued, and for which, had I 
been possessed of it, with my present views 
of the dispute between the Crown and the 
Commons,! I must have refused him, for he 
is on the side of the former. It is comfort- 
able to be of no consequence in a world, 
where one cannot exercise any without dis- 
obliging somebody. The town however 
seems to be much at his service, and, if he 
be equally successful throughout the county 
he w T ill undoubtedly gain his election. Mr 
A , perhaps, was a litte mortified, be 

* His tame hare. 

t We have already stated that Mr. Pitt was frequently 
outvoted at this time in the House of Commons, but, 
being suppor'.ed by the king, did not choose to resign. 



!86 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



cause it was evident that I owed the honor 
of this visit to his misrepresentation of my 
importance. But had he thought proper to 

assure Mr. G that I had three heads, I 

should not I suppose have been bound to 
produce them. 

Mr. S , who you say was so much ad- 
mired in your pulpit, would be equally ad- 
mired in his own, at least by all capable 
judges, were he not so apt to be angry with 
lis congregation. This hurts him, and, had 
le the understanding and eloquence of Paul 
himself, would still hurt him. . He seldom, 
hardly ever, indeed, preaches a gentle, well- 
tempered sermon, but I hear it highly com- 
mended: but warmth of temper, indulged to 
a degree that may be called scolding, defeats 
the end of preaching. It is a misapplication 
of his powers, which it also cripples, and teases 
away his hearers. But he is a good man, and 
may perhaps outgrow it. 

Yours; W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, April, 1784. 

People that are but little acquainted with 
the terrors of divine wrath, are not much 
afraid of trifling with their Maker. But, for 
my own part, I would sooner take Empedo- 
jle's leap, and fling myself into Mount JEtna 
than I would do it in the slightest instance, 
were I in circumstances to make an election. 
In the scripture we find a broad and clear ex- 
hibition of mercy; it is displayed in every 
page. Wrath is, in comparison, but slightly 
touched upon, because it is not so much a 
discovery of wrath as of forgiveness. But, 
had the displeasure of God been the principal 
subject of the book, and had it circumstan- 
tially set forth that measure of it only which 
may be endured even in this life, the Chris- 
tian world perhaps would have been less 
comfortable ; but I believe presumptuous 
deddlers with the gospel would have been 
less frequently met with. The word is a 
flaming sword ; and he that touches it with 
unhallowed fingers, thinking to make a tool 
of it, will find that he has burned them. 

What navoc in Calabria ! Every house is 
built upon the sand, whose inhabitants have 
no God or only a false one. Solid and fluid 
are such in respect to each other; but with 
reference to the divine power they are equal- 
ly fixed or equally unstable. The inhabi- 
tants of a rock shall sink, while a cock-boat 
shall save a man alive in the midst of the 
fathomless ocean. The Pope grants dispen- 
sations for folly and madness during the car- 
nival. But it seems they are as offensive to 
him, whose vicegerent he pretends himself, at 
that season as at any other. Were I a Cala- 
brian, I would not give my papa at Rome one 
farthing for his amplest indulgence, from this 



time forth forever. There is a word that 
makes this world tremble; and the Pope 
cannot countermand it. A fig for such a 
conjurer! Pharaoh's conjurers had twice 
his ability. 

Believe me, my dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W.. C. 

We have already alluded to this awfu 
catastrophe, which occurred Feb. 5, 1783, 
though the shocks of earthquake continued 
to be felt sensibly, but less violently, till 
May 23rd. The motions of the earth are de- 
scribed as having been various, either whirl- 
ing like a vortex, horizontally, or by pulsa- 
tions and beatings from the bottom upwards ; 
the rains continual and violent, often accom- 
panied with lightning and irregular and furi- 
ous gusts of wind. The sum total of the 
mortality in Calabria and Sicily, by the earth- 
quakes alone, as returned to the Secretary of 
State's office, in Naples, was 32,367 ; and, 
including other casualties, was estimated at 
40,000.* 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, April 5, 1784. 

My dear William, — I thanked you in my 
last for Johnson ; I now thank you with more 
emphasis for Beattie, the most agreeable and 
amiable writer I ever met with — the only au- 
thor I have seen whose critical and philo- 
sophical researches are diversified and embel- 
lished by a poetical imagination, that makes 
even the driest subject and the leanest a feast 
for an epicure in books. He is so much at 
his ease, too, that his own character appears 
in every page, and, which is very rare, we see 
not only the writer but the man ; arid that 
man so gentle, so well-tempered, so happy in 
his religion, and so humane in his philosophy, 
that it is necessary to love him if one has any 
sense of what is lovely. If you have not his 
poem called the Minstrel, and cannot borrow 
it, I must beg you to buy it for me; for. 
though I cannot afford to deal largely in so 
expensive a commodity as books, I must af- 
ford to purchase at least the poetical works 
of Beattie. I have read six of Blair's Lec- 
tures, and what do I say of Blair ? That he 
is a sensible man, master of his subject, and, 
excepting here and there a Scotticism, a good 
writer, so far at least as perspicuity of expres- 
sion and method contribute to make- one. 
But, O the sterility of that man's fancy ! if 
indeed he has any such faculty belonging to 
him. Perhaps philosophers, or men designed 
for such, are sometimes born without one 
or perhaps it withers for want of exercise. 
However that may be, Dr. Blair has such a 
brain as Shakspeare somewhere describes 

* See Sir William Hamilton's account of this aw fa 
event. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



181 



— "dry as the remainder biscuit after a voy- 
age."* 

I take it for granted, that these good men 
are philosophically correct (for they are both 
agreed upon the subject) in their account of 
!he origin of language ; and, if the Scripture 
had !dft us in the dark upon that article, I 
should very readily adopt their hypothesis for 
want of better information. I should sup- 
pose, for instance, that man made his first ef- 
fort in speech, in the way of an interjection, 
and that ah! or oh! being uttered with won- 
derful gesticulation, and variety of attitude, 
must have left his powers of expression quite 
exhausted: that in a course of time he would 
invent many names for many things, but first 
for the objects of his daily wants. An apple 
would consequently be called an apple, and 
perhaps not many years would elapse before 
the appellation would receive the sanction of 
general use. In this case, and upon this sup- 
position, seeing one in the hand of another 
man, he would exclaim, with a most moving 
pathos, " Oh apple !" — well and good — oh ap- 
ple ! is a very affecting speech, but in the 
meantime it profits him nothing. The man 
that holds it, eats it, and he goes away with 
Oh apple in his mouth, and with nothing bet- 
ter. Reflecting on his disappointment, and 
that perhaps it arose from his not being more 
explicit, he contrives a term to denote his idea 
of transfer or gratuitous communication, and, 
the next occasion that offers of a similar kind, 
performs his part accordingly. His speech 
now stands thus, " Oh give apple !" The ap- 
ple-holder perceives himself called on to part 
with his fruit, and having satisfied his own 
hunger, is perhaps not unwilling to do so. 
But unfortunately there is still room -for a 
mistake, and a third person being present he 
gives the apple to him. Again disappointed, 
and again perceiving that his language has 
not all the precision that is requisite, the ora- 
tor retires to his study, and there, after much 
deep thinking, conceives that the. insertion of 
a pronoun, whose office shall be to signify 
that he not only wants the apple to be given, 
but given to himself, will remedy all defects, 
he uses it the next opportunity, and succeeds 
to a wonder, obtains the apple, and by his suc- 
cess, such credit to his invention, that pro- 
nouns continue to be in great repute ever after. 

Now, as my two syllable-mongers, Beattie 
and Blair, both agree that language was ori- 
ginally inspired, and that the great variety of 
languages we find upon earth at preseir took 
its rise from the confusion of tongues at 



* This criticism on Blair'a Lectures seuuis to be too 
severe. There was a period when his Sermons were 
among the most admired productions of the day; sixty 
thousand copies, it was saidj were sold. They formed 
the standard of divinity fifty years ago : but they are now 
justly considered to be deficient, in not exhibiting the 
great and fundamental truths of the Gospel, and to be 
merely en.itled t<\ the praise of being a beautiful system 
%f ethics. 



Babel, I am not perfectly convinced that there 
is any just occasion to invent this very inge- 
nious solution of a difficulty which Scripture 
has solved already. My opinion, however, is, 
if I may presume to have an opinion of my 
own, so different from theirs, who are -so 
much wiser than myself, that, if a man had 
been his own teacher, and had acquired hia 
words and his phrases only as necessity or 
convenience had prompted, his progress must 
have been considerably slower than it was, 
and in Homer's days the production of such 
a poem as the Iliad impossible. On the con- 
trary, I doubt not Adam, on the very day of 
his creation, was able to express himself iri 
terms both forcible and elegant, and that he 
was at no loss for sublime dictfon and logical 
combination, when he wanted to praise Ma 
Maker. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, April 15, 1784. 

My dear William, — I wish I had both burn- 
ing words and bright thoughts. But I have 
at present neither. My head is not itself. 
Having had an unpleasant night and a melan- 
choly day, and having already written a long 
letter, I do not find myself in point of spirits 
at all qualified either to burn or shine. The 
post sets out early on Tuesday. The morn- 
ing is the only time of exercise with me. In 
order therefore to keep it open for that pur- 
pose, and to comply with your desire of an 
immediate answer, I give you as much as 1 
can spare of the present evening. 

Since I despatched my last, Blair has crept 
a little farther into my favor. As his subjects 
improve, he improves with them ; but upon 
the whole I account him a dry writer, usefu/ 
no doubt as an instructor, but as little enter- 
taining as, with so much knowledge, it is pos- 
sible to be. His language is (except Swift's) 
the least figurative I remember to have §een, 
and the few figures found in it are not always 
happily employed. I take him to be a critic 
very little animated by what he reads, who 
rather reasons about the beauties of an au- 
thor than really tastes them, and who finds 
that a passage is praiseworthy, not because 
it charms him, but because it is accommo- 
dated to the laws of criticism, in that case 
made and provided. I have a little complied 
with your desire of marginal annotations 
ami si ould have dealt in them more largely 
had I read the books to myself; but, being 
reader to the ladies, I have not always time 
to settle my own opinion of a doubtful ex- 
pression, much less to suggest an emenda- 
tion. I have not censured a particular ob- 
servation in the book, though, when I met 
with it, it displeased me. I this moment 
recollect it, and may oj well therefore note 



188 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



it here. He is commending, and deservedly, 
that most noble description of a thunder- 
storm in the first Georgic, which ends with . 

.... Ingeminant austri et densissimus imber. 

Being in haste, I do not refer to the volume 
for his very words, but my memory will serve 
me with the matter. When poets describe, 
he says, they should always select such cir* 
cumstances of the subject as are least obvi- 
ous, and therefore most striking. He there- 
fore admires the effects of the thunderbolt, 
splitting mountains, and filling a nation with 
astonishment, but quarrels with the closing 
member of the period, as containing particu- 
lars of a storm not worthy of Virgil's notice, 
because obvious to the notice of all. But 
here I differ from him ; not being able to con- 
ceive that wind and rain can be improper in 
the description of a tempest, or how wind 
and rain could possibly be more poetically 
described. Virgil is indeed remarkable for 
finishing his periods well, and never comes 
to a stop but with the most consummate dig- 
nity of numbers and expression, and in the' 
instance in question I think his skill in this 
respect is remarkably displayed. The line is 
perfectly majestic in its march. As to the 
wind, it is such only as the word ingeminant 
could describe and the words densissimus im- 
ber give one an idea of a shower indeed, but 
of such a shower as is not very common, and 
such a one as only .Virgil could have done 
justice to by a single epithet. ( Far therefore 
from agreeing with the Doctor in his stricture, 
I do not think the iEneid contains a nobler 
line, or a description more magnificently fin- 
ished. 

We are glad that Dr. C has singled 

you out upon this occasion. Your perform- 
ance we doubt not will justify his choice: 
fear not, you have a heart that can feel upon 
charitable occasions, and therefore will not 
fail you upon this. The burning words will 
come fast enough when the sensibility is 
such'as yours. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

The ingenuity and humor of the following 
verses as well as their poetical merit, give 
them a just claim to admiration. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN.* 

Olney, April 25, 1784. 

My dear William, — Thanks for the fish, 
with its companion, a lobster, which we mean 
to eat to-morrow. 

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALYBUTT ON 
WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 
1784. 

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued 
Thy pastime'? when wast thou an egg new- 
epawn'd 

* Private correspondence. 



Lost in th' immensity of ocean's waste 1 
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds 
That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe 
And in thy minikin and embryo state, 
Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed, 
Didst Outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'a 
The joints of many a stout and gaHant bark, 
And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. 
Indebted to no magnet and no chart, 
Nor under guidance of the polar fire, 
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, 
Grazing at large in meadows submarine, 
Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps 
Above the brine — where Caledonia's rocks 
Beat back the surge — and where Hibernia shoot* 
Her wondrous causeway far into the main. 
— Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st, 
And I not more, that I should feed on thee. 
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much 

good fish,* 
To him who sent thee ! and success as oft 
As it descends into the billowy gulf, [well 

To the same drag that caught thee ! — Fare thee 
Thy lot, thy brethren of the slimy fin [doom'd 
Would envy, could they know that thou wast 
To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, April 26, 1784. 

We are glad that your book runs. It will 
not indeed satisfy those whom nothing could 
satisfy but your accession to their party ; but 
the liberal will say you do well, and it is in 
the opinion of such men only that you can 
feel yourself interested. 

I have lately, been employed in reading 
Beattie and Blair's Lectures. The latter 1 
have not yet finished. I find the former the 
most agreeable of the two, indeed the most 
entertaining writer upon dry subjects I ever 
met with. His imagination is highly poetical, 
his language easy and elegant, and his man- 
ner so familiar that we seem to be conversing 
with an old friend upon terms of the most 
sociable intercourse while we read him. 
Blair is on the contrary rather stiff, not that 
his style is pedantic, but his air is formal. He 
is a sensible man, and understands his sub- 
jects, but too conscious. that he is addressing 
the public, and too solicitous about his suc- 
cess, to indulge himself for a moment in that 
play of fancy which makes the other so 
agreeable. In Blair we find a scholar, in 
Beattie both a scholar and an amiable man, 
indeed so amiable that I have wished for hia 
acquaintance ever since I read his book. 
Having never in my life perused a page of 
Aristotle, I am glad to have had an opportu- 
nity of learning more than (I suppose) he 
would have taught me, from the writings of 
two modern critics. I felt myself too a little 
disposed to compliment my own acumen upon 
the occasion. For, though the art of writing 
and composing was never much my study, ) 
did not find that they had any great nc ws to 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



181 



tell me. Th6y have assisted me in putting 
my observations into some method, but have 
not suggested many of which I was not by 
some means or other previously apprized. In 
fact, critics did not originally beget authors, 
but authors made critics. Common sense 
dictated to writers the necessity of method, 
connexion, and thoughts congruous to the 
nature of their subject; genius prompted 
them with embellishments, and then came the 
critics. Observing the good effects of an at- 
tention to these items, they enacted laws for 
the observance of them in time to come, and, 
having drawn their rules for good writing 
from what was actually well written, boasted 
themselves the inventors of an art which yet 
the authors of the day had already exempli- 
fied. They are however useful in their way, 
giving us at one view a map of the bounda- 
ries which propriety sets to fancy, and serv- 
ing as judges to whom the public may at 
once appeal, when pestered with the vagaries 
of those who have had the hardiness to trans- 
gress them. ( 

The canditades for this county have set an 
example of economy which other candidates 
would do well to follow, having come to an 
agreement on both sides to defray the ex- 
penses of their voters, but to open no houses 
for the entertainment of the rabble ; a reform 
however, which the rabble did not at all ap- 
prove of, and testified their dislike of it by a 
riot. A stage was built, from which the ora- 
tors had designed to harangue the electors. 
This became the first victim of their fury. 
Having very little curiosity to hear what 
gentlemen could say who would give them 
nothing better than words, they broke it in 
pieces, and threw the fragments upon the 
hustings. The sheriff, the members, the 
lawyers, the voters, were instantly put to 
flight. They rallied, but were again routed 
by a second assault like the former. They 
then proceeded to break the windows of the 
inn to which they had fled; and a fear pre- 
vailing that at night they would fire the town, 
a proposal was made by the freeholders to 
face about, and endeavor to secure them. At 
that instant a rioter, dressed in a merry An- 
drew's jacket, stepped forward and challenged 
the best man among ^hem. Olney sent the 
hero to the field, who made him repent of his 

presumption: Mr. A was he. Seizing 

him by the throat, he shook him — he threw 
him to the earth, he made the hollowness of 
his scull resound by the application of his 
fists, and dragged him into custody without 
the least damage to his person. Animated 
by this example, the other freeholders fol- 
lowed it, and in five minutes twenty-eight 
out of thirty ragamuffins were safely lodged 
in gaol. Adieu my dear friend. 

We love you and are yours, 

W. &M. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 3, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — Tiie subject of face- 
painting may be considered (I think) in two 
points of view. First, there is room for dis. 
pute with respect to the consistency of the 
practice with good morals; and, secondly, 
whether it be on the whole convenient or not 
may be a matter worthy of agitation. I set 
out with all the formality of logical disquisi- 
tion, but do not promise to observe the same 
regularity any farther than it may comport 
with my purpose of writing as fast as I can. 

As to the immorality of the custom, were 
I in France, I should see none. On the con- 
trary, it seems in that country to be a symp- 
tom of modest consciousness and a tacit con- 
fession of what all know to be true, that 
French faces have in fact neither red nor 
white of their own. This humble acknowl- 
edgment of a defect looks the more like a 
virtue, being found among a people not re- 
markable for humility. Again, before we 
can prove the practice to be immoral, we 
must prove immorality in the design of those 
who use it ; either, that they intend a decep- 
tion or to kindle unlawful desires in the be- 
holders. But the French ladies, as far as 
their purpose comes in question, must be ac- 
quitted of both these charges. Nobody sup- 
poses their color to be natural for a moment, 
any more than if it were blue or green : and 
this unambiguous judgment of the matter 
is owing to two causes ; first, to the universal 
.knowledge we have that French women are 
naturally brown or yellow, with very few 
exceptions, and, secondly, to the inartificial 
manner in which they paint : for they do not, 
as I am satisfactorily informed, even attempt 
an imitation of nature, but besmear them- 
selves hastily and at a venture, anxious only 
to' lay on enough. Where, therefore, there 
is no wanton intention nor a wish to deceive, 
I can discover no immorality. But in Eng- 
land (I am afraid) our painted ladies are not 
clearly entitled to the same apology. They 
even imitate nature with such exactness that 
the whole public is sometimes divided into 
parties, who litigate with great warmth the 
question, whether painted or not. This was 

remarkably the case with a Miss B ^ 

whom I well remember. Her roses and lilies 
were never discovered to be spurious till she 
attained an age that made the supposition of 
their being natural impossible. This anxiety 
to be not merely red and white, which is all 
they aim at in France, but to be thought very 
beautiful and much more beautiful than na- 
ture has made them, is a symptom not very 
favorable to the idea we would wish to en- 
tertain of the chastity, purity, and modesty of 
our countrywomen. That they are guilty of 
a design to deceive is certain ; otherwise, why 
so much art? and if to deceive, wherefore 



190 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and with what purpose 1 Certainly either to 
gratify vanity of the silliest kind, or, which 
is still more criminal, to decoy and inveigle, 
and carry on more successfully the business 
of temptation. Here therefore my opinion 
splits itself into two opposite sides upon the 
same question. I can suppose a French wo- 
man, though painted an inch deep, to be a 
virtuous, discreet, excellent character, and in 
no instance should I think the worse of one 
because she was painted. But an English 
belle must •pardon me if I have not the same 
charity for her. She is at least an impostor, 
whether she cheats me or not, because she 
means to do so ; and it is well if that be all 
the censure she deserves. 

This brings me to my second class of ideas 
upon this topic : and here I feel that I should 
be fearfully puzzled were I called upon to re- 
commend the practice on the score of conve- 
nience. If a husband chose that his wife 
should paint, perhaps it might be her duty as 
well as her interest to comply ; but I think he 
would not much consult his own for reasons 
that will follow. In the first place she would 
admire herself the more, and, in the next, if 
she managed the matter well, she might be 
more admired by others ; an acquisition that 
might bring her virtue under trials to 'which 
otherwise it might never have been exposed. 
In no other case, however, can I imagine the 
practice in this country to be either expedient 
or convenient. As a general one," it certainly 
'is not expedient, b'ecause in general English 
women have no occasion for it. A swarthy 
complexion is a rarity here, and the sex, es- 
pecially since inoculation has been so much 
in use, have very little cause to complain that 
nature has not been kind to them in^he article 
of complexion. They may hide and spoil a 
good one, but they cannot (at least they 
hardly can) give themselves a better. But, 
even if they could, there is yet a tragedy in 
the sequel, which should make them tremble. 
I understand that in France, though the use 
of rouge be general, the use of white paint is 
far from being so. In England, she that uses 
one commonly uses both. Now all white 
paints, or lotions, or whatever they be called, 
are mercurial, consequently poisonous, con- 
sequently ruinous in time to the constitution. 
The Miss B above mentioned, was a mis- 
erable witness of this truth, it being certain 
that her flesh fell from her bones before she 
died. Lady C was hardly a less melan- 
choly proof of it ; and a London physician 
prrhaps, were he at liberty to blab, could 
publish a bill of female mortality of a length 
that would astonish us. 

For these reasons I utterly condemn the 
practice as it obtains in England ; and for a 
reason superior to all these I must disapprove 
it. I cannot indeed discover that Scripture 
"orbids it in so many words. But that anxious 



solicitude about the person which such an ar 
tifice evidently betrays is, I am sure, com* rary 
to the tenor and spirit of it throughout. Show 
me a woman with a painted face, and I wiE 
show you a woman whose heart is set on 
things of the earth, and not on things above. 
But this observation of mine applies to it only 
when it is an imitative art : for, in the use of 
French women, I tiiink it as innocent as in 
the use of the wild Indian, who draws a cir- 
cle round her face, and makes two spots, per- 
haps blue, perhaps white, in the middle of it. 
Such are my thoughts upon the matter. 
Vive, -valeque. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 8, 1784. 

My dear Friend,- -You do well to make 
your letters merry ones, though not very 
merry yourself, and that both for my sake 
and your own ; for your own sake, because i* 
sometimes happens that, by assuming an air 
of cheerfulness, we become cheerful in re- 
ality ; and for mine, because I have always 
more need of a laugh than a cry, being some- 
what disposed to melancholy by natural tem- 
perament, as well as by other causes. 

It was long since, and even in the infancy 
of John Gilpin, recommended to me by a lady, 
now at Bristol, to write a sequel. But, having 
always observed that authors, elated with the 
success of a first part, have fallen below them- 
selves when they have attempted a second, I 
had more prudence than to take her counsel. 
I want you to read the history of that hero 
published by Bladon, and to tell me what it 
is made of. But buy it not. For, puffed as 
it is in the papers, it can be but a bookseller's 
job, and must be dear at the price of two 
shillings. In the last packet but one that I 
received from Johnson, he asked me if I had 
any improvements of John Gilpin in hand, or 
if I designed any ; for that to print only the 
original again would be to publish what has 
been hackneyed in every magazine, in every 
newspaper, and in every street. I answered 
that the copy which I sent him contained two 
or three small variations from the first, ex- 
cept which I had none to propose ; and if he 
thought him now too»trite to make a part of 
my volume, I should willingly acquiesce in 
his judgment. I take it for granted therefore 
that he will not bring up the rear of my 
Poems according to my first intention, and 
shall not be sorry for the omission. It may 
spring from a principle of pride ; but spring 
from what it may, I feel and have long felt a 
disinclination Jo a public avowal that he in 
mine ; and since he became so popular, I have 
felt it more than ever ; not that I should ever 
have expressed a scruple, if Johnson had not. 
But a fear has su^-ested its- elf to me, 'hat I 




might expose myself to a charge of vanity by 
admitting him into my book, and that some 
people would impute it to me as a crime. 
Cons ; der what the world is made of, and you 
will not find my suspicions chimerical. Add 
to this, that when, on correcting the latter 
part of the fifth book of - The Task," I came 
to consider the solemnity and sacred nature 
of the subjects there handled, it seemed to 
me an incongruity at the least, not to call it 
by a harsher name, to follow up such premi- 
ses with such a conclusion. 1 am well con- 
tent therefore with having laughed, and made 
others laugh ; and will build my hopes of suc- 
cess as a poet upon more important matter. 

In our printing business we now jog on 
merrily enough. The coming week will I 
hope bring me to an end of" The Task." and 
the next fortnight to an end of the whole. I 
am glad to have Paley on my side in the 
affair of education. He is certainly on all 
subjects a sensible man, and, on such, a wise 
one. But I am mistaken if " Tirocinium" do 
not make some of my friends angry, and pro- 
cure me enemies not a fe\V. There is a sting 
in verse that prose neither has nor can have ; 
and I do not know that schools in the gross, 
and especially public schools, have ever been 
so pointedly condemned before. Bin they 
are become a nuisance, a pest, an abomina- 
tion; and it is fit that the eyes and noses of 
mankind should if possible be opened to per- 
ceive it. 

This is indeed an authors letter ; but it is 
an author's letter to his friend. If you will 
be the friend of an author, you must expect 
such letters. Come July, and come yourself, 
with as many of your exterior selves as can 
possibly come with you ! 

Yours, my dear William, affectionately, and 
with your mother's remembrances. Adieu, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHX HKWTOW.* 

Olney, May 10. 1784. 

My dear Friend, — We rejoice in the ac- 
count you give us of Dr. Johnson. His con- 
version will indeed be a singular proof the 
omnipotence of grace : and the more singular, 
the more decided. The world will set his 
age against his wisdom, and comfort itself 
with the thought that he must be superannu- 
ated. Perhaps therefore in order to refute the 
slander, and do honor to the cause to which 
he becomes a convert, he could not do better 
than devote his great abilities, and a consid- 
erable part of the remainder of his years, to 
the production of some important work, not 
Immediately connected with the interests of 
leligion. He would thus give proof that a 
man of profound learning and the best sense 
may become a child without being a fool ; 



* Private correspondence. 



and that to embrace the gospel is no evidence 
either of enthusiasm, infirmity, or insanity. 
But He who calls him will direct him. 

On Friday, by particular invitation, we at- 
tended an attempt to throw off a balloon at 
Mr. Throckmorton's, but it did not succeed. 
We expect however to be summoned again 
in the course of the ensuing week. Mrs. Un- 
win and I were the party. We were enter- 
tained with the utmost politeness. It is not 
possible to conceive a more engaging and 
agreeable character than the gentleman's, or a 
more consummate assemblage of all that is 
called good-nature, complaisance, and inno- 
cent cheerfulness, than is to be seen in the 
lady. They have lately received many gross 
affronts from the people of this place, on ac- 
count of their religion. We thought it there- 
fore the more necessary to treat them with 
respect. 

Best love and best wishes, W. C. 

We think there must be an error of date 
in this letter, because the period of time gen- 
erally ascribed to the fact recorded in the 
former part of it, occurred in the last illness 
of Dr. Johnson, which was in December, 
1784. A discussion has arisen respecting 
the circumstances of this case, but not as to 
the fact itself. As regards this latter point, 
it is satisfactorily established that Dr. John- 
son, throughout a long life, had been pecu- 
liarly harassed by fears of death, from which 
he was at length happily delivered, and en- 
abled to die in peace. This happy change of 
mind is generally attributed to the Rev. Mr. 
Latrobe having attended him on his dying 
bed, and directed him to the only sure ground 
of acceptance, viz., a reliance upon God's 
promises of mercy in Christ Jesus. The 
truth of this statement rests on the testimony 
of the Rev. Christian Ignatius Latrobe, wno 
received the account from his own father. 
Some again assign the instrumentality to an- 
other pious individual, Mr. Winstanley* We 
do not see why the services of both may not 
have been simultaneously employed, and 
equally crowned with success. It is the fact 
itself which most claims our own attention. 
We here see a man of profound learning and 
1 great moral attainments deficient in correct 
views of the grand fundamental doctrine of 
the gospel, the doctrine of the atonement; 
and consequently unable to look forward to 
eternity without alarm. We believe this 
state of mind to be peculiar to many who are 
distinguished by genius and learning. The 
gospel, clearly understood in its design, as a 
revelation' of mercy to every penitent and 
believing sinner, and cordially received into 
the heart, dispels these fears, and by directing 
the eye of faith to the Lamb of God that 
taketh away the sins of tne world, will jr» 

* See "Christian Observer," Jan., 1835. 



192 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



fallibly fill the mind with that blessed hope 
which is full of life and immortality. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, May 22, 1784. 

My dear Friend. — I am glad to have re- 
ceived at. last an account of Dr. Johnson's 
favorable opinion of my book. I thought it 
wanting, and had long since concluded that, 
not having the happiness to please him, I 
owed my ignorance of his sentiments to the 
tenderness of my friends at Hoxton, who 
would not mortify me Math an account of his 
disapprobation. It occurs to me that 'I owe 
him thanks for interposing between me and 
the resentment of the Reviewers, who sel- 
dom show mercy to an advocate for evangel- 
cal truth, whether in prose or verse. I there- 
fore enclose a short acknowledgment, which, 
if you see no impropriety in the measure, 
you can, I imagine, without mu,ch difficulty, 
convey to him through the hands of Mr. 
Latrobe. If on any account you judge it an 
inexpedient step, you can very easily sup- 
press the letter. 

I pity Mr. Bull. What harder task can any 
man undertake than the management of those 
M'ho have reached the age of manhood with- 
out having ever felt the force of authority, or 
passed through any of the preparatory parts 
of education ? I had either forgot, or never 
adverted to the circumstance, that his disci- 
ples were to be men. At present, however, 
I am not surprised that, being such, they are 
found disobedient, untractable, insolent, and 
conceited ; qualities that generally prevail in 
the minds of adults in exact proportion to 
their ignorance. He dined with us since I 
received your kst. It was on Thursday that 
he was here. He came dejected, burthened, 
full of complaints. But we sent him away 
cheerful. He is very sensible of the pru- 
dence, delicacy, and attention to his charac- 
ter, which the Society have discovered in 
their conduct towards him upon this occasion; 
and indeed it does them honor ; for it were 
past all enduring, if a charge of insufficiency 
should obtain ^a moment's regard, when 
brought by five such coxcombs against a 
man of his erudition and ability.* Lady 
Austen is gone to Bath. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, June 5, 1784. 
When you told me that the critique upon 
my volume was written, though not by Doc- 
tor Johnson himself, yet by a friend of his, 
to whcm he recommended the book and the 
business, I inferred from that expression that 

* A spirit of insubordination had manifested itself at 
the Theological Seminary at Ne ivport, under the superin- 
tendence of Mr. BulL 



I was indebted to him for an active interpo- 
sition in my favor, and consequently that ha 
had a right to thanks. But now! concu. 
entirely in sentiment with you, and heartily 
second your vote for the suppression of 
thanks which do not seem to be much called 
for. Yet even now, were it possible that I 
could fall into his company, I should not 
think a slight acknowledgment misapplied. 
I was no other way anxious about his opin- 
ion, nor could be so, after you and some 
others had given a favorable one, than it was 
natural I should be, knowing as I- did that 
his opinion had been consulted. 

I am affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO THF REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, June 21, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — We are much pleased 
with your designed improvement of the late 
preposterous celebration, and have no doubt 
that in good hands the foolish occasion will 
turn to good account. A religious service, 
instituted in honor of a musician, and per- 
formed in the house of God, is a subject that 
calls loudly for the animadversion of an en 
lightened minister ; and would be no mean 
one for a satirist, could a poet of that de- 
scription be found spiritual enough to feel 
and to resent the profanation. It is reason- 
able to suppose that in the next year's alma- 
nac we shall find the name of Handel among 
the red-lettered worthies, for it would surely 
puzzle the Pope to add anything to his can- 
onization. 

This unpleasant summer makes me wish 
for winter. The gloominess of that season 
is the less felt, both because it is expected, 
and because the days are short. But such 
M T eather, when the days are longest, makes a 
double winter, and my spirits feel that it 
does. We have now frosty mornings, and 
so cold a wind that even at high noon we 
have been" obliged to break off our walk in 
the southern side of the garden, and seek 
shelter, I in the greenhouse, and Mrs. Unwin 
by the fireside. Haymaking begins here to- 
morrow, and would have begun sooner, had 
the weather permitted it. 

Mr. Wright called upon us last Sunday. 
The old gentleman seems happy in being ex- 
empted from the effects of time to such a 
degree that, though we meet but once in the 
year, I cannot perceive that the twelve months 
that have elapsed have made any change in 
him. It seems, however, that as much as he 
loves his master, and as easy as I suppose he 
has always found his service, he now and 
then heaves a sigh for liberty, and wishes to 
taste it before he dies. But his wife is not 
so minded. She cannot leave a family, the 

* Private corresDondenc«» 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



193 



•ons and daughters of which seem all to be 
her own. Her brother died lately in the 
East Indies, leaving twenty thousand pounds 
behind him, and half of it to her; but the 
ship that was bringing home this treasure is 
supposed to be lost. Her husband appears 
perfectly unaffected by the misfortune, and 
*he perhaps may even be glad of it. Such 
an acquisition would have forced her into a 
state of independence, and made her her own 
mistress, whether she would or not. I charged 
him with a petition to Lord Dartmouth, to 
send me Cook's last Voyage, which I have a 
great curiosity to see, and no other means of 
procuring. I dare say I shall obtain the 
favor, and have great pleasure in taking my 
last trip with a voyager whose memory I re- 
spect so much. Farewell, my dear friend: 
our affectionate remembrances are faithful to 
you and yours. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 

Olney, July 3, [probably 1784.J 
My dear Friend, — I am writing in the 
greenhouse for retirement's sake, where I 
shiver with cold on this present 3d of July. 
Summer and winter therefore do not depend 
on the position of the sun with respect to 
the earth, but on His appointment who is 
sovereign in all things. Last Saturday night 
the cold was so severe that it pinched oil 
many of the young shoots of our peach-trees. 
The nurseryman we deal with informs me 
that the wall-trees are almost everywhere 
cut off; and that a friend of his, near Lon- 
don, has lost all the full-grown-fruit-trees of 
an extensive garden. The very walnuts, 
which are now no bigger than small hazel- 
nuts, drop to the ground, and the flowers, 
though they blow, seem to have lost all their 
odors. I walked with your mother yester- 
day in the garden, wrapped up in a winter 
surtout, and found myself not at all incum- 
bered by it ; not more indeed than I was in 
January. Cucumbers contract that spot 
which is seldom found upon them except late 
in the autumn ; and melons hardly grow. It 
is a comfort however to reflect that, if we 
cannot have these fruits in perfection, neither 
do we want them. Our crops of wheat are 
said to be very indifferent ; the stalks of an 
unequal height, so that some of the ears are 
in danger of being smothered by the rest ; 
and the ears, in general, lean and scanty. I 
never knew a summer in which we had not 
now and then a cold day to conflict with ; 
but such a wintry fortnight as the last, at 
this season of the year, I never remember. 
I fear you have made the discovery of the 
webs you mention a day too late. The ver- 
min have probably by this time left them, 
* PitwhIo correspondence 



and may laugh at all human attempts to de- 
stroy them. For every web they have hung 
upon the trees and bushes this year, you will 
next year probably find fifty, perhaps a hun- 
dred. Their increase is almost infinite ; so 
that, if Providence does not interfere, and 
man see fit to neglect them, the laughers you 
mention may live to be sensible of their mis- 
take. Love to all. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, July 5, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — A dearth of materials, a 
consciousness that my subjects are for the 
most part, and must be, uninteresting and 
unimportant, but above all, a poverty of ani- 
mal spirits, that makes writing - much a great 
fatigue to me, have occasioned my choice of 
smaller paper. Acquiesce in the justice of 
these reasons for the present ; and, if ever the 
times should mend with me, I sincerely prom- 
ise to amend with them. 

Homer says, on a certain occasion, that Ju- 
piter, when he was wanted at home, was gone 
to partake of an entertainment provided for 
him by the ^Ethiopians. If by Jupiter we 
understand the weather, or the season, as the 
ancients frequently did, we may say that our 
English Jupiter has been absent on account 
of some such invitation : during the whole 
month of June he left us to experience al- 
most the rigors of winter. This fine day, 
however, affords us some hope that the feast 
is ended, and that we shall enjoy his company 
without the interference of his ^Ethiopian 
friends again. 

Is it possible that the wise men of antiqui- 
ty could entertain a real reverence for the 
fabulous rubbish which they dignified with 
the name of religion'? We, who have been 
favored from our infancy with so clear a light, 
are perhaps hardly competent to decide the 
question, and may strive in vain to imagine 
the absurdities that even a good understand- 
ing may receive as truths, when totally un- 
aided by revelation. It seems, however, that 
men, whose conceptions upon other subjects 
were often sublime, whose reasoning powers 
were undoubtedly equal to our own, and 
whose management in matters of jurispru- 
dence, that required a very industrious exam- 
ination of evidence, was as acute and subtle 
as that of a modern Attorney-general, could 
not be the dupes of such imposture as a child 
among us would detect and laugh at. Juve- 
nal, I remember, introduces one of his Sat- 
ires with an observation that there were 
some in his day who had the hardiness to 
laugh at the stories of Tartarus and Styx, 
and Charon, and of the frogs that croak upon 
the banks of the Lethe, giving his reader, at 
t,h^ same time, cause to suspect that he was 
i 9 



194 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



himself one of that profane number. Horace, 
on the other hand, declares in sober sadness, 
that he would not for all The world get into a 
boat with a man who had divulged the Eleu- 
einian mysteries. Yet we know that those 
mysteries, whatever they might be, were al- 
together as unworthy to be esteemed divine, 
as the mythology of the vulgar. How, then, 
must we determine ? If Horace were a good 
and orthodox heathen, how came Juvenal to 
be such an ungracious libertine in principle 
as to ridicule the doctrines which the other 
held as sacred? Their opportunities of in- 
formation, and their mental advantages, were 
equal. I feel myself rather inclined to believe 
that Juvenal's avowed infidelity was sincere, 
and that Horace was no better than a canting, 
hypocritical professor.* 

You must grant me a dispensation for say- 
ing anything, whether it be sense or nonsense, 
upon the subject of politics. It is truly a 
matter in which I am so little interested, that, 
were it not that it sometimes serves me for a 
theme when I can find no other, I should nev- 
er mention it. I would forfeit a large sura; 
if, after advertising a month in the Gazette, 
the minister of the day, whoever he may be, 
could discover a. man who cares about him or 
his measures so little as I" do. When I say 
that I would forfeit a large sum, I mean to 
have it understood that I would forfeit such a 
sum if I had it. If Mr. Pitt be indeed a vir- 
tuous man, as such I respect him. But, at the 
best, I fear he will have to say at last with 
iEneas, 

Si Pergama dextra 
Defendi possent. etiam hac defensa fuissent. 

Be he what he may, I do not like his taxes. 
At least, I am much disposed to quarrel with 
some of them. The additional duty upon 
candles, by which the poor will be much af- 
fected, hurts me most. He says indeed that 
they will but little feel it, because even now 
they can hardly afford the use of them. He 
had certainly put no compassion into his 
budget, when he produced from it this tax, 
and such an argument to support it. Justly 
translated, it seems to amount to this — 
" Make the necessaries of life too expensive 
for the poor to reach them, and you will save 
their money. If they buy but few candles, 
they will pay but little tax ; and if they buy 
none, the tax, as to them, will be annihila- 
ted." True. But in the meantime they 
will break their shins against their furni- 
ture, if they have any, and will be but little 
the richer when the hours in which they 
might work, if they could see, shall be de- 
ducted. 

I have bought a great dictionary, and want 

* Some of the learned have been inclined to believe 
that the Eleusiiiian mysteries inculcated a rejection of 
Ihe absurd mythology of those times, and a belief in one 
toeat Supr, :ne "<eiug. 



nothing but Latin authors to furnish me with 
the use of it. Had I purchased them first, 
I had begun at the right end; but I could 
not afford it. I beseech you admire my 
prudence. 

Vivite. va ete, et mementote nostrum 
Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Olney, July 12, 1784. 
My dear Wi.liam, — I think with you that 
Vinny's* line is not pure. If he knew any 
authority that would have justified his sub- 
stitution of a participle for a substantive, he 
would have done well to have noted it in the 
margin ; but I am much inclined to think that 
he did not. Poets are sometimes exposed to 
difficulties insurmountable by lawful means, 
whence I imagine was originally derived that 
indulgence that allows them the use of what 
is called the poetica licentia. But that liber- 
ty, I believe, contents itself with the abbre- 
viation or protraction of a word, or an alter- 
ation in the quantity of a syllable, and never 
presumes to trespass upon grammatical pro- 
priety. I have dared to attempt to correct 
my master, but am not bold enough to say 
that I have succeeded. Neither am 1 sure 
that my memory serves me correctly with the 
line that follows ; but when I recollect the 
English, am persuaded that it cannot differ 
much from the true one. This therefore is 
my edition of the passage — 

Basia amatori tot turn permissa beato ; 
Or, 

Basia quse juveni indulsit Susanna beato 
Navarcha optaret maximus esse sua. 

The preceding lines I have utterly for- 
gotten, and am consequently at a loss to 
know whether the distich, thus managed, 
will connect itself with them easily, and as 
it ought. 

We thank you for the drawing of your 
house. I never knew my idea of what I had 
never seen resemble the original so much. 
At some time or other you have doubtless 
given me an exact account of it, and I have 
retained the faithful impression made by your 
description. It is a comfortable abode, and 
the time I hope will come when I shall enjoy 
more than the mere representation of it. 

I have not yet read the last " Review," but, 
dipping into it, I accidentally fell upon then 
account of "Hume's Essay on Suicide." I am 
glad that they have liberality enough to con- 
demn the licentiousness of an author, whom 
they so much admire. I say liberality, for 
there is as much bigotry in the world to that 
man's errors, as there is in the hearts of some 

* Vincent Bo'irce. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



191 



sectaries to their peculiar modes and tenets. 
He is the Pope of thousands, as blind and 
presumptuous as himself. God certainly in- 
fatuates those who will not see. It were 
otherwise impossible, that a man, naturally 
shrewd and sensible, and whose understand- 
ing' has hud all the advantages of constant 
exercise and cultivation, could have satisfied 
himself, or have hoped to satisfy others, with 
such palpable sophistry as has not even the 
grace of fallacy to recommend it. His silly 
assertion, that, because it would be no sin to 
divert the course of the Danube, therefore it 
is none to let out a few ounces of blood from 
an artery, would justify not suicide only, but 
homicide also. For the lives of ten thousand 
men are of less consequence to their country 
than the course of that river to the regions 
through which it flows. Population would 
soon make society amends for the loss of her 
ten thousand members, but the loss of the 
Danube would be felt 1% T all the millions that 
dwell upon its banks, to all generations. 
But the life of a man and the water of a river 
can never come into competition with each 
other in point of value, unless in the estima- 
tion of an unprincipled philosopher. 

I thank you for your otfer of the classics. 
When I want I will borrow. Horace is my 
own. Homer, with a clavis, I have had pos- 
session of for some years. They are the prop- 
erty of Mr. Jones. A Virgil, the property of 

Mr. S , I have had as long. I am nobody 

in the affair of tenses, unless when you are 
present. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Oluey, July 13, 1784. 

My dear William, — We rejoice that you 
had a safe journey, and, though we should 
have rejoiced still more had you had no oc- 
casion for a physician, we are glad that, hav- 
ing had need of one, you had the good for- 
tune to find him — let us hear soon that his 
advice has proved effectual, and that you are 
delivered from all ill symptoms. 

Thanks for the care you have taken to fur- 
nish me with a dictionary : it is rather strange 
that, at my time of life, and after a youth 
spent in classical pursuits, I should Want one; 
md stranger still that, being possessed at 
present of only one Latin author in the world, 
f should think it worth while to purchase one. 
L say that it is strange, and indeed I think it 
60 myself. But I have a thought that, when 
my present labors of the pen are ended, I 
may go. to school again, and refresh my spirits 
by a little intercourse with the Mantuan and 
the Sabine bard, and perhaps by a re-perusal 
pf some others, whose works we generv.llv 
aj Syat that period of life when we are best 



qualified to read them, when, the judgmenl 
and the taste being formed, their beauties are 
least likely to be overlooked. 

This change of wind and weather comforts 
me, and I should have enjoyed the first fine 
morning 1 have seen this month with a pecu- 
liar relish, if our new tax-maker had not put 
me out of temper. I am angry with him, not 
only for the matter, but for the manner of his 
proposal. When he lays his impost upon 
horses he is jocular, and laughs, though, con- 
sidering that wheels, and miles, and grooms 
were taxed before, a graver countenance upon 
the occasion would have been more decent. 
But he provoked me still more by reasoning 
as he does on the justification of the tax upon 
candles. Some families he says will suffer 
little by it. Why? because they are so poor 
that they cannot afford themselves more than 
ten pounds in the year. Excellent ! They 
can use but few, therefore they will pay but 
little, and consequently will be but little bur- 
dened : an argument which for its cruelty and 
effrontery seems worthy of a hero ; but he does 
not avail himself of the whole force of it, nor 
with all his wisdom had sagacity enough to 
see that it contains, when pushed to its ut- 
most extent, a free discharge and acquittal of 
the poor from the payment of any tax at all : 
a commodity being once made too expensive 
for their pockets, will cost them nothing, for 
they will not buy it Rejoice, therefore, O 
ye penniless ! the minister will indeed send 
you to bed in the dark, but your remaining 
halfpenny will be safe ; instead of being spent 
in the useless luxury of candle-light, it will 
buy you a roll for breakfast, which you will 
eat no doubt with gratitude to the man who 
so kindly lessens the number of your dis- 
bursements, and, while he seems to threaten 
your money, saves it. I wish he would re- 
member that the halfpenny which government 
imposes, the shopkeeper will swell to two- 
pence. I wish he would visit the mserable 
huts of our lacemakers at Olney, and <*ee 
them working in the winter months, bj the 
light of a farthing candle, from four in the 
afternoon till midnight : I wish he had laid 
his tax upon the ten thousand lamps that il- 
luminate the Pantheon, upon the flambeaux 
that wait upon ten thousand chariots and se- 
dans in an evening, and upon the wax candles 
that give light to ten thousand card-tables. 
I wish, in short, that he would consider the 
pockets of the poor as sacred, and that to tax 
a people already so necessitous is but to dis- 
courage the little industry that is left among 
us, by driving the laborious to despair. 

A neighbor of mine in Silver-end keeps an 
ass ; the ass lives on the other side of the 
garden- wall, and I am writing in the green- 
house. It happens that he is this morning 
most musically disposed, whether cheered by 
the fine weather, or some new tune which he 



196 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



nas just acquired, or by finding his voice 
more harmonious than usual. It would be 
cruel to mortify so fine a singer, therefore I 
do not tell him that he interrupts and hinders 
me; but I venture to tell you so, and to \ 
plead his performance in excuse for my ab- 
rupt conclusion. 

I send you the goldfinches, with which 
you will do as you see good. We have an 
affectionate remembrance of your late visit, 
ind of all our friends at Stock. 

Believe me ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, July 14, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — Notwithstanding the just- 
ness of the comparison by which you illus- 
trate the folly and wickedness of a congre- 
gation assembled to pay divine honors to the 
memory of Handel, I could not help laugh- 
ing at the picture you have drawn of the 
musical convicts. The subject indeed is 
awful, and your manner of representing it is. 
perfectly just ; yet I laughed, and must have 
laughed had I been one of your hearers. 
But the ridicule lies in the preposterous con- 
duct which you reprove, and not in your re- 
proof of it. A people so musically mad as 
to make not only their future trial the sub- 
ject of a concert, but even the message of 
mercy from their King, and the only one he 
will ever send them, mfrst excuse me if I am 
merry where there is more cause to be sad ; 
for, melancholy as their condition is, their 
behavior under it is too ludicrous not to be 
felt as such, and would conquer even a more 
settled gravity than mine. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

The Commemoration of Handel, men- 
tioned in the above letter, which was per- 
formed with great pomp in a place of re- 
ligious worship, and accompanied by his 
celebrated oratorio of the Messinh, was con- 
sidered by many pious minds to resemble an 
act of canonization, and therefore censured 
as profane. Mr. Newton, being at that time 
rector of St. Mary Woolnoth, in the city, 
preached a course of sermons on the occa- 
sion, and delivered his sentiments on the 
subject of oratorios generally, but with such 
originality of thought in the following pas- 
sage that we insert it for the benefit of those 
to whom it may be unknown. It is intro- 
duced in the beginning of his fourth sermon 
from Malachi hi. 1 — 3. 

" ' Whereunto shall we liken the people 
of this generation, and to what are, they 
like V I represent to myself a number of" 
persons, of various characters, involved in 
one common charge of high treason. They 
are already in a state of confinement, but 
not yet brought to their trial. The facts, 



however, are so plain, and the evidence againsl 
them so strong and pointed, that there is 
not the least doubt of their guilt being full) 
proved, and that nothing but a pardon can 
preserve them from punishment. In this 
situation, it should seem their wisdom to 
avail themselves of every expedient in then 
power for obtaining mercy. But they are 
entirely regardless of their danger, and wholly 
taken up with contriving methods of amus- 
ing themselves, that they may pass away 
the term of their imprisonment with as much 
cheerfulness as possible. Among other re- 
sources, they call in the assistance of music. 
And, amidst a great variety of subjects in 
this way, they are particularly pleased with 
one : they choose to make the solemnities 
of their impending trial, the character of 
their judge, the methods of his procedure, 
and the awful sentence to which they are 
exposed, the groundwork of a musical enter- 
tainment ; and, as if ihey were quite uncon- 
cerned in the event, tneir attention is chiefly 
fixed upon the skill of the composer, in 
adapting the style of his music to the very 
solemn language and subject with which 
they are trilling. The King, however, out 
of his great clemency and compassion to- 
j wards those who have no pity for themselves, 
presents them with his goodness : undesired 
by them, he sends them a gracious message: 
he assures them, that he is unwilling they 
should suffer : he requires, yea, he entreats 
them to submit : he points out a way in 
which their confession and submission shall 
be certainly accepted : and, in this way, which 
he condescends to prescribe, he offers them 
a free and full pardon. But, instead of tak- 
ing a single step towards a compliance with 
his goodness, they set his message likewise 
to musk; : and this, together with a descrip- 
tion of their present state, and of the fearful 
doom awaiting them if they continue obsti- 
nate, is sung for their diversion: accom- 
panied with the sound of cornet, flute, harp, 
sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all - kinds of 
instruments. Surely, if such a case as I 
have supposed could be found in real life, 
though I might admire the musical taste of 
these people, I should commiserate their 
insensibility." r 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, July 19, 1784. 

In those days when Bedlam was open to 

the cruel curiosity of holiday ramblers, I 

have been a visitor there. Though a boy, J 

was not altogether insensible of the misery 

I of the poor captives, nor destitue of ifeeling 

j for them. But the madness of some of 

j them had such a humorous air, and displayed 

I itself in so many whimsical freaks, that it 

I was impossible not to be entertained, at the 



LIFE OF COWPER 



19\ 



same time that I was angry with myself for 
being so. A line of Bourne's is very .ex- 
pressive of the spectacle which this world 
exhibits, tragi-comioal as the incidents of it 
are, absurd in themselves, but terrible in 
their consequences; 

Sunt res humanae flebile ludibrium. 

An instance of this deplorable merriment 
has occurred in the course of the last week 
at Olney. A feast gave the occasion to a 
catastrophe truly shocking.* 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JCfHN NEWTON. 

Olney, July 28, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I may perhaps be short, 
but am not willing that you should go to 
Lymington without first having had a line 
from me. I know that place well, having 
spent six weeks there above twenty years 
ago. The town is neat and the country de- 
lightful. You walk well, and will conse- 
quently find a part of the coast, called Hall- 
cliff, within the reach of your ten toes. It 
was a favorite walk of mine ; to the best of 
my remembrance about three miles distant 
from Lymington. There you may stand 
upon the beach and contemplate the Needle- 
rock ; at least, you might have done so 
twenty years ago ; but since that time I 
think it is fallen from its base and is drowned, 
And is no longer a visible object of con- 
templation. I wish you may pass your time 
there happily, as in all probability you will, 
perhaps usefully too to others, undoubtedly 
so to yourself. 

The manner in which you have been pre- 
viously made acquainted with Mr. Gilpin 
gives a providential air to your journey, and 
affords reason to hope that you may be 
charged with a message to him. I admire 
liiTi as a biographer. But, as Mrs. Unwin 
and I were talking of him last night, we 
could not but wonder that a man should see 
so much excellence in the lives, and so 
much glory and beauty in the death, of the 
martyrs whom he has recorded, and at the 
same time disapprove the principles that 
produced the very conduct he admired. It 
seems however a step towards the truth to 
applaud the fruits of it; and one cannot 
help thinking that one step more would put 
aim in possession of the truth itself. By 
your means may he be enabled to take it ! 

We are obliged to you for the preference 
you wouM have given to Olney, had not 
Wovidence determined your course another 
way. But as, when we saw you last sum- 
mer, you gave us no reason to expect you 

* We presume that this is the same circumstance 
if whr !h more particular mention is made in the begin- 
ning d the letter to the Rev. Mr. U.iwin, Aug. 14, 1784. 



this, we are the less disappointed. At your 
age and mine, biennial visits have such a 
gap between them, that we cannot promise 
ourselves upon those terms very numerous 
future .oterviews. But, whether ours are 
to be many or few, you will always be wel- 
come to me for the sake of the comfortable 
days that are past. In my present state of 
mind, my friendship for you indeed is as 
warm as ever : but I feel myself very indif- 
ferently qualified to be your companion. 
Other days than these inglorious and un- 
profitable ones are promised me, and when I 
see them I shall rejoice. 

I saw the advertisement of your adversary's 
book. He is happy at least in this, that, 
whether he have brains or none, he strikes 
without the danger of being stricken again. 
He could not wish to engage in a contro- 
versy upon easier terms. The other, whose 
publication is postponed till Christmas, is re- 
solved I suppose to do something. But, do 
what he will, he cannot prove that you have 
not been aspersed, or that you have not re- 
futed the charge ; which, unless he can do, I 
think he will do little to the purpose. 

Mrs. Unwin thinks of you, and always with 
a grateful recollection of yours and Mrs. 
Newton's kindness. She has had a nervous 
fever lately ; but I hope she is better. The 
weather forbids walking, a prohibition hurt- 
ful to us both. 

We heartily wish you a good journey, and 
are affectionately yours, 

W. C. & M. U 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Olney, August 14, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I give you joy of a jour- 
ney performed without trouble or danger. 
You have travelled five hundred miles with- 
out having encountered either. Some neigh- 
bors of ours about a fortnight since, made 
an excursion only to a neighboring village, 
and brought home with them fractured sculls 
and broken limbs, and one of them is dead. 
For my own part, I seem pretty much ex- 
empted from the dangers of the road.— 
Thanks to that tender interest and concern 
which the legislature takes in my security! 
Having, no doubt, their fears lest so precious 
a life should determine too soon and by some 
untimely stroke of misadventure, they have 
made wheels and horses so expensive that T 
am not likely to owe my death to either. 

Your mother and I continue to visit Wes- 
ton daily, and find in those agreeable bowers 
such amusement as leaves us but little room 
to regret that we can go no farther. Having 
touched that theme, I cannot abstain from the 
pleasure of telling you that our neighbors in 
that place being about to leave it for some 
time, and meeting us there but a few evenings 



198 



COWPIiR'S WORKS. 



before their departure, entreated us, during 
their absence, to consider the garden and all 
its contents as our own, and to gather what- 
ever we liked without the least scruple. We 
accordingly picked strawberries as. often as 
we went, and brought home as many bundles 
of honeysuckles as served to perfume our 
dwelling till they returned. 

Once more, by the aid of Lord Dartmouth, 
I find myself a voyager in. the Pacific Ocean. 
In our last night's lecture we made our ac- 
quaintance with the island of Hapaee, where 
we had never been before. The French and 
Italians, it seems, have but little cause to 
plume themselves on account of their achieve- 
ments in the dancing way, and we may here- 
after, without much repining at it, acknowl- 
edge their superiority in that art. They 
are equalled, perhaps excelled, by savages. 
How wonderful that, without any intercourse 
with a politer world, and having made no 
proficiency, in any other accomplishment, 
they should in this however have made them- 
selves such adepts, that for regularity and- 
grace of motion they might even be our 
masters ! How wonderful too that with a 
tub and a stick they should be able to produce 
such harmony, as persons accustomed to the 
sweetest music cannot but hear with pleas- 
ure ! It is not very difficult to account for 
the striking difference of character that ob- 
tains among the inhabitants of these islands ! 
Many of them are near neighbors to each 
other; their opportunities of improvement 
much the same ; yet some of them are in a 
degree polite, discover symptoms of taste, 
and have a sense of elegance ; while others 
are as rude as we naturally expect to find a 
people who have never had any communica- 
tion with the northern hemisphere. These 
volumes furnish much matter of philosophi- 
cal speculation, and often entertain me, even 
while I am not employed in reading them. 

I am sorry you have not been able to as- 
certain" the doubtful intelligence I have re- 
ceived on the subject of cork shirts and 
bosoms. I am now every day occupied in 
giving all the grace I can to my new produc- 
tion and in transcribing it; I shall soon 
arrive at the passage that censures that folly, 
which I shall be loath to expunge, but which 
I must not spare unless the criminals can be 
convicted. The world, however, is not so 
unproductive of subjects of censure, but that 
it may probably supply me with some other 
that may serve as well. 

If you know anybody that is writing, or 
intends to write, an epic poem on the new 
regulation of franks, you may give him my 
compliments, and these two lines for a be- 
ginning — 

Heu quot amatores nunc torquet epistola rara ! 
Vectigal certum perituraque gratia Franki ! 

Yours faithfully, W. C. 



We have elsewhere stated that the mod* 
originally used in franking, was for the mem- 
ber to sign his name at the left corner of the 
letter, with the word "free" attached to it, 
leaving the writer of the letter to add the su- 
perscription at his own convenience. But 
instances of forgery having become frequent, 
by persons erasing the word "free," and 
using the name of the member for fraudulent 
purposes, a new regulation was adopted at 
this time to defeat so gross an abuse. In 
August, 1784, under the act of the 24th ol 
George III., chap. 37, a new enactment passed, 
prescribing the mode of franking for the 
future as it is now practised. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, August 16, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — Had you not expressed 
a desire to hear from me before you take 
leave of Lymington, I certainly should not 
have answered you so soon. Knowing the 
place and the amusements it affords, I should 
have had more modesty than to suppose my- 
self capable of adding anything to your 
present entertainments worthy to rank with 
them. I am not, however, totally destitute 
of such pleasures as an inland country may 
pretend to. If my windows do not command 
a view of the ocean, at least they look out 
upon a profusion of mignonette ; which, if it 
be not so grand an object, is, however, quite 
as fragrant; and, if I have not an hermit 'n 
a grotto, I have, nevertheless, myself in a 
greenhouse, a less venerable figure perhaps, 
but not at all less animated than he : nor are 
we in this nook altogether unfurnished with 
such means of philosophical experiment and 
speculation as at present the world rings 
with. On Thursday morning last, we sent 
up a balloon from Emberton meadow. — 
Thrice it rose and as oft descended, and in 
the evening it performed another flight at 
Newport, where it went up and came down 
no more Like the arrow discharged at the 
pigeon in the Trojan games, it kindled in the 
air and was consumed in a moment. I have 
not heard what interpretation the soothsayers 
have given to the omen, but shall wonder a 
little if the Newton shepherd prognosticate 
anything less from it than the most blood} 
war that was ever waged in Europe. 

I am reading Cook's last Voyage, and am 
much pleased and amused with it. It seems 
that in some of the Friendly Isles they exce 
so much in dancing, and perform that opera- 
tion with such exquisite delicacy and grace, 
that they are not surpassed even upon oui 
European stages. Oh ! that Vestris had been 
in the ship, that he might have seen himself 
outdone by a savage! The paper indeed 
tells us, that the queen of France has clapped 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



US 



this king of capers up in prison, for declin- 
ing to dance before her on a pretence of 
sickness, whea, in fact, he was in perfect 
health. If this be true, perhaps he may. by 
this time, be prepared to second such a wish 
as mine, and to think, that the durance he 
suffers would b i well exchanged for a dance 
at Annamooka I should, however, as little 
have expected to. hear that these islanders 
had such consummate skill in an art that re- 
quires so much taste in the conduct of the per- 
son, as that they were good mathematicians 
and astronomers. Defective as they are in 
every branch of knowledge, and in every other 
species of refinement, it seems wonderful 
that they should arrive at such perfection in 
the dance, which some of our English gentle- 
men, with all the assistance of French in- 
struction, find it impossible to learn. We 
must conclude, therefore, that particular na- 
tions have a genius for particular feats, and 
that our neighbors in France, and our friends 
in the South * Sea, have minds very nearly 
akin, though they inhabit countries so very 
remote from each other. 

Mrs. Unwin remembers to have been in 
company with Mr. Gilpin at her brother's. 
She thought him very sensible and polite, 
and consequently very agreeable. 

We are truly glad that .Mrs. Newton and 
yourself are so well, and that there is reason 
to hope that Eliza is better. You will learn 
from this letter that we are so, and that for 
my own part I am not quite so low in spirits 
as at some times. Learn too, what you knew 
before, that we love you all, and that I am 
vour — 

Affectionate friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Olney, Sept. 11, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — You have my thanks for 
the inquiries you have made. Despairing, 
however, of meeting with such confirmation 
of that new mode as would warrant a general 
stricture, I had, before the receipt of your 
last, discarded the passage in which I had 
censured it. I am proceeding in my tran- 
script with all possible despatch, having 
nearly finished the fourth book, and hoping, 
by the end of the month, to have completed 
the work. When finished, that no time may 
be lost, I purpose taking the first opportu- 
nity to transmit it to Leman Street, but must 
beg that you will give me in your next an 
exact direction, that it may proceed to the 
mark without any hazard of a miscarriage. 
A second transcript of it would be a labor 
I should very reluctantly undertake ; for, 
though I have kept copies of all the material 
alterations, there are many minutiae of which 
I have made none ; it is besides slavish work, 
and of all occupations that which T dislike 



the most. I know that you will lose no time 
in reading it, but I must beg you likewise to 
lose none in conveying it to Johnson, that 
if he chooses to print it, it may go to the 
press immediately; if not, that it may be 
offered directly to your friend Longman, or 
any other. Not that I doubt Johnson's ac- 
eeprance of it, for he will find it more ad 
cap/ urn populi than the former. I have not 
numbered the lines, except of the four first 
books, which amount to three thousand two 
hundred and seventy-six. I imagine, there- 
fore, that the whole contains about five thou- 
sand. I mention this circumstance now, be- 
cause it may save him some trouble in casting 
the size of the book, and I might possibly 
forget it in another letter. 

About a fortnight since, we had a visit from 

Mr. , whom I had not seen many years. 

He introduced himself to us very politely, 
with many thanks on his own part, and on 
the part of his family, for the amusement 
which my book has afforded them. He said 
he was sure that it must make its way, and 
hoped that I had not laid down the pen. I 
only told him, in general terms, that the use 
of the pen was necessary to my well being, 
but gave him no hint of this last production. 
He said that one passage in particular had ab- 
solutely electrified him, meaning the descrip- 
tion of the Briton in Table Talk. He seemed, 
indeed, to emit some sparks, when he men- 
tioned it. I was glad to have that picture 
noticed by a man of a cultivated mind, because 
I had always thought well of it myself, and 
had never heard it distinguished before. 
Assure yourself, my William, that though I 
would not write thus freely on the subject of 
me or mine, to any but yourself, the pleasure 
I have in doing it is a most innocent one, and 
partakes not in the least degree, so far as my 
conscience is to be credited, of that vanity 
with which authors are in general so justly 
chargeable. Whatever I do, I confess that T 
most sincerely wish to do it well ; and when 
I have reason to hope that I have succeeded, 
am pleased indeed, but not proud; for He 
who has placed everything out of the reach 
of man, except what he freely gives him, has 
made it impossible for a reflecting mind thai 
knows this, to indulge so silly a passion foi 
a moment. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Sept. 11, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I have never seen Doc- 
tor Cotton's book, concerning which your 
sisters question me, nor did I know, till you 
mentioned it, that he had written anything 
newer than his Visions ; I have no doubt that 
it is so far worthy of him as to be pious and 
sensible, and I believe no man living is bette? 



200 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



qualified to write on such subjects as his title 
seems to announce. Some years have passed 
since I heard from him, and considering his 
great age it is probable that I shall hear from 
him no more ; but I shall always respect him. 
He is truly a philosopher, according to my 
judgment of the character, every tittle of his 
knowledge in natural subjects being con- 
nected in his mind with the firm belief of an 
Omnipotent agent. 

Yours, &c, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Sept. 18, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — Following your good 
example, I lay before me a sheet of my 
largest paper. It was this moment fair and 
unblemished, but I have begun to blot it, and 
having begun, am not likely to cease till I 
have spoiled it. I have sent you many a 
sheet that, in my judgment of it, has been 
very unworthy of your acceptance, but my 
conscience was in some measure satisfied by 
reflecting that, if it were good for nothing, at 
the same time it cost you nothing, except the 
trouble of reading it. But the case is altered 
now.* You must pay a solid price for frothy 
matter, and though I do not absolutely pick 
your pocket, yet you lose your money, and, 
as the saying is, are never the wiser. 

My greenhouse is never so pleasant as 
when we are just upon the point of being 
turned out of it. The gentleness of the au- 
tumnal suns, and the calmness of this latter 
season, make it a much more agreeable re- 
treat than we ever find it in the summer ; 
when, the winds being generally brisk, we 
cannot cool it by admitting a sufficient quan- 
tity of air, without being at the same time 
incommoded by it. But now I sit with all 
the windows and the door wide open, and 
am regaled with the scent of every flower, in 
a garden as full of flowers as I have known 
how to make it. We keep no bees, but if I 
lived in a hive, I should hardly hear more of 
their music. All the bees in the neighbor- 
hood resort to a bed of mignonette, opposite 
to the window, and pay me for the honey 
they get out of it by a hum, which, though 
rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear 
as the whistling of my linnets. All the 
sounds that nature utters are delightful, at 
least in tflis country'. I should not perhaps 
find the l oaring of lions in Africa or of bears 
in Russia very pleasing, but I know no beast 
in Engktjd whose voice I do not account 
musical, save and except always the braying 
of an ass. The notes of all our birds and 
fowls please me without one exception. I 
should not indeed think of keeping a goose 
tti a ca,ce, that I might hang him up in the 

* He alludes to the new mode of franking. 



parlor for the sake of his melody, but a goose 
upon a common or in a farmyard is no bad 
performer: and as to insects, if the black 
beetle, and beetles indeed of all hues, will 
keep out of my way, I have no objection to 
any of the rest : on the contrary, in whutevei 
key they sing, from the gnat's fine treble tc 
the bass of the humble bee, I admire them 
all. Seriously, however, it strikes me as a 
very observable instance of providential kind- 
ness to man, that such an exact accord has 
been contrived between his ear and the 
sounds with which, at least in a rural situa- 
tion, it is almost every moment visited. All 
the world is sensible of the uncomfortable 
effect that certain sounds have upon the 
nerves, and consequently upon the spirits. 
And if a sinful world had been filled with 
such as would have curdled the blood, and 
have made the sense of hearing a perpetual 
inconvenience, I do not know that we should 
have had a right to complain. But now the 
fields, the woods, the gardens, have each 
their concert, and the ear of man is forever 
regaled by creatures who seem only to please 
themselves. Even the ears that are deaf to 
the Gospel are continually entertained, though 
without knowing it, by sounds for which 
they are solely indebted to its Author. There 
is somewhere in infinite space a world that 
does not roll within the precincts of mercy, 
and as it is reasonable, and even scriptural, 
to suppose tha+ there is music in heaven, in 
those dismal regions perhaps the reverse ol 
it is found : tones so dismal, as to make woe 
itself more insupportable, and to acuminate 
even despair. But my paper admonishes ma 
in good time to draw the reins, and to check 
the descent of «ny fancy into deeps with 
which she is but too familiar. 

Our best love attends you both. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Oct. 2, 1784. 

My dear William, — A poet can but ill spare 
time for prose. The truth is, I am in haste 
to finish my transcript, that you may receive 
it time enough to give it a leisurely reading 
before you go to town : which, whether I 
shall- be able to accomplish, is at present un- 
certain. I have the whole punctuation to 
settle, which in blank verse is of the last im- 
portance, and of a species peculiar to that 
composition ; for I know no use of points, 
unless to direct the voice, the management 
of which, in the reading of blank verse, being 
more difficult than in the reading of any 
other poetry, requires perpetual hints and 
notices to regulate the inflexions, cadences, 
and pauses. This however is an affair that, 
in spite of grammarians, must be left pretty 
much ad libitum scriptoris. For, I suppose,. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



301 



i ery author points according to his own 
l ading. If I can send the parcel to the 
» dgon by one o'clock next Wednesday, you 
Will have it on Saturday the ninth. But this 
is more than I expect. Perhaps I shall not 
be able to despatch it till the eleventh, in 
which case it will not reach you till the thir- 
teenth. I the rather think that the latter of 
these two periods will obtain, because, be- 
sides the punctuation, I have the argument 
of each book to transcribe. Add to this that, 
in writing for the printer, I am forced to write 
my best, which makes slow work. The motto 
of the whole is — 

Fit surculus arbor. 

If you can put the author's name under it, do 
so, if not, it must go without one ; for I know- 
not to whom to ascribe it. It was a motto 
taken by a certain prince of Orange, in the 
year 1733, but not to a poem of his own 
writing, or indeed to any poem at all, but, as 
T think, to a medal. 

Mr. is a Cornish member ; but for 

what place in Cornwall I know not. All I 
know of him is, that I saw him once clap his 
two hands upon a rail, meaning to leap over 
it. But he did not think the attempt a safe 
one, and therefore took them off again. He 
was in company with Mr. Throckmorton. 
With that gentleman we drank chocolate, 
since I wrote last. The occasion of our visit 
was, as usual, a balloon. Your mother in- 
vited her, and I him, and they promised to 
return the visit, but have not yet performed. 
Tout le monde se trouvoit la, as you may sup- 
pose, among the rest Mrs. W . She was 

driven to the door by her son, a boy of seven- 
teen, in a phaeton, drawn by four horses from 
Lilliput. This is an ambiguous expression, 
and, should what I write now be legible a 
thousand years hence, might puzzle commen- 
tators. Be it known therefore to the Alduses 
and the Stevenses of ages yet^to come, that 

I do not mean to affirm that Mrs. W 

herself came from Lilliput that morning, or 
indeed that she ever was there, but merely 
to describe the horses, as being so diminu- 
tive, that they might be with propriety said 
to be Lilliputian. 

The privilege of franking having been so 
cropped, I know not in what manner I and 
my bookseller are to settle the conveyance 
of proof sheets hither and back again. They 
must travel I imagine by coach, a large quan- 
tity of them at a time ; for, like other authors, 
I find myself under a poetical necessity of 
being frugal. 

We love you all, jointly and separately, as 
usual. W. C. 

I have not seen, nor shall see, the Dissent- 
er's answer to Mr. Newton, unless you can 
hirnish me with it. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Oct. 9, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — The pains you have taken 
to disengage our correspondence from the ex- 
pense with which it was threatened, convinc- 
ing me that my letters, trivial as they are, are 
yet acceptable to you, encourage me to ob- 
serve my usual punctuality. You complain 
of unconnected thoughts. I believe there is 
not a head in the world but might utter the 
same complaint, and that all would do so, were 
they all as attentive to their own vagaries and 
as honest as yours. The description of your 
meditations at least suits mine ; perhaps I can 
go a step beyond you, upon the same ground, 
and assert with the strictest truth that I not 
only do not think with connexion, but that I 
frequently do not think at all. I am much 
mistaken if I do not often catch myself nap- 
ping in this way ; for, when I ask myself, what 
was the last idea (as the ushers at Westmin- 
ster ask an idle boy what was the last word,) 
I am not able to answer, but, like the boy in 
question, am obliged to stare and say nothing. 
This may be a very unphilosophical account 
of myself, and may clash very much with the 
general opinion of the learned, that, the soul, 
being an active principle, and her activity con- 
sisting in thought, she must consequently 
always think. But pardon me, messieurs le^ 
philosophes : there are moments when, if I 
think at all, I am utterly unconscious of doing 
so, and the thought and the consciousness of 
it seem to me at least, who am no philoso- 
pher, to be inseparable from each other. Per- 
haps, however, we may both be right ; and, if 
you will grant me that I do not always think, 
I will in return concede to you the activity 
you contend for, and will qualify the differ- 
ence between us by supposing that, though 
the soul be in herself an active principle, the 
influence of her present union with a princi- 
ple that is not such makes her often dormant, 
suspends her operations, and affects her with 
a sort of deliquium, in which she suffers a 
temporary loss of all her functions. I have 
related to you my experience truly and with- 
out disguise : you must therefore either ad- 
mit my assertion, that the soul does not ne- 
cessarily always act, or deny that mine is a 
human soul : a negative, that I am sure you 
will not easily prove. So much for a dis- 
pute which I little thought of being engaged 
in to-day. 

Last night I had a letter from Lord Dart- 
mouth. It was to apprise me of the safe ar- 
rival of Cook's last Voyage, which he was so 
kind as to lend me, in Saint James's Square. 
The reading of these volumes afforded me 
much amusement, and I hope some instruc- 
tion. No observation however forced itself 
upon me with more violence than one, that 
I could not help making on the death of Cap 
tain Cook. God is a jealous God, and at 



202 



COWjrfER'S WORKS. 



Owhyhee the poor man was content to be 
worshipped. From that moment, the remark- 
able interposition of Providence in his favor 
was converted into an opposition that thwart- 
ed all his purposes. He left the scene of his 
deification, but was driven back to it by a 
most violent storm, in which he suffered more 
than in any that had preceded it. When he 
departed, he left his worshippers still infatu- 
ated with an idea of his godship, consequently 
well disposed to serve him. At his return, 
lie found them sullen, distrustful, and myste- 
rious. A trifling theft was committed, which, 
by a blunder of his own in pursuing the thief 
after the property had been restored, was 
magnified to an affair of the last importance. 
One of their favorite chiefs was killed too by 
a blunder. Nothing in short but blunder and 
mistake attended him, till he fell breathless 
into the water, and then all was smooth again. 
The world indeed will not take notice or see 
that the dispensation bore evident marks of 
divine displeasure ; but a mind, I think, in 
any degree spiritual cannot overlook them. 
We know from truth itself that the death of 
Herod was for a similar offence. But Herod 
was in no sense a believer in God, nor had 
enjoyed half the opportunities with which 
our poor countryman had been favored. It 
may be urged perhaps that he was in jest, 
that he meant nothing but his own amuse- 
ment, and that of his companions. I doubt 
it. He knows little of the heart, who does 
not know that even in a sensible man it is 
flattered by every species of exaltation. But 
be it so, that he was in sport — it was not 
humane, to say no worse of it, to sport with 
the ignorance of his friends, to mock their 
simplicity, to humor and acquiesce in their 
blind credulity. Besides, though a stock or 
stone may be worshipped blameless, a .bap- 
tized man may not. He knows what he 
does, and, by suffering such honors to be 
paid him, incurs the guilt of sacrilege.* 

We are glad that you are so happy in your 
church, in your society, and in all your con- 
nexions. I have not left myself room to say 
anything of the love we feel for you. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

Several of the succeeding letters advert to 
the poem of " The Task," and cannot fail to 
inspire interest. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Oct. 10, 1784. 
My dear William, — I send you four quires 
of verse, which, having sent, I shall dismiss 
from my thoughts, and think no more of till 

* We 3ubjoin the following note of Hayley on this sub- 
jest: " Having enjoyed in the year 1772 the pleasure of 
conversing with this illustrious seaman, on board his own 
Bhip, the Resolution, I cannot pass the present letter 
without observing, that I am persuaded my friend Cow- 
per utterly misapprehended the behavior of Captain 



I see them in print. I have not after all 
found time or industry enough to give the 
last hand to the points. I believe however 
they are not very erroneous, though, in so 
long a work, and in a work that requires 
nicety in this particular, some inaccuracies 
will escape. Where you find any, you will 
oblige me by correcting them. 

In some passages, especially in the second 
book, you will observe me very satirical. 
Writing On such subjects I could not be 
otherwise. I can write nothing without aim- 
ing at least at usefulness. It were beneath 
my years to do it, and still more dishonora- 
ble to my religion. I know that a reforma- 
tion of such abuses as I have censured is not 
to be expected from the efforts of a poet; 
but to contemplate the world, its follies, its 
vices, its indifference to duty, and its strenu- 
ous attachment to what is evil, and not to 
reprehend, were to approve it. From this 
charge at least I shall be clear, for I have 
neither tacitly nor expressly flattered either 
its characters or its customs. I have paid 
one and only one compliment, which was so 
justly due that I did not know how to with- 
hold it, especially having so fair an occasion 
(I forget myself, there is another in the first 
book to Mr. Throckmorton,) but the compli- 
ment I mean is to Mr. . It is however 

so managed, that nobody but himself can 
make the application, and you to whom I 
disclose the secret ; a delicacy on my part, 
which so much delicacy on his obliged me to 
the observance of! 

What there is of a religious cast in the 
volume, I have thrown towards the end of it, 
for two reasons — first, that I might not re- 
volt the reader at his entrance — and, secondly, 
that my best impressions might be made last 
Were I to write as many volumes as Lopez 
de Vega, or Voltaire, not one of them would 
be without this tincture. If the world like 
it not, so much the worse for them. I make 
all the concessions I can, that I may please 
them, but I will not please them at the ex- 
pense of my conscience. 

My descriptions are all from nature ; not 
one of them second-handed. My delineations 
of the heart are from my own experience, 
not one of them borrowed from books, or ir. 
the least degree conjectural. In my num 
bers, which I varied as much as I could, (fo: 
blank verse without variety of numbers is no 
better than bladder and string,) I have imi- 
tated nobody, though sometimes perhaps 
there may be an apparent resemblance ; be> 
cause, at the same time that I would not 
imitate, I have not affectedly differed. 

Cook in the affair alluded to. From the little personal 
acquaintance which I had myself with this humane and 
truly Christian navigator, and from the whole tencr ol 
his life, I cannot believe it possible for him to have acted, 
under any circumstances, with such impious arroganca 
as might appear offensive in the eyes of the Almighty." 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



SO* 



If the v _>rk cannot boast a regular plan, 
(in which respect however I do not think it 
altogether indefensible,) it may yet boast 
that the reflections are naturally suggested 
always by the preceding passage, and that, 
except the fifth book, which is rather of a 
political aspect, the whole has one tendency; 
to discountenance the modern enthusiasm 
after a London life, and to recommend rural 
ease and leisure, as friendly to the cause of 
piety and virtue. ** 

If it pleases you I shall be happy, and col- 
lect from your pleasure in it an omen of its 
general acceptance. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Oct. 20, 1784. 
My dear William, — Your letter has relieved 
me from some anxiety, and given me a good 
deal of positive pleasure. I have faith in 
your judgment, and an implicit confidence in 
the sincerity of your approbation. The writ- 
ing of so long a poem is a serious business ; 
and the author must know little of his own 
heart who does not in some degree suspect 
himself of partiality to his own production ; 
and who is he that would not be mortified 
by the discovery that he had written five 
thousand lines in vain? The poem, how- 
ler, which you have in hand, will not of 
Itself make a volume so large as the last, or 
as a bookseller would wish. I say this, be- 
cause when I had sent Johnson five thousand 
verses, he applied for a thousand more. Two 
years since I began a piece which grew to the 
length of two hundred, and there stopped.* 
1 have lately resumed it, and (I believe) shall 
finish it. But the subject is fruitful, and will 
not be comprised in a smaller compass than 
seven or eight hundred verses. It turns on 
the question whether an education at school 
or at home be preferable, and I shall give the 
preference to the latter. I mean that it shall 
pursue the track of the former. That is to 
say, that it shall visit Stock in its way to 
publication. My design also is to inscribe 
it to you. But you must see it first ; and, 
if, after seeing it, you should have any ob- 
jection, though it should be no bigger than 
the tittle of an i, I will deny myself that 
pleasure, and find no fault with your refusal. 
I have not been without thoughts of adding 
John Gilpin at the tail of all. He has made 
a good deal of noise in the world, and per- 
haps it may not be amiss to show that though 
I write generally wi.h a serious in.entioa, 1 
know how to be occasionally merry. The 
Critical Reviewers charged me with an at- 
tempt at humor. John, having been more 
celebrated upon the score of humor than 
* Tirocinium. See Poems. 



most pieces that have appeared in moderi 
days, may serve to exonerate me from the 
imputation : but in this article I am entirely 
under your judgment, and mean to be set 
down by it. All these together will make 
an octavo like the last. I should have told 
you, that the piece which now employs me 
is in rhyme. I do not intend to write any 
more blank. It is more difficult than rhyme, 
and not so amusing in the composition. If, 
when you make the offer of my book to 
Johnson, he should stroke his chin, and look 
up to the ceiling, and cry, " Humph f anti- 
cipate him, I beseech you, at once, by saying, 
" that you know I should be sorry that he 
should undertake for me to his own disad- 
vantage, or that my volume should be in any 
degree pressed upon him. I make him the 
offer merely because I think he would have 
reason to complain of me if I did not." But, 
that punctilio once satisfied, it is a matter of 
indifference to me what publisher sends me 
forth. If Longman should have difficulties, 
which is the more probable, as I understand 
from you that he does not in these cases see 
with his own eyes, but will consult a brother 
poet, take no pains to conquer them. The 
idea of being hawked about, and especially 
of your being the hawker, is insupportable. 
Nichols, I have heard, is the most learned 
printer of the present day. He may be a 
man of taste as well as learning; and I sup- 
pose that you would not want a gentleman 
usher to introduce you. He prints " The 
Gentleman's Magazine," and may serve us, 
if the others should decline; if not, give 
yourself no farther trouble about the matter. 
I may possibly envy authors who can afford 
to publish at their own expense, and in that 
case should write no more. But the mortifi- 
cation should not break my heart. 

I proceed to your corrections, for which I 
most unaffectedly thank you, adverting to 
them in their order. 

Page 140. — Truth generally without the 
article the, would not be sufficiently defined. 
There are many sorts of truth, philosophical, 
mathematical, moral, &c, and a reader -not 
much accustomed to hear of religious or 
scriptural truth, might possibly and indeed 
easily doubt what truth was particularly in- 
tended. I acknowledge that grace, in my use 
of the word, does not often occur in poetry. 
So neither does the subject which I handle. 
Every subject has its own terms, and relig- 
ious ones take theirs with most propriety 
from ihe scripture. Thence I take the word 
grace. The sarcastic use of it in the mouths 
of infidels 1 admit, but not their authority to 
proscribe it, especially as God's favor in the 
abstract has no other word in all our lan- 
guage by which it can be expressed. 

Page 150. — Impress the mind faintly or not 
at all— I prefer this line, because of the in. 



204 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



terrupted run of it, having always observed 
that a little unevenness of this sort, in a long 
work, has a good effect, used, as I mean, 
sparingly, and with discretion. 

Page 127. — This should have been noted 
first, but was overlooked. Be pleased to al- 
ter for me thus, with the difference of only 
one word, from the alteration proposed by 
you — 

We too are friends to royalty. We love 

The king who loves the law, respects his bounds, 

And reigns content within them. 

You observed probably, in your second 
reading, that I allow the life of an animal to 
be fairly takeir away, when it interferes either 
with . the interest or convenience of man. 
Consequently snails and all reptiles that 
spoil our crops, either of fruit or grain, may 
be destroyed, if we can catch them. It gives 
me real pleasure that Mrs. Unwin so readily 
understood me. Blank verse, by the un- 
usual arrangement of the words, and t>y the 
frequent infusion of one line into another, 
not less than by the style, which requires a 
kind of tragical magnificence, cannot be 
chargeable with much obscurity, must rather 
be singularly perspicuous, to be so easily 
comprehended. It is my labor, and my prin- 
cipal one, to be as clear as possible. You 
do not mistake me, when you suppose that I 
have great respect for the virtue that flies 
temptation. It is that sort of prowess, which 
the whole train of scripture calls upon us to 
manifest, when assailed by sensual evil. In- 
terior mischiefs must be grappled with. There 
is no flight from them. But solicitations to 
sin, that address themselves to our bodily 
senses, are, I believe, seldom conquered in 
any other way. 

I can easily see that you may have very 
reasonable objections to my dedicatory pro- 
posal. You are a clergyman, and I have 
banged your order. You are a child of alma 
mater, and I have banged her too. Lay 
yourself, therefore, under no constraints that 
I do not lay you under, but consider your- 
self as perfectly free. 

With our best love to you all, I bid you 
r heartily farewell. I am tired of this endless 
scribblement. Adieu ! 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Oct. 22, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I am now reading a 
book which you have never read, and will 
probably never read — Knox's Essays. Per- 
haps I should premise that I am driven to 
such reading by the want of books that 
would please me better, neither having any, 
ftor th<& means of procuring any. I am not 
* Private correspondence. 



sorry, however, that I have met with him J 
though, when I have allowed him the praise 
of being a sensible man, and in his way a 
good one, I have allowed him all that I can 
afford. Neither his style pleases me, which 
is sometimes insufferably dry and hard, and 
sometimes ornamented even to an Harveian 
tawdriness ; nor his manner, which is never 
lively without being the worse for it; so 
unhappy is he in his attempts at character 
and narration. But, writing chiefly on the 
manners, vices, and follies of the modern 
day, to me he is at least so far useful, as 
that he gives me information upon points 
which I neither can nor would be informed 
upon except by hearsay. Of such informa- 
tion, however, I have need, being a writer 
upon those subjects myself, and a satirical 
writer too. It is fit, therefore, in order that 
I may find fault in the right place, that I 
should know where fault may properly be 
found. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Oct. 30, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I accede most readily tc 
the justice of your remarks, on the' subject 
of the truly Roman heroism of the Sandwich 
islanders. Proofs of such prowess, I be- 
lieve, are seldom exhibited by a people who 
have attained to a high degree of civilization. 
Refinement and profligacy are too nearly al- 
lied to admit of anything so noble ; and I 
question whether any instances of faithful 
friendship, like that jvhich so much affected 
you in the behavior of the poor savage, were 
produced even by the Romans themselves in 
the latter days of the empire. They had 
been a nation, whose virtues it is impossible 
not to wonder at. But Greece, which was 
to them what France is to us, a Pandora's 
box of mischief, reduced them to her own 
standard, and they naturally soon sunk still 
lower. Religion .in this case seems pretty 
much out of the question. To the produc- 
tion of such heroism undebauched nature 
herself is equal. When. Italy was a land of 
heroes, she knew no more of the true God 
than her cicisbeos and her fiddlers know 
now ; and indeed it seems a matter of indif- 
ference whether a man be born under a 
truth, which does not influence him, or un- 
der the actual influence of a lie ; or, if there 
be any difference between the cases, it seems 
to be rather in favor of the latter; for a 
false persuasion, such as the Mahometan, for 
instance, may animate the courage, and fur- 
nish motives for the contempt of death, 
while despisers of the true religion are pun- 
ished for their folly, by being abandoned 
to the last degrees of depravity. Accord- 
ingly, we see a Sandwich islander sacrificing 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



20* 



seamen and mariners, instead of being im- 
pressed by a sense of his generosity, butch- 
ering him with a persevering cruelty that 
will disgrace them forever; for he was a 
defenceless, unresisting enemy, who meant 
nothing more than to gratify his love for the 
deceased. To slay him in such circum- 
stances was to murder him, and with every 
aggravation of the crime that can be ima- 
gined. 

I am again at Johnson's, in the shape of a 
poem in blank verse, consisting of six books 
and called " The Task." I began it about 
this time twelvemonth, and writing some- 
times an hour in a day, sometimes half a one, 
and sometimes two hours, have lately fin- 
ished it. . I mentioned it not sooner, because 
almost to the last I was doubtful whether I 
should ever bring it to a conclusion, working 
often in such distress of mind as, while it 
spurred me to the work, at the same time 
threatened to disqualify me for it. My book- 
seller, I suppose, will be as tardy as before. 
I do not expect to be born into the world 
till the month of March, when I and the cro- 
tuses shall peep together. You may assure 
yourself that I shall take my first opportu- 
nity to wait on you. I mean likewise to 
gratify myself by obtruding my muse upon 
Mr. Bacon. 

Adieu, my dear friend ! We are well, and 
love you. " W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 1, 1.784. 
My dear Friend, — Were I to delay my an- 
swer, I must yet write without a frank at 
last, and may as well therefore write without 
one now, especially feeling as I do a desire 
to thank you for your friendly offices so well 
performed. I am glad, for your sake as 
well as for my own, that you succeeded in the 
first instance, and that the first trouble proved 
the last. I am willing too to consider John- 
son's readiness to accept a second volume 
of mine as an argument that at least he was 
no loser by the former. I collect from it 
some reasonable hope that the volume in 
question may not wrong him either. My 
imagination tells me (for I know you inter- 
est yourself in the success of my produc- 
tions) that your heart fluttered when you 
approached Johnson's door, and that it felt 
itself discharged of a burden when you came 
out again. You did well to mention it at 

the T s ; they will now know that you 

do not pretend to a share in my confidence, 
whatever be the value of it, greater than you 
actually possess. I wrote to Mr. Newton 
by the last post to tell him that I was gone 
to the press again. He will be surprised 
and perhaps not pleased. But I think he 



cannot complain, for he keeps his own au- 
thorly secrets without participating them 
with me. I do not think myself in the leasl 
injured by his reserve, neither should 1, if he 
were to publish a whole library without fa. 
voring me with any previous notice of his 
intentions. In these cases it is no violation 
of the laws of friendship not to commu- 
nicate, though there must be a friendship 
where the communication" is made. But 
many reasons may concur in disposing a 
writer to keep his work secret, and none of 
them injurious to his friends. The influence 
of one I have felt myself, for which none of 
them would blame me — I mean the desire 
of surprising agreeably. And, if I have de- 
nied myself this pleasure in your instance, it 
was only to give myself a greater, by eradi- 
cating from your mind any little weeds of 
suspicion that might still remain in it, that 
any man living is nearer to me than your- 
self. Had not this consideration forced up 
the lid of my strong-box like a lever, it 
would have kept its contents with an invis- 
ible closeness to the last : and the first news 
that either you or any of my friends would 
have heard of " The Task," they would have 
received from the public papers. But you 
know now that neither as a poet nor a man 
do I give to any man a precedence in my 
estimation at your expense. 

I am proceeding with my new work (which 
at present I feel myself much inclined to call 
by the name of Tirocinium) as fast as the 
muse permits. It has reached the length of 
seven hundred lines, and will probably receive 
an addition of two or three hundred more. 

When you see Mr. perhaps you will not 

find it difficult to procure from him half-a- 
dozen franks, addressed to yourself, and dated 
the fifteenth of December, in which case they 
will all go to the post, filled with my lucubra- 
tions, on the evening of that day. I do not 
name an earlier, because I hate to be hurried; 
and Johnson cannot want it sooner than, thus 
managed, it will reach him. 

I am not sorry that " John Gilpin," though 
hitherto he has been nobody's child, is likely 
to be owned at last. Here and there I can 
give him a touch that I think will mend him ; 
the language in some places not being quite 
so quaint and old-fashioned as it should be ; 
and in one of the stanzas there is a false 
rhyme. When I have thus given the finish- 
ing stroke to his figure, I mean to grace him 
with two mottoes, a Greek and a Latin one 
which, when the world shall see that I have 
only a little one of three words to the vol- 
ume itself, and none to the books of which 
it consists, they will perhaps understand as 
a stricture upon that pompous display of lit- 
erature, with which some authors take occa- 
sion to crowd their titles. Knox in particu- 
lar, who is a sensible man too, has not I 



206 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



think fewer than half-a-dozen to his "Es- 
says." 



Adieu, 



W.C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Nov., 1784. 
My dear Friend, — To condole with you on 
the death of a mother aged eighty-seven 
would be absurd — rather therefore, as is rea- 
sonable, I congratulate you on the almost 
singular felicity of having enjoyed the com- 
pany of so amiable and so near a relation so 
long. Your lot and mine in this respect have 
been very different, as indeed in almost every 
other. Your mother lived to see you rise, at 
least to see you comfortably established in 
the world. Mine, dying when I was six years 
old, did not live to see me sink in it. You 
may remember with pleasure while you live 
a blessing vouchsafed to you so long, and 
I while I live must regret a comfort, of which 
I was deprived so early. T can truly say that 
not a week passes (perhaps I might with 
equal veracity say a day) in which I do not 
think of her. Such was the impression her 
tenderness made upon me, though the oppor- 
tunity she had for showing it was so short. 
But the ways of God are equal — and, when 
I reflect on the pangs she would have suf- 
fered had she been a witness of all mine, 
I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn 
that she was hidden in the grave so soon. 

We have, as you say, lost a lively and sen- 
sible neighbor in Lady Austen, but we have 
been long accustomed to a state of retirement 
within one degree of solitude, and, being 
naturally lovers of still life, can relapse into 
our former duality without being unhappy at 
the change. To me indeed a third is not 
necessary, while I can have the companion I 
have had these twenty years. 

I am gone to the press again ; a volume of 
mine will greet your hands some time either 
in the course of the winter or early in the 
spring. You will find it perhaps on the 
whole more entertaining than the former, as 
it treats a greater variety of subjects, and 
those, at least the most, of a sublunary kind. 
It will consist of a poem in six books, called 
" The Task." To which will be added an- 
other, which I finished yesterday, called I 
believe " Tirocinium," on the subject of edu- 
cation. 

You perceive that I have taken your advice, 
ind given the pen no rest. 

W.C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Nov. 27, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — All the interest that you 
lake in my new publication, and all the pleas 
that you U'ge in behalf of your right to my 



confidence, the moment I had read your let- 
ter, struck me as so many proofs of your re- 
gard ; of a friendship in which distance and 
time make no abatement. But it is difficult 
to adjust opposite claims to the satisfaction 
of all parties. I have done my best, and 
must leave it to your candor to put a just in- 
terpretation upon all that has passed, and to 
give me credit for it as a certain truth that, 
whatever seeming defects in point of atten- 
tion and attachment to you my conduct on 
this occasion may have appeared to have been 
chargeable with, I am in reality as clear of 
all real ones as you would wish to find me. 

I send you enclosed, in, the first place, a 
copy of the advertisement to the reader, which 
accounts for my title, not otherwise easily ac- 
counted for; secondly, what is called an ar- 
gument, or a summary of the contents of 
each book, more circumstantial and diffuse by 
far than that which I have sent to the press. 
It will give you a pretty accurate acquaint- 
ance with my matter, though the tenons and 
mortices, by which the several passages are 
connected, and let into each other, cannot be 
explained in a syllabus : and lastly, an extract, 
as you desired. The subject of it I am sure 
will please you ; and, as I have admitted into 
my description no images but what are scrip- 
tural, and have aimed as exactly as I could 
at the plain and simple sublimity cf the scrip- 
ture language, I have hopes the manner of 
it may please you too. As far as the num- 
bers and diction are concerned, it may serve 
pretty well for a sample of the whole. But, 
the subjects being so various, no single pas- 
sage can in all respects be a specimen of the 
book at large. 

My principal purpose is to allure the read- 
er, by character, by scenery, by imagery, and 
such poetical embellishments, to the reading 
of what may profit him; subordinately to 
this, to combat that predilection in favor of a 
metropolis that beggars and exhausts the 
country, by evacuating it of all its principal 
inhabitants ; and collaterally, and, as far as 
is consistent with this double intention, to 
have a stroke at vice, vanity and folly, wher- 
ever I find them. I have not spared the 
Universities. A letter which appeared in the 
" General Evening Post" of Saturday, said 
to have been received by a general officer, 
and by him sent to the press as worthy of 
public notice, and which has all the appear- 
ance of authenticity, would alone justify the 
severest censures of those bodies, if any such 
justification were wanted. By way of sup- 
plement to what I have written on this sub- 
ject. I have added a poem, called " Tirocini- 
um," which is in rhyme. It treats of the 
scandalous relaxation of discipline that ob- 
tains in almost all schools universally, but es- 
pecially in the largest, which are so negligent 
I in the* article of murals that boys are de* 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



207 



bauched in general the moment they are ca- 
pable of being so. It recommends the office 
of tutor to the father where there is no real 
impediment, the expedient of a domestic tu- 
tor where there is, and the disposal of boys 
nto the hands of a respectable country cler- 
gyman, who limits his attention to two, in all 
cases where they cannot be conveniently 
'educated at home. Mr. Unwin happily af- 
fording me an instance in point, the poem is 
inscribed to him. Youwili now I hope com- 
mand your hunger to be patient, and be satis- 
fied with the luncheon, that I send, till dinner 
comes. That piecemeal perusal of the work 
sheet by sheet, would be so disadvantageous 
to the work itself, and therefore so uncom- 
fortable to me, that (I dare say) you will waive 
your desire of it. A poem thus disjointed 
cannot possibly be fit for anybody's inspec- 
tion but the author's. 

Tully's rule — Nulla dies sine lined — will 
make a volume in less time than one would 
suppose. I adhered to it so rigidly that, 
though more than once I found three lines as 
many as I had time to compass, still I wrote ; 
and, finding occasionally, and as it might 
happen a more fluent vein, the abundance of 
one day made me amends for the barrenness 
of another. But I do not mean to write 
blank verse again. Not having the music of 
rhyme, it requires so close an attention to the 
pause an id the cadence, and such a peculiar 
mode of expression, as render it, to me at 
least, the most difficult species of poetry that 
I have ever meddled with. 

I am obliged to you and to Mr. Bacon for 
your kind remembrance of me when you 
meet. No artist can excel, as he does, with- 
out the finest feelings ; and every man that 
has the finest feelings is and must be amiable. 
Adieu, my dear friend ! 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



; for the conveyance of " Tirocinium," dated 
on a day therein mentioned and the earliest 
which at that time I could venture to appoint. 
It has happened, however, that the poem is 
finished a month sooner than I expected, and 
' two thirds of it are at this time fairly tran- 
scribed ; an accident to which the riders of a 
! Parnassian steed are liable, who never know* 
before they mount him, at what rate he "wiL 
choose to travel. If he be indisposed to de- 
spatch, it is impossible to accelerate his pace ; 
: if otherwise, equally impossible to stop him 
Therefore my errand to you at this time is 
; to cancel the former assignation, and to in- 
'• form you that by whatever means you please, 
and as soon as you please, the piece in ques- 
; tion will be ready to attend you ; for, with- 
out exerting any extraordinary diligence, 
I shall have completed the transcript in a 
week. 

The critics will never know that four lines 

of it were composed while I had a dose of 

ipecacuanha on my stomach : in short, that 1 

was delivered of the emetic and the verses 

at the same moment. Knew they this, they 

would at least allow me to be a poet of sin- 

j gular industry, and confess that I lose no 

| time. I have heard of poets who have found 

j cathartics of sovereign use, when they had 

j occasion to be particularly brilliant. Dryden 

; always used them, and, in commemoration 

j of it, Bayes, in " The Rehearsal," is made to 

I inform the audience, that in a poetical einer- 

j gency he always had recourse to stewed 

prunes. But I am the only poet who has 

dared to reverse the prescription, and whose 

enterprise, having succeeded to admiration 

warrants him to recommend an emetic to al, 

future bards, as the most infallible means of 

producing a fluent and easy versification. 

My love to all your family. 

Adieu. W C 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, 1784. 
My dear William, — The slice which (you 
observe) has been taken from the top of the 
sheet, it lost before I began to write , but, 
being a part of the paper which is seldom 
used, I thought it would be pity to discard, 
or to degrade to meaner purposes, the fair 
and ample remnant, on account of so imma- 
terial a defect. I therefore have destined it 
to be the vehicle of a letter, which you will 
accept as entire, though a lawyer perhaps 
would, without much difficulty, prove it to be 
but a fragment. The best recompense I can 
make you for writing without a frank, is to 
propose it to you to take your revenge by 
returning an answer under the same predica- 
ment; and the best reason I can give for do- 
ing it is the occasion following. In my last 
[ recommended it to yon to procure franks 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 29, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I am happy that you are 
pleased, and accept it as an earnest that I 
shall not at least disgust the public. For, 
though I know your partiality to me, I know 
at the same time with what laudable tender- 
ness you feel for your own reputation, and 
that, for the sake of that most delicate part 
of your property, though you would not 
criticise me with an unfriendly and undue 
severity, you would however beware of being 
satisfied too hastily, and with no warrant- 
able cause of being so. I called you the tu- 
tor of your two sons, in contemplation of 
the certainty of that event : it is a fact in sus 
pense, not in fiction. 

My principal errand to you now is to give 
you information on the following subject: — ■ 
The moment Mr. Newton knew (and I took 



208 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



care that he should learn it first from me) 
that I had communicated to you what I had 
concealed from him, and that you were my 
authorship's go-between with Johnson on 
this occasion, he sent me a most friendly 
letter indeed, but one in every line of which 
J could hear the soft murmurs of something 
like mortification, that could not be entirely 
suppressed. It contained nothing however 
that you yourself would have blamed, or 
that I had not every reason to consider as 
evidence of his regard to me. He concluded 
the subject with desiring to know something 
of my plan, to be favored with an extract, by 
way of specimen, or (which he should like 
better still) with wishing me to order John- 
son to send him a proof as fast as they were 
printed off. Determining not to accede to 
this last request for many reasons (but es- 
pecially because I would no more show my 
poem piecemeal than I would my house if I 
had one; the merits of the structure in 
either case being equally liable to suffer by 
such a partial view of it), I have endeavored 
to compromise the difference between us, 
and to satisfy him without disgracing myself. 
The proof-sheets I have absolutely, though 
civilly refused. But I have sent him a copy 
of the arguments of each book, more dilated 
and circumstantial than those inserted in the 
work ; and to these I have added an extract, 
as he desired ; selecting, as most suited to 
his taste, the view of the restoration of all 
things — which you recollect to have seen 
near the end of the last book. I hold it 
necessary to tell you this, lest, if you should 
call upon him, he should startle you by dis- 
covering a degree of information upon the 
subject which you could not otherwise know 
how to reconcile or to account for. 

You have executed your commissions d 
merveille. We not only approve but admire. 
No apology was wanting for the balance 
struck at the bottom, which we accounted 
rather a beauty than a deformity. Pardon a 
poor poet, who cannot speak even of pounds, 
shillings, and pence, but in his own way. 

I have read Lunardi with pleasure. He is 
a lively, sensible young fellow, and I sup- 
pose a very favorable sample of the Italians. 
When I look at his picture, I can fancy that 
I can see in him that good sense and courage 
that no doubt were legible in the face of a 
young Roman two thousand years ago. 

Your affectionate W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Dec. 4, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — You have my hearty 

thanks for a very good barrel of oysters; 

which necessary acknowledgment once made, 

L might perhaps show more kindness by cut- 

* Private correspondence. 



ting short an epistle than by continuing one, 
in which you are not likely to find your ac- 
count, either in the way of information oi 
amusement. The season of the year indeed 
is not very friendly to such communications 
A damp' atmosphere and a sunless sky will 
have their effect upon the spirits ; and when 
the spirits are checked, farewell to all hope 
of being good company either by letter or 
otherwise. I envy thobe happy voyagers, 
v/ho with so much ease ascend to regions 
unsullied with a cloud, and date their epistles 
from an extra-mundane situation. No won- 
der if they outshine us, who poke about in 
the dark below, in the vivacity of their sallies, 
as much as they soar above us in their ex- 
cursions. Not but that I should be very sorry 
to go to the clouds for wit: on the contrary, 
I am satisfied that I discover more by con- 
tinuing where I am. Every man to his busi- 
ness. Their vocation is to see fine pros- 
pects, and to make pithy observations upon 
the world below ; such as these, for instance : 
that the earth, beheld from a height that one 
trembles to think of, has the appearance of a 
circular plain; that England is a very rich 
and cultivated country, in which every man's 
property is ascertained by the hedges that 
intersect the lands; and that London and 
Westminster, seen from the neighborhood of 
the moon, make but an insignificant figure. 
I admit the utility of these remarks ; but, in 
the meantime, I say cliacun a son gout ; and 
mine is rather to creep than fly, and to carry 
with me, if possible, an unbroken neck to the 
grave. 

I remain, as ever, 

Your affectionate W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Dec. 13, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — Having imitated no man, 
I may reasonably hope that I shall not incur 
the disadvantage of a comparison with my 
betters. Miltons manner was peculiar. So 
is Thomson's. He that should write like 
either of them would in my judgment de- 
serve the name of a copyist, but not a poet. 
A judicious and sensible reader therefore, 
like yourself, will not say that my manner is 
not good, because it does not resemble theirs, 
but will rather consider what it is in itself. 
Blank verse is susceptible of a much greater 
diversification of manner than verse in rhyme : 
and, why the modern writers of it have all 
thought proper to cast their numbers alike, I 
know not. Certainly it was not necessity 
that compelled them to it. I flatter myself 
however that I have avoided that sameness 
with others, which would entitle me to 
nothing but a share in one common oblivion 
with them all. It is possible that, as a re 
viewer of mv former volume found cause to 



LIFh OF COWPER, 



20S 



say, that he knew not to what class of writ- 
era to refer me, the reviewer of this, who- 
ever he shall be, may see occasion to remark 
the same singularity. At any rate, though as 
little apt 10 be sanguine as most men, and 
more prone to fear and despond than to 
overrate my own productions, I am per- 
suaded that I shall not forfeit anything by 
this volume that I gained by the last. As to 
the litle, I take it to be the best that is to be 
had. It is not possible that a book including I 
su»h a variety of subjects, and in which no ! 
particular one is predominant, should find a I 
title adapted to them all. In such a case it 
seemed almost necessary to accommodate 
the name to, the incident that gave birth to 
the poem ; nor does it appear to me that, be- 
cause I performed more than my task, there- 
fore " The Task " is not a suitable title. A 
house would still be a house, though the 
builder of it should make it ten times as big 
as he at first intended. I might indeed, fol- 
lowing the example of the Sunday news- 
monger, call it the Olio. But I should do 
myself wrong: for, though it have much va- 
riety, it has I trust no confusion. 

For the same reason none of the inferior 
titles apply themselves to the contents at 
large of that book to which they belong. 
They are, every one of them, taken either 
from the leading (I should say the introduc- 
tory) passage of that particular book, or 
from that which makes the most conspicuous 
figure in it. Had I set off with a design to 
vrite upon a gridiron, and had I actually 
ivritten near two hundred lines upon that 
utensil, as I have upon the Sofa, the gridiron 
should have been my title. But the Sofa 
being, as I may say, the starting-post, from 
which I addressed myself to the long race 
that I soon conceived a design to run, it ac- 
quired a just pre-eminence in my account, 
and was very worthily advanced to the titu- 
lar honor it enjoys, its right being at least so 
far a good one, that no word in the. language i 
could pretend a better. 

The Time-piece appears to me (though by ; 
some accident the import of that title has | 
escaped you) to have a degree of propriety 
beyond, the most of them. The book to 
which it belongs is intended to strike the 
hour that gives notice of the approaching 
judgment; and, dealing pretty largely in the 
signs of the times, seems to be denominated, 
as it is, with a sufficient degree of accommo- 
dation to the subject. 

As to the word worm, it is the very appel- 
lation which Milton himself, in a certain pas- 
sage of the Paradise Lost, gives to the ser- 
pent. Not having the book at hand, I cannot 
now refer to it, but I am sure of the fact. I 
am mistaken^ too, if Shakspeare's Cleopatra 
do not call the asp by which she thought fit 
to destrov herself by the sime name: but. 



not having read the play these five-and- 
twenty years, I will not affirm it. They 
are however, without all doubt, convertible 
terms. A worm is a small serpent, and a 
serpent is a large worm. And when an epi- 
thet significant of the most terrible species of 
those creatures is adjoined, the idea is surely 
sufficiently ascertained. No animal of the 
vermicular or serpentine kind is crested but 
the most formidable of all. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 

The passages alluded to by Cowper are as 
follows : 

O Eve. in evil hour thou didst give ear 
To that false worm, of whomsoever taught 
To counterfeit man's voice ; &c. 

Paradise Lost, book 9. 

Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there, 
That kills and pains not 1 

Shakspeare : s Anthony $• Cleopatra, Act ?> 



' TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Olney, Dec. 18, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I condole with you that 
you had the trouble to ascend St. Paul's in 
vain, but at the same time congratulate you 
that you escaped an ague. I should be very 
well pleased to have a fair prospect of a bal- 
loon under sail, with a philosopher or two on 
board, but at the same time should be very 
sorry to expose myself, for any length of 
time, to the rigor of the upper regions at this 
season for the sake of it, The travellers 
themselves, I suppose, are secured from all 
injuries of the weather by that fervency of 
spirit and agitation of mind which must needs 
accompany them in their flight: advantages 
which the more composed and phlegmatic 
spectator is not equally possessed of. 

The inscription of the poem is more your 
own affair than any other person's. You have 
therefore an undoubted right to fashion it to 
your mind, nor have I the least objection to 
the slight alteration that you have made in it. 
I inserted w T hat you have erased for a reason 
that was perhaps rather chimerical than solid. 
I feared however that the reviewers, or some 
of my sagacious readers not more merciful 
than they, might suspect that there was a se- 
cret design in the wind, and that author and 
friend had consulted in what manner author 
might introduce frjend to public notice as a 
clergyman every way qualified to entertain a 
pupil or two, if peradventure any gentleman 
of fortune were in want of a tutor for his 
children: I therefore added the words "And 
of his two sons only," by way of insinuating 
that you are perfectly satisfied with youi 
present charge, and that you do not wish foi 
more : thus meaning to obviate an illiberal 
eons'ruetinn which we are both of us incapa- 



210 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ble of deserving. But, the same caution not 
having appeared to you to be necessary, I 
ara very willing and ready to suppose that it 
is not so. 

I intended in my last to have given you my 
reasons for the compliment that I paid Bishop 
Bagot, lest, knowing that I have no personal 
connexion with him, you should suspect me 
of having done it rather too much at a ven- 
ture* In the first place, then, I wished the 
world to know that I have no objection to a 
bishop, quia bishop. In the second place, the 
brothers were all five my schoolfellows, and 
very amiable and valuable boys they were. 
Thirdly, Lewis, the bishop, had been rudely 
and coarsely treated in the Monthly Review, 
on account of a sermon which appeared to 
me, when I read their extract from it, to de r 
serve the highest commendations, as exhibit- 
ing explicit proof both of his good sense and 
his unfeigned piety. For these causes, me 
thereunto moving, I felt myself happy in an 
opportunity to do public honor to a worthy 
man who had been publicly traduced; and 
indeed the reviewers themselves have since 
repented of their aspersions, and have travelled 
not a little out of their way in order to retract 
them, having taken occasion, by the sermon 
preached at the bishop's visitation at Nor- 
wich, to say everything handsome of his 
lordship, who, whatever might be the merit 
of the discourse, in that instance, at least, 
could himself lay claim to no other than that 
of being a hearer. 

Since I wrote, I have had a letter from Mr. 
Newton that did not please me, and returned 
an answer to it that possibly may not have 
pleased him. We shall come together again 
soon (I suppose) upon as amicable terms as 
usual : but at present he is in a state of mor- 
tification. He would have been pleased had 
the book passed out of his hands into yours, 
or even out of yours into his, so that he 
had previously had opportunity to advise a 
measure which I pursued without his recom- 
mendation, and had seen the poems in manu- 
script. But my design was to pay you a 
whole compliment, and I have done it. If he 
says more on the subject, I shall speak free- 
ly, and perhaps please him less than I have 
dore already. 

Yours, with our love to you all, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN. NEWTON. 

Olney, Christmas-eve, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — I am neither Mede nor 
Persian, neither am I the son of any such, but 
was born at Great Berkhamstead, in Hert- 
fordshire, and yet I can neither find a new 
title for my book, nor please myself with 
aiv addition to the old one. I an/, however, 
* Tirocinium. 



willing to hope, that when the volume shall 
cast itself at your feet, you will be in some 
measure reconciled to the name it bears, es- 
pecially when you shall find it justified both 
by the* exordium of the poem and by the con- 
clusion. But enough, as you say with great 
truth, of a subject very unworthy of so much 
consideration. 

Had I heard any anecdotes of poor dying 

, that would have bid fair to deserve youi 

attention, I should have sent them. The little 
that he is reported to have uttered, of a spir- 
itual import, was not very striking. That 
little, however, I can give you upon good au- 
thority. His brother, asking him how he 
found himself, he replied, " I am composed, 
and think that I may safely believe myself 
entitled to a portion." The world has had 
much to say in his praise, and both prose and 
verse have been employed to celebrate him in 
" The Northampton Mercury." But Chris- 
tians, I suppose, have judged it best to be 
silent. If he ever drank at the fountain of 
life, he certainly drank also, and often too 
freely, of certain other streams, which are no* 
to be bought without money and without 
price. He had virtues that dazzled the nat- 
ural eye, and failings that shocked the spirit- 
ual one. But iste dies indicabit. 

w. c. 

In reviewing the events in Cowper's Life, 
recorded in the present volume, our remarks 
must be brief. His personal history contin- 
ues to present the same afflicting spectacle of 
a man always struggling under the pressure 
of a load from which no effort, either on his 
own part, or on that of others, is able to ex- 
tricate him. We know nothing mere touch- 
ing than some of the letters in the private 
correspondence in reference to this subject; 
and 'we consider them indispensable to a 
clear elucidation of the state of his mind and 
feelings. Their deep pathos, their ingenuous 
disclosure of all that he feels, and still more, 
of all that he dreads; the delusion under 
which the mind evidently labors, and yet the 
fixed and unalterable integrity of principle 
that reigns within, form a sublime scene, 
that awakens sympathy and commands ad- 
miration. 

That under circumstances of such deep 
trial, the powers of his mind should remain 
free and unimpaired ; that he should be able 
to produce a work like " The Task," destined 
to survive so long as taste, truth, and nature 
shall exercise their empire over the heart, is 
not only a phenomenon in the history of the 
human mind, but serves to show that the 
greatest calamities are not without their al- 
leviation ; that God knows how to temper the 
wind to the shorn lamb, and .hat the busk 
may be on tire without being consumed. 

It is bv dispensations such as these that, the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



2i 



Moral Governor of the world admonishes and 
instructs us; and that we learn to adore his 
wisdom and overruling power and love. We 
also see the value of mental resources, and 
that literature, and art, and science, when 
consecrated to the highest ends, not only en- 
noble our existence, but are a solace under its 
heaviest cares and disquietudes. It was this 
divine philosophy, so richly poured over the 
pages of the Task, that strengthened and 
sustained the mind of Cowper. The Muse 
was his. delight and refuge, but it was the 
Muse clad in the panoply of heaven, and 
soaring to the heights of Zion. He taught 
the school of poets a sublime moral lesson, 
not to debase a noble art by ministering to 
the corrupt passions of our nature, but to 
make it the vehicle of pure and elevated 
thought, the honorable ally of virtue, and the 
handmaid of true religion : that it is not suffi- 
flient to captivate the taste, and to lead 
'hrough the regions of poetic fancy; — 

"The still small voice is wanted." 

't is this characteristic feature that consti- 
tutes the charm of Cowper's poetry, and his 
title to immortality. He approached the 
temple of fame through the vestibule of the 
sanctuary, and snatched the live coal from the 
burning altar. It is his object to reprove vice, 
to vindicate truth from error, to endear home, 
by making it the scene of our virtues, and the 
source of our joys, to enlarge the bounds of 
simple and harmless pleasure, to exhibit na- 
ture in all its attractive forms, and to trace 
God in the works of his Providence, and in 
the mighty dispensation of his Grace. 



The completion of the second volume of 
Cowper's poems formed an important period 
in his literary history. It was the era of the 
establishment of his poetical fame. His first 
volume had already laid the foundation ; the 
second raised the superstructure, which has 
secured for him a reputation as honor-able as 
it is likely to be lasting. He was more par- 
ticularly indebted for this distinction to his 
inimitable production, " The Task," a work 
which every succeeding year has increasingly 
stamped with the seal of public approbation. 
If we inquire into the causes of its celebrity, 
they are to be found not merely in the multi- 
tude of poetical beauties, scattered through- 
out the poem ; it is the faithful delineation of 
nature, and of the scenes of real life ; it is the 
vein of pure and elevated morality, the ex- 
quisite sensibility of feeling, and the power- 
ful appeals to the heart and conscience, which 
constitute its great charm and interest. The 
court, the town, and the country, all united 
in its praise, because conscience and nature 
aever sufie- their rights to be extinguished, 



except in minds the most perverted or de 
praved. These rights are coeval with ou» 
birth: they grow with our growth, and yield 
only to that universal decree, which levels 
taste, perception, and every moral feeling 
with the d ust ; and which will finally dissolve 
the whole system of created nature, and 
merge time itself into eternity. 

Cowper's second volume, containing his 
" Task," and " Tirocinium," to which some 
smaller pieces were afterwards attached, was 
ready for the press in November, 1784,* 
though its publication was delayed till June, 
1785. The close of a literary undertaking 
is always contemplated as an event of great 
interest to the feelings of an author. It is 
the termination of his labors and the com- 
mencement of his hopes and fears. Gibbon 
the historian has thought proper to record 
the precise hour and day, in which he con- 
cluded his laborious work, of the " Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire," with feelings 
i of a mingled and impressive character. 

" I have presumed," he says, " to mark the 
I moment of conception ; I shall now com- 
memorate the hour of my final deliverance. 
It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th 
of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven 
and twelve that I wrote the last lines of the 
last page, in a summer-house in my garden. 
After laying down my pen, I took several 
turns in a berceau, or covered walk of aca- 
cias, which commands a prospect of the 
country, the lake, and the mountains. The 
air was temperate, the sky was serene, the 
silver orb of the moon was reflected from the 
waters, and all nature was silent. I will not 
dissemble the first emotions of joy on the 
recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the 
establishment of my fame. But my pride 
was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy 
was spread over my mind, by the idea that I 
had taken an everlasting leave of an old and 
agreeable companion, and that, v/hitever 
might be the future fate of my history, the 
life of the historian might be short and p e 
carious. "f 

These chastened feelings are implanted b) 
a Divine Power, to check the pride and exul- 
tation of genius, and to maintain the mind in 
lowly humility. Nor is Pope's reflection less 
just and affecting : ' ; The morning after my 
exit," he observes, " the sun will rise as 
bright as ever, the flowers smell as sweet, the 
plants spring as green, the world will proceed 
in its old course, and people laugh and marry 
as they were used to do."J 

What then is the moral that is conveyed 1 
If life be so evanescent, if its toils and labors. 
its sorrows and joys, so quickly pass away, 
it becomes us to leave some memorial behind, 

* See p. 166. 

t See Life a*d Writings of Edward Gibbon, p 30, pr» 
fixed to his •• Decline and Fall," &c. 
X See Pope's Letters. 



212 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



that we have not lived unprofitably either to 
ethers or to ourselves ; to keep the rnind free 
from prejudice, the heart from passion, and 
the life from error ; to enlighten the ignorant, 
to raise the fallen, and to comfort the de- 
pressed ; to scatter around us the endear- 
ments of kindness, and diffuse a spirit of 
righteousness, of benevolence, and of truth ; 
to enjoy the sunshine of an approving con- 
science, and the blessedness of inward joy 
and peace ; that thus, when the closing scene 
shall at length arrive, the ebbings of the dis- 
solving frame may be sustained by the 
triumph of Christian hope, and death prove 
the portal of immortality. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Jan. 5, 1785. 

I have observed, and you must have had 
occasion to observe it oftener than I, that 
when a man who once seemed to be a Chris- 
tian has put off that character and resumed 
his old one, he loses, together with the grace 
which he seemed to possess, the most amiable 
part of the character that he resumes. The 
best features of his natural face seem to be 
struck out, that after having worn religion 
only as a handsome mask he may make a 
more disgusting appearance than he did be- 
fore he assumed it. 

According to your request, I subjoin my 
epitaph on Dr. Johnson ; at least I mean to 
do it, if a drum, which at this moment an- 
nounces the arrival of a giant in the town, 
will give me leave. 

Yours, W. C. 

EPITAPH ON Dr. JOHNSON. 

Here Johnson lies — a sage, by all allow'd. 
Whom to have bred may well make England 

proud ; 
Whose prose was eloquence by wisdom taught 
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; 
Whose verse may claim, grave, masculine, and 

strong, 
Superior praise to the mere poet's song : 
Who many a noble gift from Heaven possess'd, 
And faith at last — alone worth all the rest. 
man immortal by a double prize. 
By fame on earth, by glory in the skies ! 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. 15, 1785. 

My dear William, — Your letters are always 
welcome. You can always either find some- 
thing to say, or can amuse me and yourself 
with a sociable and friendly way of saying no- 
thing. I never found that a letter was the 
more easily written, because the writing of it 
had been long delayed. On the contrary, ex- 
perience has taught me to answer soon, that 
[ may do it without difficulty. It is in vain 

* Private correspondence. 



to wait for an accumulation of materials in t 
situation such as yours and mine, productive 
of few events. At the end of our expecta- 
tions we shall find ourselves as poor as at the 
beginning. 

I can hardly tell you with any certainty of 
information, upon what terms Mr. Newton 
and I may be supposed to si and at present. 
A month (I believe) has passed since I heard 
from him. But my friseur, having been in 
London in the course of this week, whence 
he returned last night, and having called al 
Hoxton, brought me his love and an excusb 
for his silence, which, he said, had been oc- 
casioned by the frequency of his preaching!. 
at this season. He was not pleased that my 
manuscript was not first transmitted to him, 
and I have cause to suspect that he was even 
mortified at being informed that a certain in- 
scribed poem was not inscribed to himself 
But we shall jumble together again, as people 
that have an affection for each other at bot- 
tom, notwithstanding now and then a slight 
disagreement, always do. 

I know not whether Mr. has acted in 

consequence of your hint, or whether, not 
needing one, he transmitted to us his bounty 
before he had received it. He has however 
send us a note for twenty pounds; with 
which we have performed wonders in behalf 
of the ragged and the starved. He is a most 
extraordinary young man, and, though I shall 
probably never see him, will always have a 
niche in the museum of my reverential re- 
membrance. 

The death of Dr. Johnson has set a thou- 
sand scribbers to work, and me among the 
rest. While I lay in bed, waiting till I 
could reasonably hope that the parlor might 
be ready for me, I invoked the Muse and 
composed the following epitaph.* 

It is destined, I believe, to the " Gentle- 
man's Magazine," which I consider as a re- 
spectable repository for small matters, which, 
when entrusted to a newspaper, can expect 
but the duration of a day. But, Nichols hav- 
ing at present a small piece of mine in his 
hands, not yet printed, (it is called the 
Poplar Field* and I suppose you have it,) I 
wait till his obstetrical aid has brought that 
to light, before I send him a new one. In 
his last he published my epitaph upon 
Tiney ;f which, I likewise imagine, has been 
long in your collection. 

Not a word yet from Johnson ; I am easy 
however upon the subject, being assured 
that, so long as his own interest is at stake 
he will not want a monitor to remind him of 
the proper time to publish. 

* The same which has been inserted in the preceding 
tetter, 
t One of Cowper's favorite hares ■ 

" Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 
Nor swifter greyhound follow," &c. 

See Poems. 






LIFE OF COWPER. 



2; 



You and your family have our sincere love. 
Forget not to present my respectful compli- 
ments to Miss Unwin, and, if you have not 
done it already, thank her on my part for the 
vtit agreeable narrative of Lunardi. He is a 
young man, I presume, of great good sense 
and spirit, (his letters at least and his enter- 
prising turn bespeak him such,) a man quali- 
fied to shine not only among the stars,* but 
in the more useful though humbler sphere of 
terrestrial occupation. 

I have been crossing the channel in a bal- 
loon, ever since I read of that achievement 
by Blanchard.f I have an insatiable thirst to 
know the philosophical reason why his vehicle 
had like to have fallen into the sea, when, for 
aught that appears, the gas was not at all ex- 
hausted. Did not the extreme cold condense 
the inflammable air, and cause the globe to 
collapse? Tell me," and be my -Apollo for- 
ever. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

The incident connected with the Poplar 
Field, mentioned in the former part of the 
above letter, is recorded in the verses. The 
place where the poplars grew is called Laven- 
don Mills, about a mile from Olney ; it was 
one of Cowper's favorite walks. After a 
long absence, on revisiting the spot, he found 
the greater part of his beloved trees lying 
prostrate on the ground. Four only sur- 
vived, and they have recently shared *he 
same fate. But poetry can dignify the mi- 
nutest events, and convert the ardor of hope 
or the pang of disappointment into an oc- 
casion for pouring forth the sweet melody 
of song. It is to the above incident that we 
are indebted for the following verses, which 
unite the charm of simple imagery with a 
beautiful and affecting moral at the close. 

THE POPLAR FIELD. 

The poplars are felled farewell to the shade. 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves. 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed : since I last took a 

view 
Of my favorite field, and the bank where they 

grew ; 
And now in the grass behold they are laid. 
And the tree is my seat, ' that once lent me a 

shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the 
heat, 

* Lunardi's name is associated with the aeronauts of 
that time. 

t Blanchard, accompanied hy Dr. Jeffries, took his de- 
parture for Calais from the castle at Dover. When within 
ttve or six miles of the French co;tst, the balloon fell 
rapidly towards the sea, and, had it not been lightened 
wid a br oze sprung up, they must have perished in the 
raves. 



And the scene where his irielody chararc m« 

before, 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are hasting away 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they. 
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head. 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

The change both my heart and my fancy employs; 
I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys; 
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Jan. 22, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — The departure of the 
long frost, by which we were pinched and 
squeezed together for three weeks, is a most 
agreeable circumstance. The weather is now 
(to speak poetically) genial and jocund; and 
the appearance of the sun, after an eclipse, 
peculiarly welcome. For, were it not that I 
have a gravel walk about sixty yards long, 
where I take my daily exercise, I should be 
obliged to look at a fine day through the 
window, without any other enjoyment of it; 
a country rendered impassable by frost, that 
has been at last resolved into rottenness, 
keeps me so close a prisoner. Long live the 
inventors and improvers of balloons! It is 
always clear overhead, and by and by we 
shall use no other road. 

How will the Parliament employ them- 
selves when they meet ? — to any purpose, or 
to none, or only to a bad one ? They are 
utterly oat of my favor. I despair of them 
altogether. Will they pass an act .for the 
cultivation of the royal wilderness] Will 
they make an effectual provision for a north- 
ern fishery ? Will they establish a new sink- 
ing fund that shall infallibly pay off the na- 
tional debt ? I say nothing about a more 
equal representation,! because, unless they 
bestow upon private gentlemen of no prop- 
erty the privilege of voting, I stand no 
chance of ever being represented myself. 
Will they achieve all these wonders or none 
of them? And shall I derive.no other ad- 
vantage from the great Wittena-Gemot of 
the nation, than merely to read their debates, 
for twenty folios of which I would not give 
one farthing? 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Feb. 7, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — We live in a state Oi 

* Private correspondence. 

t Mr. Pitt had introduced, at this time, his celebrated 
bill for effecting a reform in the national representation 
the leading feature of which was to transfer the elective 
franchise from the smaller and decayed boroughs to th« 
larger towns. The proposition was, howevei, rejected 
by a considerable majoritj 



such uninten up(ed retirement, in which inci- 
dents worthy to be recorded occur so seldom, 
that I always sit down to write with a dis- 
couraging conviction that I have nothing to 
say. The event commonly justifies the pres- 
age. For, when I have filled my sheet, I 
*ind that I have said nothing. Be it known 
to you, however, that I may now at least com- 
municate apiece of intelligence to which you 
will not be altogether indifferent ; that I have 
received and returned to Johnson the two 
first proof-sheets of my new publication. 
The business was despatched indeed a fort- 
night ago, since when I have heard from him 
no further. From such a beginning, how- 
ever, I venture to prognosticate .the progress, 
and in due time the conclusion of the matter. 
In the last Gentleman's Magazine my Pop- 
lar Field appears. I have accordingly sent 
up two pieces more, a Latin translation of it, 
which you have never seen, and another on 
a rose-bud, the neck of which I inadvertently 
broke, which whether you have seen or not 
I know not. As fast as Nichols prints off 
the poems I send him, I send him new ones. 
My remittance usually consists of two ; and 
he publishes one of them at a time. I may 
indeed furnish him at this rate, without put- 
ting myself to any great inconvenience. For 
my last supply was transmitted to him in 
August, and is but now exhausted. 

I communicate the following at your 
mother's instance, who will suffer no part of 
my praise to be sunk in oblivion. A certain 
lord has hired a house at Clifton, in our 
neighborhood, for a hunting seat.* There 
he lives at present with his wife and daughter. 
They are an exemplary family in some re- 
spects, and (I believe) an amiable one in all. 
The Reverend Mr. Jones, the curate of that 
parish, who often dines with them by invita- 
tion on a Sunday, recommended my volume 
to their reading; and his lordship, after having 
perused a part of it, expressed an ardent de- 
sire to be acquainted with the author, from 
motives which my great modesty will not 
suffer me to particularize. Mr. Jones, how- 
ever, like a wise man, informed his lordship 
that, for certain special reasons and causes, I 
had declined going into company for many 
years, and that therefore he must not hope 
for my acquaintance. His lordship most 
civilly subjoined that he was sorry for it. 
"And is that all ?" say you. Now were I to 
hear you say so, I should look foolish and 
say, " Yes." But, having you at a distance, I 
snap my fingers at you and say, " No that is 

not all." Mr. , who favors us now 

and then with his company in an evening as 
usual, was not long since discoursing with 
that eloquence which is so peculiar to him- 
self, on the many providential interpositions 
jiat had taken place in his favor. " He had 
* Lord Peterborough. 



wished for many things," he said, " which, ai 
the time when he formed these wishes, seemed 
distant and improbable, some of them indeed 
impossible. Among other wishes that h*» 
had indulged, one was that he might be con- 
nected with men of genius and ability — and 
in my connexion with this worthy gentleman,' 
said he, turning to me, " that wish, I am sure, 
is amply gratified." You may suppose that 
I felt the sweat gush out upon my forehead 
when I heard this speech ; and if you do, you 
will not be at all mistaken. So much was I 
delighted with the delicacy of that incense. 

Thus far I proceeded easily enough ; and 
here I laid down my pen, and Spent some 
minutes in recollection, endeavoring to find 
some subject with which I might fill the little 
blank that remains. But none presents itself 
Farewell therefore, and remember those who 
are mindful of you ! 

Present our love to all your comfortable 
fireside, and believe me ever most affection- 
ately yours, W. C. 

They that read Greek with the accents, 
would pronounce the s in fiXsu as an v. But 
I do not hold with that practice, though edu- 
cated in it. I should therefore utter it just 
as I do the Latin word jilio, taking the quan- 
tity for my guide. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Feb. 19, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I am obliged to you for 
apprising me of the various occasions of de- 
lay to which your letters are liable. Fur- 
nished with such a key, I shall be able to ac- 
count for any accidental tardiness, without 
supposing anything worse than that you 
yourself have been interrupted, or that your 
messenger has not been punctual. 

Mr. Teedon has just left us.f He came to 
exhibit to us a specimen of his kinsman's 
skill in the art of book-binding. The book 
on which he had exercised his ingenuity was 
your life. You did not indeed make a very 
splendid appearance; but, considering that 
you were dressed by an untaught artificer, 
and that it was his first attempt, you had no 
cause to be dissatisfied. The young man has 
evidently the possession of talents, by which 
he might shine for the benefit of others and 
for his own, did not his situation smother 
him. He can make' a dulcimer, tune it, play 
upon it, and with common advantages would 
undoubtedly have been able to make a harp- 
sicord. But unfortunately he lives where 
neither the one nor the other is at all in 
vogue. He can convert the shell of a cocoa, 
nut into a decent drinking-cup ; but, when hi 

* Private correspondence. 

t He was an intelligent schoolmaster at Olnev. 



has djne, lie must either fill it at the pump, 
or use it merely as an ornament of his own 
mantel-tree. In like manner, he can bind a 
book ; but, if he would have books to bind, 
he must either make them or buy them, for 
we have few or no literati at Olney. Some 
men have talents with which they do mis- 
chief; and others have talents with which if 
they do no mischief to others, at least they 
can do but little gcod to themselves. They 
are however always a blessing, unless by our 
own folly we make them a curse ; for. if we 
cannot turn them to a lucrative account, they 
may however furnish us, at many a dull sea- 
son, witli the means of innocent amusement. 
Such is the use that Mr. Killing-worth makes 
of his ; and this evening we have, I think, 
made him happy, having furnished him with 
two octavo volumes, in which the principles 
and practise of all ingenious arts are incul- 
cated and explained. I make little doubt 
that, by the help of them, he will in time be 
able to perform many feats, for which he 
will never be one farthing the richer, but by 
which nevertheless himself and his kin will 
)e much diverted. 

The winter returning' upon us at this late 
season with redoubled severity is an event 
unpleasant even to us who are well furnished 
with fuel, and seldom feel much of it, unless 
when we step into bed or get out of it ; but 
how much more formidable to the poor! 
When ministers talk of resources, that word 
never fails to send my imagination into the 
mud-wall cottages of our poor at Olney. 
There I find assembled in one individual the 
miseries of age, sickness, and the extremest 
penury. We have many such instances 
around us. The parish perhaps allows such 
a one a shilling a week ; but, being numbed 
with cold and crippled by disease, she cannot 
possibly earn herself another. Such persons 
therefore suffer all that famine can inflict 
upon them, only that they are not actually 
starved ; a catastrophe which so many of 
them I suppose would prove a happy release- 
One cause of all this misery is the exorbitant 
taxation with which the country is encum- 
bered, so that to the poor the few pence they 
are able to procure have almost lost their 
value. Yet the budget will be opened soon, 
and soon we shall hear of resources. But I 
could conduct the statesman who rolls down 
to the House in a chariot as splendid as that 
of Phaeton into scenes that, if he had any 
sensibility for the woes of others, would 
make him tremble at the mention of the 
word. — This, however, is not what I intended 
when I began this paragraph. I was going 
to observe that, of all the winters we have 
passed at Olney, and this is the seventeenth, 
the present has confined us most. Thrice, 
ind but thrice, since the middle of October, 
aave we escaped into the fields for a little 



fresh air and a little change of motion. The 
last time indeed it was at some peril that w^ 
did it, Mrs. Unwin having slipped into a ditch 
and, thoug i I performed the part of an active 
'squire upon the occasion, escaped out of it 
upon her hands and knees. 

if the town afford any other news than I 
here send you, it has not reached me yet. I 
am in perfect health, at least of body, and 
Mrs. Unwin is tolerably well. Adieu ! We 
remember you always, you and yours, with 
as much affection as you can desire ; which 
being said, and said truly, leaves me quite at 
a loss for any other conclusion than that of 

W. C 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Feb. 27, 1785 

My dear Friend, — I write merely to in- 
quire after your health, and with a sincere 
desire to hear that you are better. Horace 
somewhere advises his friend to give his 
client the slip, and come and spend the even- 
ing with him. I am not so inconsiderate as 
to recommend, the same measure to you, be- 
cause we are not such very near neighbors 
as a trip of that sort requires that we should 
be. But I do verily wish that you would fa- 
vor me with just five minutes of the time that 
properly belongs to your clients, and place 
it to my account. Employ it, I mean, in 
telling me that you are better at least, if not 
recovered. 

I have been pretty much indisposed myself 
since I wrote last; but except in point of 
strength am now as well as before. My dis- 
order was what is commonly called and best 
understood by the name of a thorough cold; 
which being interpreted, no doubt you well 
know, signifies shiverings, aches, burnings, 
lassitude, together with many other ills that 
flesh is heir to. James's powder is. my nos- 
trum on all such occasions, and. never fails. 
Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 

The next letter discovers the playful and 
sportive wit of Cowper. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, March 19, 178:. 

My dear Friend, — You will wonder Dc 
doubt when I tell you that I write upon a 
card-table ; and will be still more surprised 
when I add that we breakfast, dine, sup, 
upon a card-table. In short, it serves all 
purposes, except the only one for which it 
was originally designed. The solution of 
this mystery shall follow, lest it should run 
in your head at a wrong time, and should 
puzzle you perhaps* when you are on the 
point of ascending your pulpit : for I have 
* Private correspondence. 



216 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



leard you say that at such seasons your 
mind is often troubled with impertinent in- 
trusions. The round table which we for- 
merly had in use was unequal to the pressure 
of my superincumbent breast and elbows. 
When I wrote upon it, it creaked and tilted, 
and by a variety of inconvenient tricks dis- 
turbed the process. The fly-table was too 
slight and too small ; the square dining-table 
too heavy and too large, occupying, when its 
leaves were spread, almost the whole parlor : 
and the sideboard-table, having its station at 
too great a distance from the fire, and not 
being easily shifted out of its place and into 
it again, by reason of its size, was equally 
unfit for my purpose. The card-table, there- 
fore, which had for sixteen years been ban- 
ished as mere lumber ; the card-table, which 
is covered with green baize, and is therefore 
preferable to any other that has a slippery 
surface ; the card-table, that stands firm and 
never totters, — is advanced to the honor of 
assisting me upon my scribbling occasions, 
and, because we choose to avoid the trouble 
of making frequent changes in the position 
of our household furniture, proves equally 
serviceable upon all others. It has cost us 
now and then the downfall of a glass : for, 
when covered with a table-cloth, the fish- 
ponds are not easily discerned; and, not 
being seen, are sometimes as little thought 
of. But, having numerous good qualities 
which abundantly compensate that single in- 
convenience, we spill upon it our coffee, our 
wine, and our ale, without murmuring, and 
resolve that it shall be our table still to the 
exclusion of all others. Not to be tedious, I 
will add but one more circumstance upon the 
subject, and that only because it will impress 
upon you, as much as anything that I have 
said, a sense of the value we set upon its es- 
critorial capacity. Parched and penetrated 
on one side by the heat of the fire, it has 
opened into a large fissure, which pervades 
not the moulding of it only, but the very 
substance of the plank. At the mouth of 
this aperture a sharp splinter presents itself, 
which, as sure as it comes in contact with a 
gown or an apron, tears it. It happens un- 
fortunately to be on that side of this excel- 
lent and never-to-be-forgotton table which 
Mrs. Unwin .sweeps with her apparel almost 
as often as she rises from her chair. The 
consequences need not, to use the fashionable 
phrase, be given in detail : but the needle 
sets all to rights; and the card-table still 
uolds possession of its functions without a 
rival. 

Clean roads and milder weather have once 
more released us, opening a way for our es- 
cape into our accustomed walks. We have 
both I believe been sufferers by such a long 
confinement. Mrs. Unwin has had a nervous 
rever all the winter, and I a stomach that has 



quarrelled with everything, and not seldoa 
even with its bread and butter. Her com- 
plaint I hope is at length removed; but mine 
seems more obstinate, giving way to nothing 
that I can oppose to it, except just in the 
moment when the opposition ' is made. 1 
ascribe this malady — both our maladies, in 
deed — in a great measure to our want of ex- 
ercise. We have each of us practised more 
in other days than lately we have been able 
to take ; and, for my own part, till I was more 
than thirty years old, it was almost essential 
to my comfort to be perpetually in motion. 
My constitution therefore misses, I doubt not 
its usual aids of this kind ; and, unless foi 
purposes which I cannot foresee, Providence 
should interpose to prevent it, will probably 
reach the moment of its dissolution the 
sooner for being so little disturbed. A vitia- 
ted digestion I believe always terminates, ii 
not cured, in the production of some chroni- 
cal disorder. In several I have known it 
produce a dropsy. But no matter Death is 
inevitable ; and whether we die to-day or to- 
morrow, a watery death or a dry one, is of no 
consequence. The state of our spiritual 
health is all. Could 1 discover a few more 
symptoms of convalescence there, this body 
might moulder into its original dust, without 
one sigh from me. Nothing of all this did 1 
mean to say ; but I have said it, and must now 
seek another subject. 

.One of our most favorite walks is spoiled. 
The spinney is cut down to the stumps — 
even the lilacs and the syringas, to the stumps. 
Little did I think, (though indeed I might have 
thought it.) that the trees which screened me 
from the sun last summer would this winter 
be employed in roasting potatoes and boiling 
tea-kettles for the poor of Olney. But so it 
has proved ; and we ourselves have at this 
moment more than two wagon-loads of them 
in our wood-loft. 

Such various service* can trees perform; 
Whom once they screen'd from heat, in time they 
warm. 

A letter from Manchester reached our town 
last Sunday, addressed to the mayor or othsr 
chief magistrate of Olney. The purport of it 
was to excite him and his neighbors to peti- 
tion Parliament against the concessions to 
Ireland that Government has in contempla- 
tion. Mr. Maurice Smith, as constable, took 
the letter. But whether that most respecta- 
ble personage amongst us intends to comply 
with the terms of it, or not, I am ignorant. 
For myself, however, I can pretty well an 
swer, that I shall sign no petition of the sort 
both because I do not- think myself compe- 
tent to a right understanding of the question, 
and because it appears to me that, whatever 
be the event, no place in England can be less 
concerned in it than Olney. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



21 



We rejoice that you are all well. Our love 
attends Mrs. Newton and yourself, and the 
young ladies. 

I am yours, my dear friend, as usual, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

4 . Olney, March 20, 1785. 

My dear William, — I thank you for your 
letter. It made me laugh, and there are not 
many things capable of being contained 
within the dimensions of a letter for which I 
see cause to be more thankful. I was pleased 
too to see my opinion of his lordship's noro- 
chalcfiice, upon a subject that you had so 
much at heart, completely verified. I do not 
know that the eye of a nobleman was ever 
dissected. I cannot help supposing, however, 
that were that organ, as it exists in the head 
of such a personage, to be accurately ex- 
amined, it would be found to differ materi- 
ally in its construction from the eye of a 
commoner ; so very different is the view that 
men in an elevated and in an humble station 
have of the same object. What appears 
great, sublime, beautiful, and important to 
you and to me, when submitted to my lord 
or his grace, and submitted too with the ut- 
most humility, is either too minute to be visi- 
ble at all, or, if seen, seems trivial and of no 
account. My supposition therefore seems 
not altogether chimerical. 

In two months I have corrected proof- 
sheets to the amount of ninety-three pages, 
and no more. In other words, I have re- 
ceived three packets. Nothing is quick 
enough for impatience, and I suppose that 
the impatience of an author has the quickest 
of all possible movements. It appears to me, 
however, that at this rate we shall not pub- 
lish till next autumn. Should you happen 
therefore to pass Johnson's door, pop in your 
head as you go, and just insinuate to him 
that, were his remittances rather more fre- 
quent, that frequency would be no inconve- 
nience to me. I much expected one this 
evening, a fortnight having now elapsed since 
the arrival of the last. But none came, and 
I felt myself a little mortified. I took up the 
newspaper, however, and read it. There I 
found that the emperor and the Dutch are, 
after all their negotiations, going to war. 
iSuch reflections as these struck me. A great 
part of Europe is going to be involved in the 
greatest of all calamities : troops are in mo- 
tion — artillery is drawn together — cabinets 
are busied in contriving schemes of blood 
and devastation — thousands will perish who 
are incapable of understanding the dispute, 
and thousands who, whatever the event may 
be, are little more interested in it than my- 
self, will suffer unspeakable hardships in the 
*ourse of the quarrel —Well ! Mr. Poet, and 



how then ? You have composed certain 
verses, which you are desirous to see in 
print, and, because the impression seems to 
be delayed, you are displeased, not to say 
dispirited. Be ashamed of yourself! you 
live in a world in which your feelings may 
find worthier subjects — be concerned for the 
havoc of nations, and mourn over your re- 
tarded volume when you find a dearth of 
more important tragedies ! 

You postpone certain topics of conference 
to our next meeting. When shall it take 
place ? I do not wish for you just now, be- 
cause the garden is a wilderness, and so is 
all the country around us. In May we shall 
have 'sparagus, and weather in Which we 
may stroll to Weston; at least we may hope 
for it ; therefore come in May : you will find 
us happy to receive you and as much of your 
fair household as you can bring with you. 

We are very sorry for your uncle's indis- 
position. The approach of summer seems 
however to be in his favor, that season being 
of all remedies for the rheumatism, I believe 
the most effectual. 

I thank you for your intelligence concern 
ing the celebrity of John Gilpin. You may 
be sure that it was agreeable ; but your own 
feelings, on occasion of that article, pleased 
me most of all. Well, my friend, be com- 
forted! You had not an opportunity of say- 
ing publicly, " I know the author." But the 
author himself will say as much for you 
soon, and perhaps will feel- in doing so a 
gratification equal to your own.* 

In the affair of face-painting, I am precisely 
of your opinion. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney, April 9, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — In a letter to the printer 
of the Northampton Mercury, we have the 
following history: — An ecclesiastic of the 
name of Ziehen, German superintendent or 
Lutheran bishop of Zetterfeldt, in the year 
1779 delivered to the courts of Hanover and 
Brunswick a prediction to the following pur- 
port: that an earthquake is at hand, the 
greatest and most destructive ever known ; 
that it will originate in the Alps and in their 
neighborhood, especially at Mount St. Goth- 
ard ; at the foot of which mountain it seems 
four rivers have their source, of which the 
Rhine is onej — the names of the rest I have 
forgotten — they are all to be swallowed up ; 

* He alludes to the poem of "Tirocinium," which was 
inscribed to Mr. Unwin. 

t Private correspondence. 

t This is a geographical error. The Rhine takes its 
rise in the canton of the Grisons. It is the Rhone which 
derives its source from the western flank of Mount St 
Gothard, where there are three springs, which unita 
their waters to that torrent. The river Aar rises not ffV 
distant, but there is no other river. — Ed. 



timt the earth will open into an immense fis- 
sure, which will divide all Europe, reaching 
from the aforesaid mountain to the states of 
Holland ; that the Zuyder Sea will be ab- 
sorbed in the gulf; that the Bristol Channel 
will be no more ; in short, that the north of 
Europe will be separated from the south, and 
that seven thousand cities, towns, and vil- 
lages will be destroyed. This prediction he 
delivered at the aforesaid courts in the year 
seventy-nine, asserting that in February fol- 
lowing the commotion would begin, and that 
by Easter 1786 the whole would be accom- 
plished. Accordingly, between the 15th and 
27th of February, in the year eighty, the pub- 
lic gazettes and newspapers took notice of 
several earthquakes in the Alps, and in the 
regions at their foot; particularly about 
Mount St. Gothard. From this partial ful- 
filment, Mr. O r argues the probability of 

a complete one, and exhorts the world to 
watch and be prepared. He adds moreover 
that Mr. Ziehen was a pious man, a man of 
science, and a man of sense ; and that when 
he gave in his writing he offered to swear to 
it — I suppose, as a revelation from above. 
He is since dead. 

Nothing in the whole affair pleases .me so 
much as that he has named a short day for 
the completion of his prophecy. It is tedious 
work to hold the judgment in suspense for 
many years ; but anybody methinks may wait 
with patience till a twelvemonth shall pass 
away, especially when an earthquake of such 
magnitude is in question. I do not say that 
Mr. Ziehen is deceived ; but, if he be not, I 
will say that he is the first modern prophet 
who has not both been a subject of deception 
himself and a deceiver of others. A year 
will show. 

Our love attends all your family. Believe 
me, my dear friend, affectionately yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, April 22, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — When I received your 
account of the great celebrity of John Gilpin, 
I felt myself both flattered and grieved. 
Being man, and having in my composition 
all the ingredients of which other men are 
made, and vanity among the rest, it pleased 
me to reflect that I was on a sudden become 
so famous, and that all the world was busy 
inquiring after me: but the next moment, 
recollecting my former self, and that thirteen 
years ago, as harmless as John's history is, I 
should not then have written it, my spirits 
Bank, and I was ashamed of my success. 
Your letter was followed the next post by 
one from Mr. Unwin. You tell me that I 
* Private correspondence. 



am rivalled by Mrs. Bellamy ;* and he, thai 
I have a competitor for fame not less formid* 
able in the Learned Pig. Alas! what is an 
author's popularity worth in a world that can 
suffer a prostitute on one side, and a pig on 
the other, io eclipse his brightest glories 1 J 
am therefore sufficiently humbled by these 
considerations ; and, unless I should here- 
after be ordained to engross the public atten 
tion by means more magnificent than a song, 
am persuaded that I shall suffer no real de- 
triment by their applause. I have produced 
many things, under the influence of despair, 
which hope would not have permitted to 
spring. But if the soil of that melancholy 
in which I have walked so long, has tnVown 
up here and there an unprofitable fungus, it 
is well at least that it is not chargeable with 
having brought forth poison. Like you, I 
see, or think I can see, that Gilpin may have 
his use. Causes, in appearance trivial, pro- 
duce often the most beneficial consequences ; 
and perhaps my volumes may now travel to 
a distance, which, if they had not been ush- 
ered into the world by that notable horse- 
man, they would never have reached. Our 
temper differs somewhat from that cf the 
ancient Jews. They would neither dance 
nor weep. We indeed weep not, if a man 
mourn unto us ; but I must needs say that, 
if he pipe, we seem disposed to dance with 
the greatest alacrity. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, April 30, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I return you thanks for 
a letter so warm with the intelligence of the 
celebrity of John Gilpin. I little thought, 
when I mounted him upon my Pegasus, -that 
he would become so famous. I have learned 
also from Mr. Newton that he is equally re- 
nowned in Scotland, and that a lady there 
had undertaken to write a second part, on 
the subject of Mrs. Gilpin's return to Lon- 
don; but, not succeeding in it as she wished, 
she dropped it. He tells me likewise that 
the head master of St. Paul's school (who 
he is I know not) has conceived, in conse 
quence of the entertainment that John has af- 
forded him, a vehement desire to write to me. 
Let us hope he will alter his mind; for, 
should we even exchange civilities on the 
occasion, Tirocinium will spoil all. The 
great estimation however in which this 
knight of the stone-bottles is held may turn 
out a circumstance propitious to the volume, 
of which his history will make a part. Those 
events that prove the prelude to our greatest 
success are often apparently triv^s. in them- 

* A celebrated actress, who wrote her memoirs, wbi.'li 
vere much read at that time 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



213 



selves, and such as seemed tc promise no- 
tfr'ng. The disappointment that Horace men- 
liens is reversed — We design a mug, and it 
proves a hogshead. It is a little hard that 1 
alone should be unfurnished with a printed 
copy of this facetious story. When you 
visit London next, you must buy the most 
elegant impression of it, and bring it with 
you. I thank you also for writing to John- 
son. I likewise wrote to him myself. Your 
letter and mine together have operated to 
admiration. There needs nothing more but 
that the effect be lasting, and the whole will 
soon be printed. We now draw towards 
the middle of the fifth book of " The Task." 
The man, Johnson, is like unto some vicious 
horses that I have known. They would not 
budge till they were spurred, and when they 
were spurred they would kick. So did he — 
his temper was somewhat disconcerted ; but 
his pace was (Juickened, and I was con- 
tented. 

I was very much pleased with the follow- 
ing sentence in Mr. Newton's last — "I am 
perfectly satisfied with the propriety of your 
proceeding as to the publication." — Now, 
therefore, we are friends again. Now he 
once more inquires after the work, which, 
till he had disburdened himself of this ac- 
knowledgment, neither he nor I in any of 
our letters to each other ever mentioned. 
►Some side-wind has wafted to him a report 
of those reasons by which I justified my con- 
duct. I never made a secret of them. Both 
your mother and I have studiously deposited 
them with those who we thought were most 
likely to transmit them to him. They wanted 
only a hearing, which once obtained, their 
solidity and cogency were such that they 
were sure to prevail. 

You mention . I formerly knew the 

man you mention, but his elder brother much 
better. We were school-fellows, and he was 
one of a club of seven Westminster men, to 
which I belonged, who dined together every 
Thursday. Should it please God to give me 
ability to perform the poet's part to some 
purpose, many whom I once called friends, 
but who have since treated me with a most 
magnificent indifference, will be ready to 
take me by the hand again, and some, whom 
I neyer held in that estimation, will, like 
, who was but a boy when I left Lon- 
don, boast of a connexion with me Which 
they never had. Had I the virtues, and 
graces, and accomplishments of St. Paul 
himself, I might have them at Olney, and 
nobody would care a button about me, your- 
self and one or two more excep.ed. Fame 
begets favor, arid one talent, if it be rubbed 
a little bright by use and practice, will pro- 
cure a man more friends than a thousand vir- 
tues. Dr. Johnson (I believe), in the life of 
Dne of our poets, says that he retired from 



the world flattering himself that he should 
be regretted But the world never missed 
him. I think his observation upon it is, that 
the vacancy made by the retreat of any indi- 
vidual is soon filled up ; that a man may al- 
ways be obscure, if he chooses to be so ; and 
that he who neglects the world will be by the 
world neglected. 

Your mother and I walked yesterday in 
the Wilderness. As we entered the gate, a 
glimpse of something white, contained in a 
little hole in the gate-post, caught my eye. 
I looked again, and discovered a bird's nest, 
with two tiny eggs in it. By-and-by they 
will be fledged, and tailed, and get wing- 
feathers, and fly. My case is somewhat simi- 
lar to that of the parent bird. My nest is in 
a little nook. Here I brood and hatch, and 
in due time my progeny takes wing and 
whistles. 

We wait for the time of your coming with 
expectations. 

Yours truly, W. C. 



The following letter records an impressive 
instance of the instability of human life ; and 
also contains some references, of deep pathos, 
to his own personal history and feelings. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, May, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — I do not know that ) 
shall send you news; but, whether it be 
news or not, it is necessary that I should re- 
late the feet, lest I should omit an article of 
intelligence important at least at Olney. The 
event took place much nearer to you than to 
us, and yet it is possible that no account of 
it may yet have reached you. — Mr. Ash- 
burner the elder w T ent to London on Tues- 
day se'nnight in perfect health and in high 
spirits, so as to be remarkably cheerful ; and 
was brought home in a hearse the Friday 
following. Soon after his arrival in town, 
he complained of an acute pain in his elbow, 
then in his shoulder, then in both shoulders, 
was blooded ; took two doses of such medi- 
cine as an apothecary thought might do him 
good ; and died on Thursday in the morning 
at ten o'clock. When I first heard the ti- 
dings I could hardly credit them; and yet 
have lived long enough myself to have seen 
manifold and most convincing proofs that 
neither health, great strength, nor even youth 
itself afford the least security from the stroke 
of death. It is not common, however, fof 
men at the age of thirty-six to die so sud- 
denly. I saw him but a few days before, 
with a bundle of gloves and hatbands under 
his arm, at the door of Geary Ball, who lay 
at that time a corpse. The following day I 
* Private correspondence. 



220 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



saw him march before the coffin, and lead 
the procession that attended Geary to the 
grave. He might be truly said to march, for 
his step was heroic, his figure athletic, and 
his countenance as firm and confident as if 
he had been born only to bury others, and 
was sure never to be buried himself. Such 
he appeared to me, while. I stood at the win- 
dow and contemplated his deportment ; and 
then he died. 

I am sensible of the tenderness and affec- 
tionate kindness with which you recollect our 
past intercourse, and express your hopes of 
my future restoration. I too, within the last 
eight months have had my hopes, though 
they have been of short duration, cut off like 
the foam upon the waters. Some previous 
adjustments indeed are necessary, before a 
lasting expectation of comfort can have place 
in me. There are those persuasions in my 
mind which either entirely forbid the en- 
trance of hope, or, if it enter, immediately 
eject it. They are incompatible with any 
such inmate, and must be turned out them- 
selves before so desirable a guest can possi- 
bly have secure possession. This, you say, 
will be done. It may be, but it is not done 
yet ; nor has a single step in the course of 
God's dealings with me been taken towards 
it. If I mend, no creature ever mended so 
slowly that recovered at last. I am like a 
slug or snail, that has fallen into a deep well : 
slug as he is, he performs his descent with an 
alacrity proportioned to his weight ; but he 
does not crawl up again quite so fast. Mine 
was a rapid plunge ; but «my return to day- 
light, if I am indeed returning, is leisurely 
enough. I wish you a swift progress, and a 
pleasant one, through the great subject that 
you have in hand ;* and set that value upon 
your letters to which they are in themselves 
entitled, but which is certainly increased by 
that peculiar attention which the writer of 
them pays to me. Were I such as I once 
was, I should say that I have a claim upon 
your particular notice which nothing ought 
to supersede. Most of your other connex- 
ions you may fairly be said to have, formed 
by your own act ; but your connexion with 
me was the work of God. The kine that 
went up with the ark from Bethshemish left 
what they loved behind them, in obedience to 
an impression which to them was perfectly 
dark and unintelligible. f Your journey to 
Huntingdon was not less wonderful. He 
indeed who sent you knew well wherefore, 
but you knew not. That dispensation there- 
fore would furnish- me, as long as we can 
both remember it, with a plea for some dis- 
tinction at your hands, had I occasion to use 

* Mr. Newton was at this time preparing two volumes 
tf Sermons for the press, on the subject of the Messiah, 
preached on the occasion of the Commemoration of 
Handel. 

t See 1 Sail vi. 7—10, 



and urge it, which I have not. But I am al- 
tered since that time ; and if your affection 
for me has ceased, you might very reason, 
ably justify youi change by mine. I can say 
nothing for myself at present ; but this I can 
venture to foretell, that, should the restora- 
tion of which my friends assure me obtain, 1 
shall undoubtedly love those who have con- 
tinued to love me, even in a state of trans- 
formation from my former self, much more 
than. ever. I doubt not that Nebuchadnezzar 
had friends in his prosperity ; all kings have 
many. But when his nails became like 
eagles' claws, and he ate grass like an ox, 
suppose he had few to pity him. 

We are going to pay Mr. Pomfret* a morn 
ing visit. Our errand is to see a fine bed of 
tulips, a sight that I never saw. Fine paint- 
ing, and God the artist. Mrs. Unwin has 
something to say in the cover. I leave her 
therefore to make her owti courtesy, and 
only add that I am yours and Mrs. Newton's 
Affectionate W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney, June 4, 1-785. 

My dear Friend, — Mr. Greatheed had your 
letter the day after we received it.| He is a 
well-bred, agreeable young man, and one 
whose eyes have been opened, I doubt not, 
for the benefit of others, as well as for his 
own. He preached at Olney a day or two 
ago, and I have reason to think with accept- 
ance and success. One person, at least, who 
had been in prison some weeks, received his 
enlargement under him. I should have been 
glad to have been a hearer, but that privilege 
is not allowed me yet. 

My book is at length printed, and T re- 
turned the last proof to Johnson on Tuesday. 
I have ordered a copy to Charles Square, and , 
have directed Johnson to enclose one with it, 
addressed to John Bacon, Esq. I was obliged 
to give you this trouble, not being sure of 
the place of his abode. I have taken the 
liberty to mention him, as an artist, in terms 
that he well deserves. The passage was 
written soon after I received the engraving 
with which he favored me,§ and while the 
impression that it made upon me was yet 
warm. He will therefore excuse the liberty 
that I have taken, and place it to the account 
of those feelings which he himself excited. 

* The rector at that time of Emberton, near Olney. 

t Private correspondence. 

t The Rev. Mr. Greatheed was a man of piety and 
talent, and much respected in his day. He wrote a short 
and interesting memoir of Cowper. 

§ The engraving of Bacon's celebrated monument it 
Lord Chatham, in Westminster Abbey. 

The passage alluded to is as follows : — 

" Bacon there 

Gives more than female beauty to a stone 

And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips." 

The Task, Book I. 






LIFE OF COWPER. 



29* 



• The walking 1 season is returned. We 
visit the Wilderness daily. Mr. Throckmor- 
ton last summer presented me with the key 
of his garden. The family are all absent, 
except the priest and a servant or two ; so 
that the honeysuckles, lilacs, and syringas, 
are all our own. 

We are well, and our united love attends 
yourselves and the young ladies. 
Yours, my dear friend, 

With much affection, W. C. 



- TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, June 25, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I write in a nook that I 
call my boudoir. It is a summer-house not 
much bigger than a sedan-chair, the door of 
which opens into the garden, that is now 
crowded with pinks, roses, and honeysuckles, 
and the window into my neighbor's orchard. 
It formerly served an apothecary, now dead, 
as a smoking-room ; and under my feet is a 
trap-door which once covered a hole in the 
ground, where he kept his bottles ; at pres- 
ent, however, it is dedicated to sublimer 
uses. Having lined it with garden-mats, and 
furnished it with a table and two chairs, here 
I write all that I write in summer time, 
whether to my friends or to the public. It 
is secure from all noise, and a refuge from 
all intrusion ; for intruders sometimes trouble 
me in the winter evenings at Olney : but 
(thanks to my boudoir /) I can now hide my- 
self from them. A poet's retreat is sacred : 
they acknowledge the truth of that proposi- 
tion, and never presume to violate it.* 

The last sentence puts me in mind to tell 
-you that I have ordered my volume to your 
door. My bookseller is the most dilatory of 
all his fraternity, or you .would have re- 
ceived it long since. It is more than a month 
since I returned him the last proof, and con- 
sequently, since the printing was finished. I 
sent him the manuscript at the beginning of 
last November, that he might publish while 
the town was full, and he will hit the exact 
moment when it is entirely empty. Patience 
(you will perceive) is in no situation ex- 
empted from the severest trials; a remark 
that may serve to comfort you under the 
numberless trials of your own. 

W. C. 

* Cowper's summer-house is still in existence. It is a 
small, humble building, situate at the back of the prem- 
ises which he occupied at Olney, and commanding a full 
view of the church and of the vicarage-house. Humble 
however as it appears, it is approached with those feel- 
ing* of veneration which the scene of so many interest- 
ing recollections cannot fail to inspire. There he wrote 
" The Task," and most of his Poems, except during the 
rigor of the winter months. There too he carried on 
that epistolatory correspondence, which is distinguished 
by so much wit, ease and gracefulness, and by the over- 
flowings of a warm and affectionate heart. No traveller 
seems to enter without considering it to be the shrine of 
the muses, and leaving behind a poetical tribute to 
the memory of so distinguished an author. 



Cowper again feelingly alludes in the let- 
ter which follows, to that absence of menta* 
comfort under which he so habitually la« 
bored. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON .* 

Olney, June 25, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — A note that we received 
from Mr. Scott, by your desire, informing us 
of the amendment of Mrs. Newton's health, 
demands our thanks, having relieved us from 
no little anxiety upon her account. The 
welcome purport of it was soon alter con- 
firmed, so that at present we feel ourselves 
at liberty to hope that by this time Mrs. 
Newton's recovery is complete. Sally's looks 
do credit to the air of Hoxton. She seems 
to have lost nothing, either in complexion or 
dimensions, by her removal hence ; and, 
which is still more to the credit of your 
great town, she seems in spiritual things 
also to be the very same Sally whom we 
knew once at Olney. Situation therefore is 
nothing. They who have the means of grace 
and an art to use them, will thrive anywhere ; 
others, nowhere. More than a few, -who 
were formerly ornaments of this garden 
which you once watered, here flourished, and 
here have seemed to wither. Others, trans- 
planted into a soil apparently less favorable 
to their growth, either find the exchange an 
advantage, or at least are not impaired by it. 
Of myself, who had once both leaves and 
fruit, but who have now T neither, I say notl 
ing, or only this — that when I am over- 
whelmed with despair I repine at my barren- 
ness, and think it hard to be thus blighted ■ 
but when a glimpse of hope breaks in upon 
me, I am contented to be the sapless thing I 
am, knowing that He who has commanded 
me to wither can command me to flourish 
again when He pleases. My Experiences 
however of this latter kind are rare and tran- 
sient. The light that reaches me cannot be 
compared either to that of the sun or of the 
moon. It is a flash in a dark night, during 
whieh the heavens seem opened only to shut 
again. 

We inquired, but could not learn, that 
anything memorable passed in the last mo- 
ments of poor Nathan. I listened in expec- 
tation that he would at least acknowledge 
what all who knew him in his more lively 
days had so long seen and lamented, his 
neglect of the best things, and his eager pur- 
suit of riches. But he was totally silent 
upon that subject. Yet it was evident that 
the cares of the world had choked in him 
much of the good seed, and that he was no 
longer the Nathan whom we have so often 
heard at the old house, rich in spirit, though 
pocr in expression: whose desires were un- 
utterable in every sense, both because the* 
* Private correspondence. 



222 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



were too big for language, and because Na- 
than had no language for them. I believe 
with you however that he is safe at home. 
He had a weak head and strong passions, 
which He who made him well knew, and for 
which He would undoubtedly make great 
allowance. The forgiveness of God is large 
and absolute ; so large, that though in gen- 
eral He calls for confession of our. sins, He 
sometimes dispenses with that preliminary, 
and will not suffer even the delinquent him- 
self to mention his transgression. He has 
so forgiven it, that He seems to have forgot- 
ten it too, and will have the sinner to forget 
it also. Such instances perhaps may not be 
common, but I know that there have been 
such, and it might be so with Nathan. 

I know not what Johnson is about, neither 
do I now inquire. It will be a month to- 
morrow since I returned him the last proof. 
He might, I suppose, have published by this 
time without hurrying himself into a fever, 
or breaking his neck through the violence of 
his despatch. But having never seen the 
Dook advertised, I conclude that he has not. 
Had the Parliament risen at the usual time, 
he would have been just too late, and though 
it sits longer than usual, or is likely to do 
so, I should not wonder if he were too late 
at last. Dr. Johnson laughs at Savage for 
charging the still-birth of a poem of his 
upon the bookseller's delay ; yet, when Dr. 
Johnson had a poem of his own to publish, 
no man ever discovered more anxiety to 
meet the market. But T have taken thought 
about it till I am grown weary of the subject, 
and at last have placed myself much at my 
ease upon the cushion of this one resolution, 
that, if ever I have dealings hereafter with 
my present manager, we will proceed upon 
other terms. 

. Mr. Wright called here last Sunday, by 
whom Lord Dartmouth made obliging inqui- 
ries after the volume, and was pleased to say 
that he was impatient to see it. I told him 
that I had ordered a copy to his lordship, 
which I hoped he would receive, if not soon, 
at least before he should retire into the 
country. I have also ordered one to Mr. 
Barham. 

We suffer in this country very much by 
drought. The corn, I believe, is in most 
places thin, and the hay harvest amounts in 
some to not more than the fifth of a crop. 
Heavy taxes, excessive levies for the poor, 
and lean acres, have brought our farmers al- 
most to their wits' end ; and many who are 
not farmers are not very remote from the 
same point of despondency. I do not de- 
spond, because I was never much addicted to 
anxious thoughts about the future in respect 
of temporals. But I feel myself a little an- 
grj with a minister who. when he imposed a 
lax ipon troves, was not ashamed to call 



them a luxury. Caps and boots lined witfc 
fur are not accounted a luxury in Russia 
neither can gloves 'be reasonably deemed 
such in a climate sometimes hardly less se- 
vere than that. Nature indeed is content 
with little, and luxury seems, in some re- 
spect, rather relative than of any fixed con- 
struction. Accordingly it may become in 
time a luxury for an Englishman to wear 
breeches, because it is possible to exist with- 
out them, and because persons of a moderate 
income may find them too expensive. I 
hope however to be hid in the dust before 
that day shall come ; for, having worn them 
so many years, if they be indeed a luxury, 
they are such a one as I could very ill spare ' 
yet spare them I must, if I cannot afford tc 
wear them. 

We are tolerably well in health, and as to 
spirits, much as usual — seldom better, some- 
times worse. 

Yours, my dear friend, affectionately, 

W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, July 9, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — You wrong your own 
judgment when you represent it as not to be 
trusted ; and mine, if you suppose that I 
have that opinion of it. Had you disap- 
proved, I should have been hurt and morti- 
fied. No man's disapprobation would have 
hurt me more. Your favorable sentiments 
of my book must consequently give me 
pleasure in the same proportion. By the 
post, last Sunday, I had a letter from Lord 
Dartmouth, in which he thanked me for my 
volume, of which he had read only a part. 
Of that part however he expresses himself in* 
terms with which my authorship has abun- 
dant cause to be satisfied ; and adds that the 
specimen has made him impatient for the 
whole. I have likewise received a letter 
from a judicious friend of mine in London, 
and a man of fine taste, unknown to you, 
who speaks of it in the same language 
Fortified by these cordials, I feel myself 
qualified to face the world without much 
anxiety, and delivered in a great measure 
from those fears which I suppose all men 
feel upon the like occasion. 

My first volume I sent, as you may remem- 
ber, to the Lord Chancellor, accompanied by 
a friendly but respectful epistle. His Lord- 
ship however thought it not worth his while 
to return me any answer, or to take the least 
notice of my present. I sent it also to Coi- 
man, with whom I once was intimate. He 
likewise proved too great a man to recollect 
me ; and, though he has published since, did 
not account it necessary to return the com 
pliment. I have allowed myself to be a little 
* Private < orresDOiidence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



22. 



pleased with an opportunity to show them 
that I resent their treatment of me, and have 
sent this book to neither of them. They in- 
leed are the former friends to whom I par- 
ticularly allude in my epistle to Mr, Hill; 
and it is possible that they may take to 
themselves a censure that they so well de- 
serve. If not, it matters not ; for I shall 
never have any communication with them 
hereafter. 

If Mr. Bates has found it difficult to fur- 
nish you with a motto to your volumes I 
have no reason to imagine that I shall do it 
easily. I shall not leave my books unran- 
sacked ; but there is something so new and 
peculiar in the occasion that suggested your 
subject, thai I question whether in all the 
classics can be found a sentence suited to it. 
Our sins and follies, in this country, assume 
a shape that heathen writers had never any 
opportunity to notice. They deified the 
dead indeed, but not in the Temple of Ju- 
piter.* The new-made god had an altar of 
his own ; and they conducted the ceremony 
without sacrilege or confusion. It is pos- 
sible however, and I think barely so, that 
somewhat may occur, susceptible of accom- 
nodation to your purpose ; and if it should, 

shall be happy to serve you with it. 

I told you, I believe, that the spinney has 
been cut down; and, though it may seem 
sufficient to have mentioned such an occur- 
rence once, I cannot help recurring to the 
melancholy theme. Last night,- at near nine 
o'clock, we entered it for the first time this 
summer. We had not walked many yards 
n it, before we perceived that this pleasant 
retreat is destined never to be a pleasant re- 
treat again. In one more year, the whole 
will be a thicket. That which was once the 
serpentine walk is now in a state of trans- 
formation, and is already become as woody 
as the rest. Poplars and elms without num- 
ber are springing in the turf. They are 
now as high as the knee. Before the sum- 
mer is ended they will be twice as high ; 
and the growth of another season will make 
them trees. It will then be impossible for 
any but a sportsman and his dog to penetrate 
; t. The desolation of the whole scene is 
such that it sank our spirits. The ponds are 
dry. The circular one, in front of the her- 
mitage, is filled with flags and rushes; so 
that if it contains any water, not a drop is 
visible. The weeping willow at the side of 

* Cowper alludes, in this passage, to the Commemora- 
tion of Handel, in Westminster Abbey, and its resem- 
blance to an act of canonization. His censure is doubly 
recorded ; in poetry, as well as in prose : — 
Ten thousand sit 

Patiently present at a sacred song, 

Commemoration mad ; content to hear 

(O wonderful effect of Music's power!) 

Messiah's eulug) for Handel's sake. 

"But less, methinKs, tfian sacrilege might serve," &c. 
The Task, Book VI. 



it, the only ornamental plant that has es. 
caped the axe, is dead. The ivy and the 
moss, with which the hermitage was lined, 
are torn away ; and the very mats that cov- 
ered the benches have been stripped off, 
rent in tatters, and trodden under foot. So 
farewell, spinney ; I have promised myself 
that I will never enter it again. We have 
both prayed in it : you for me, and I for you. 
But it is desecrated from this time forth, and 
the voice of prayer will be heard in it no 
more. The fate of it in this* respect, how- 
ever deplorable, is not peculiar. The spot 
where Jacob anointed his pillar, and, which 
is more apposite, the spot once honored 
with the presence of Him who dwelt in the 
bush, have long since suffered similar dis- 
grace, and are become common ground. 
, There is great severity in the application 
of the text you mention — I am their music. 
But it is not the worse for that. We both 
approve it highly. The other in Ezekiel 
does not seem quite so pat. The prophet 
complains that his word was to the people 
like a pleasant song, heard with delight, but 
soon forgotten. At the Commemoration, I 
suppose that the word is nothing, but the 
music all in all. The Bible however will 
abundantly supply you with applicable pas- 
sages. All passages, indeed, that animadvert 
upon the profanation of God's house and 
worship seem to present themselves upon 
the occasion. 

Accept our love and best wishes ; and be- 
lieve me, my dear friend, with warm and true 
affection, 

Yours, W C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, July 27, 1785. 

My dear William, — You and your party 
left me in a frame of mind that indisposed 
me much to company. I comforted myself 
with the hope that I should spend a silent 
day, in which I should find abundant leisure 
to indulge sensations, which, though of the 
melancholy kind, I yet wished to nourish. 
But that hope proved vain. In less than an 

hour after your departure, Mr. made 

his appearance at the greenhouse door. We 
were obliged to ask him to dinner, and he 
dined with us. He is an agreeable, sensible, 
well-bred young man, but with all his recom- 
mendations I felt that on that occasion 1 
could have spared him. So much better are 
the absent, whom we love much, than the 
present whom we love a little. I have how- 
ever made myself amends since, and, nothing 
else having interfered, have sent many a 
thought after you. 

You had been gone two days, when a vio- 
lent thunder-storm came over us. I wai 
passing out of the parlor into the hall, with 



224 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Mungo at my heels, when a flash seemed to 
fill the room with fire. In the same instant 
came the clap, so that the explosion was, I 
suppose, perpendicular to the roof. Mungo's 
courage upon the tremendous occasion con- 
strained me to smile, in spite of the solemn 
impression that such an event never fails to 
affect me with — the moment that he heard 
the thunder (which was like the burst of a 
great gun) with a wrinkled forehead, and 
with eyes directed to the ceiling, whence the 
sound seemed to proceed, he barked ; but he 
barked exactly in concert with the thunder. 
It thundered once, and he barked once, and 
so precisely the very instant when the thun- 
der happened, that both sounds seemed to 
begin and end together. Some dogs will 
clap their tails close, and sneak into a corner 
at such a time, but Mungo it seems is of a 
more fearless family. A house at no great 
distance from ours was the mark to which 
the lightning was directed ; it knocked down 
the chimney, split the building, and carried 
away the corner of the next house, in which 
lay a fellow drunk and asleep upon his bed. 
It roused and terrified him, and he promises 
to get drunk no more ; but I have seen a 
woeful end of many such conversions. I 
remember but one such storm at Olney since 
I have known the place, and I am glad that 
it did not happen two days sooner for the 
sake of the ladies, who would probably, one 
of them at least, have been alarmed by it, I 
have received, since you went, two very flat- 
tering letters of thanks, one from Mr. Bacon, 
and one from Mr. Barham, such as might 
make a lean poet plump and an humble poet 
proud. But, being myself neither lean nor 
humble, I know of no other effect they had 
than that they pleased me ; and I communi- 
cate the intelligence to you, not without an 
assured hope that you will be pleased also. 
We are now going to walk, and thus far I 
have written before I have received your 
letter. 

Friday. — I must now be as compact as 
possible. When I began, I designed four 
sides, but, my packet being tranformed into 
two single epistles, I can consequently afford 
you but three. I have filled a large sheet 
with animadversions upon Pope. I am pro- 
ceeding with my translation — 

" Veli9 et remis, omnibus nervis," 

as Hudibras has it; and if God give me 
health and ability, will put it into your hands 

when I see you next. Mr. has just left 

us. He has read my book, and, as if fearful 
that I had overlooked some of them myself, 
has pointed out to me all its beauties. I do 
assure you the man has a very acute discern- 
ment, and a taste that I have no fault to find 
Kith, I hope that you are of the same opinion. 
Be not sorry that your love of Christ was 



excited in you by a picture. Could a dog of 
a cat suggest to me the thought that < Christ 
is precious, I would not despise that though* 
because a dog or cat suggested it. ' The 
meanness of the instrument cannot debase 
the nobleness of the principle. He that 
kneels before a picture of Christ is an idola- 
ter. But he in Whose heart the sight of a 
picture kindles a warm remembrance of the 
Saviour's sufferings, must be a Christian. 
Suppose that I dream, as Gardiner did, that 
Christ walks before me, that he turns and 
smiles upon me, and fills my soul with inef- 
fable love and joy, will a man tell me that I 
am deceived, that I ought not to love or re- 
joice in him for such a reason, because a 
dream is merely a picture drawn upon the 
imagination ! 1 hold not with such divinity. 
To love Christ is the greatest dignity of man, 
be that affection wrought in him how it ma^. 
Adieu ! May the blessing of God be upon 
you all ! It is your mother's heart's wish 
and mine. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

The humble and unostentatious spirit and 
the fine tone of Christian feeling whicn per- 
vade the following letter, impart to it a pe- 
culiar interest. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Aug. 6, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — I found your account of 
what you experienced in your state of 
maiden authorship very entertaining, because 
very natural. I suppose that no man ever 
made his first sally from the press without a" 
conviction that all eyes and ears would be 
engaged to attend him, at least, without a 
thousand anxieties lest they should not. 
But, however arduous and interesting such 
an enterprise may be in the first instance, it 
seems to me that our feelings on the occa- 
sion soon become obtuse. I can answer at 
least for one. Mine are by no means what 
they were when I published my first volume. 
I am even so indifferent to the matter, that I 
can truly assert myself guiltless of the very 
idea of my book, sometimes w T hole days to- 
gether. God knows that, my mind having 
been occupied more than twelve years in the 
contemplation of the most distressing sub- 
jects, the world, and its opinion of what I 
write, is become as unimportant to me as the 
whistling of a bird in a bush. Despair made 
amusement nee'essary, and I found poetry the 
most agreeable amusement. Had I not en 
deavored to perform my best, it would no. 
have amused me at all. The mere blotting 
of so much paper would have been but indif- 
ferent sport. God gave me grace also to 
wish that I might not write in vain, Ac- 
* Private correspondence. 



iordingly I have mingled much truth with 
much trifle ; and such truths as deserved at 
least to be dad as well and as handsomely as 
I could clothe the'ra. If the world approve 
me not, so much the worse for them, but not 
for me. I have only endeavored to serve 
them, and the loss will be their own. And 
as to their commendations, if I should chance 
to win them. 1 feel myself equally invulner- 
able there. The view that I have had of 
myself, for many years, has been so truly 
humiliating, that I think the praises of all 
mankind could not hurt me. God knows 
that I speak my present sense of the matter 
at least most truly, when I say that the ad- 
miration of creatures like myself seems to 
me a weapon the least dangerous that my 
worst enemy could employ against me. I 
am fortified against it by such solidity of real 
self-abasement, that I deceive myself mo 4 
egregiously if I do not heartily despise it. 
Praise belongeth to God; and I seem to my- 
self to covet it no more than I covet divine 
honors. Could I assuredly hope that God 
would at last deliver me, I should have rea-, 
son to thank him for all that I have suffeied, 
were it only for the sake of this single fruit 
of my affliction — that it has taught me how 
much more contemptible I am in myself than 
I ever before suspected, and has reduced my 
former share of self-knowledge (of which at 
that time I had a tolerably good opinion) to 
a mere nullity, in comparison with what I 
have acquired since. Self is a subject of in- 
scrutable misery and mischief, and can never 
De studied to so much advantage as in the 
dark ; for as the bright beams of the sun 
seem to impart a beauty to the foulest ob- 
jects, and can make even a dunghill smile. 
.so the light of God's countenance, vouch- 
safed to a fallen creature, so sweetens him 
and softens him for the time, that he seems, 
both to others and to himself, to have noth- 
ing savage or sordid about him. But the heart 
is a nest of serpents, and will be such whilst 
it continues to beat. If God cover the mouth 
of that nest with his hand, they are hush and 
snug; but if he withdraw his hand, the whole 
family lift up their heads and hiss, and are as 
active and venomous as ever. This I always 
professed to believe from the time that I had 
embraced the truth, but never knew it as I 
know, it now. To what end I have been 
made to know it as I do, whether for the 
benefit of others, or for my own, or for 
both, or for neither, will appear hereafter. 

What I have written leads me naturally to 
the mention of a matter that I had forgot. I 
should blame nobody, not even my intimate 
friends, and those who have thfe most favor- 
able opinion of me, were they to charge the 
publication of John Gilpin, at the end of so 
much solemn and serious truth, to the score 
of the author's v*ani*y; and + o 



however sober I may be upon proper occa- 
sions. I have yet that itch of popularity that 
would not suffer me to sink my title to a jest 
that had been so successful. But the case is 
not such. When I sent the copy of " Thft 
Task" to Johnson, I desired, indeed, Mr. 
Unwin to ask him the question whether or 
not he would choose to make it a part of the 
volume? This I did merely with a view to 
promote the sale of it. Johnson answered, 
" By all means." Some months afterwards 
he enclosed a note to me in one of my pack- 
ers, in which he expressed a change of mind, 
alleging, that to print John Gilpin would 
only be to print what had been hackneyed in 
every magazine, in every shop, and at the 
corner of every street. I answered that I 
desired to be entirely governed by his opin- 
ion : and that if he chose to waive it, I 
should be better pleased with the omission. 
Nothing more passed between us upon the 
subject, and I concluded that I should never 
have the immortal honor of being generally 
known as the author of John Gilpin. In the 
last packet, however, down came John, very 
fairly printed and equipped for public ap 
pe. ranee. The business having taken this 
turn, I concluded that Johnson had adopted 
my original thought, that it might prove ad- 
vantageous to the sale; and as he had had 
the trouble and expense of printing it, I cor 
rected the copy, and let it pass. Perhaps, 
however, neither the book nor the writer 
may be made much more famous by John's 
good company than they would have been 
without if. for the volume has never yet 
been advertised, nor can I learn that Johnson 
intends it. He fears the expense, and the 
consequence must be prejudicial. Many who 
would purchase will remain uninformed: but 
I am perfectly content. 

I have considered your motto, and like the* 
purport of it ; but the best, because the most 
laconic manner of it, seems to be this — 

Cum talis sis, sis noster ; 

uiinam being, in my account of it, unneces- 
sary.* 

Yours, my dear friend, most truly, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN HEWTOff.f 

Olney, Aug. 17, I78S. 
My dear Friend, — I did very warmly and 
very sincerely thank Mr. Bacon for his most 
friendly and obliging letter : but, having writ- 
ten my acknowredgements in the cover, I 
suppose that they escaped your notice. I 
should i.ot have contented myself with trans- 
mitting them through your hands, but should 
o The original passage is as follows : — 

Cum talis sis, utinam uoster esses. 
If intended, therefore, as a quotation, it should be quoted 
witlio it alteration. 

• P ; <i?nce. 



2S6 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



have addressed them immediately to himself, 
but that I foresaw plainly this inconvenience: 
that in writing to him on such an occasion, I 
must jilmo.^t unavoidably make self and self's 
book the subject. Therefore it was, as Mr. 
Unwin can vouch for me, that I denied myself 
that pleasure. I place this matter now in the 
van of all that I have to say : first, that you 
may not overlook it ; secondly, because it is 
uppermost in my consideration ; and thirdly, 
because I am impatient to be exculpated from 
the seeming omission. 

You told me, I think, that ycru seldom read 
the papers. In our last we had an extract 
from Johnson's Diary, or whatever else he 
called it. It is certain that the publisher of 
it is neither much a friend to the cause of re- 
ligion, nor to the author's memory ; for, by 
the specimen of it that has reached us,, it 
seems to contain only such stuff as has a direct 
tendency to expose both to ridicule. His 
prayers for the dead, and his minute account 
of the rigor with which he observed church 
fasts, whether he drank tea or coffee, whether 
with sugar or without, and whether one or 
two dishes of either, are the most important 
items to be found in this childish register of 
the great Johnson, supreme dictator in the 
chair of literature, and almost a driveller in 
his closet ; a melancholy witness to testify 
how much of the wisdom of this world may 
consist with almost infantine ignorance of the 
affairs of a better. I remember a good man 
at Huntingdon, who, I doubt not, is now with 
God, and he also kept a Diary. After his 
death, through the neglect or foolish wanton- 
ness of his executors, it c:ime abroad for the 
amusement of his neighbors. All the town 
saw it, and all the town found it highly di- 
verting. It contained much more valuable 
matter than the poor Doctor's journal seems 
to do ; but it contained also a faithful record 
of all his deliverances from wind, (for he was 
much troubled with flatulence,) together with 
pious acknowledgments of the mercy. There 
is certainly a call for gratitude, whatsoever 
benefit we receive ; and it is equally certain 
that we ought to be humbled under the re- 
collection of our least offences ; but it would 
have been as well if neither my old friend 
had recorded his eructations, nor the Doctor 
his dishes of sugarless tea, or the dinner at 
which he ate too much. I wonder, indeed, 
that any man of such learned eminence as 
Johnson, who knew that every word he ut- 
tered was deemed oracular, and that every 
scratch of his pen was accounted a treasure, 
should leave behind him what he would have 
blushed to exhibit while he lived. If Virgil 
would have burnt his JSneid, how much more 
reason had these good men to have burnt 
their journals! 

Mr. Perry will leave none such behind him. 
He is dying, as I suppose you have heard. 



Dr. Kerr, who, I think, has visited him twice 
or thrice, desired at his last visit to be no 
more sent for. He pronounced his case hope- 
less ; for that his thigh and leg must mortify. 
He is however in a most comfortable frame 
of mind. So long as he thought it possible 
that he might recover, he was much occupied 
with a review of his ministry ; and, under a 
deep impression of his deficiencies in that 

function, assured Mr. R that he intended, 

when he should enter upon it again, to be 
much more diligent than he had been. He 
was conscious, he said, that many fine things 
had been said of him ; but that, though he 
trusted he had found grace so to walk as not 
to dishonor his office, he was conscious at the 
same time how little he deserved them. This, 
with much more to the same purport, passed 

on Sunday last. On Thursday, Mr. R 

was with him again ; and at that time Mr. 
Perry knew that he must die. The rules and 
cautions that he had before prescribed to 
himself, he then addressed directly to his 
visitor. He exhorted him by all means to be 
earnest and affectionate in his applications to 
("the unconverted, and not less solicitous to 
i admonish the careless, with a head full of 
light, and a heart; alienated from the ways of 
God; and those, no less, who being wise in 
their own conceit, were much occupied with 
matters above their reach, and very little with 
subjects of immediate and necessary concern. 
He added that he had received from God, 
during his illness, other views of sin than he 
had ever been favored with before ; and ex- 
horted him by all means to be watchful. 

Mr. R being .himself the reporter of these 

conversations, it is to be supposed that they 
impressed him. Admonitions from such lips, 
and in a dying time too, must have their 
weight ; and it is well with the hearer, when 
the instruction abides with him. But our 
own view T of these matters is, I believe, that 
alone which can effectually serve us. The 
representations of a dying man may strike'us 
at the time ; and, if they stir up in us a spirit 
of self-examination and inquiry, so that we 
rest not till we have. made his views and ex- 
perience our own, it is well : otherwise, the 
wind that passes us is hardly sooner gone 
than the effect of the most serious exhorta- 
tions. 

Farewell, my friend. My vir.ws of my 
spiritual state are, as you say, altered; but 
they are yet far from being such as they must 
be, before I can be enduringly comforted. 
Yours unfeignedly, W. C 

The Diary of Dr. Johnson, adverted to in 
the last letter, created both surprise and dis- 
appointment. The great moralist of the age 
there appears in hjs real character, distinct 
from that external splendor with which popu- 
lar admiration always encircles the brow of 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



l 22\ 



genius The portrait is drawn by his own 
hand. We cannot withhold onr praise from 
the ingenuousness with which he discloses the 
secret recesses of his heart, and the fidelity 
with which conscience exercises its inquisito- 
rial power over the life and actions. We are 
also affected by the deep humility, the con- 
fession of sin, and the earnest appeal for 
mercy, discernible in many of the prayers 
and meditations. But viewed as a whole, this 
Diary creates painful feelings, and affords oc- 
casion for much reflection. If therefore we 
indulge in a few remarks, founded on some 
of the extracts, it is not to detract from the 
higli fame of so distinguishe'd a scholar, whom 
we consider to have enlarged the bounds of 
British literature, and to have acquired a last- 
ing title to public gratitude and esteem, but 
to perform a solemn and conscientious duty.* 
VVe are now arrived at a period when it is 
high time to establish certain great and mo- 
mentous truths in the public mind; and, 
among those that are of primary importance, 
to prove that conversion is not a term, but a 
principle ; not the designation of a party but 
the enjoined precept of a Saviour; the evi- 
dence of our claim to the title of Christian, 
and indispensable to constitute our meetness 
for the enjoyment of heaven. 

We now extract the following passages 
from the Diary of Dr. Johnson, with the in- 
tention of adding a few comments. 

Easter-day, 1765. — " Since the last Easter, 
I have reformed no evil habit ; my time has 
been unprofitably spent, and seems as a dream, 
that has left nothing behind. My memory 
grows confused, and I know not how the 
days pass over me." 

" I purpose to rise at eight, because, though 
I shall not yet rise early, it will be much 
earlier than I now rise, for I often lie till two ; 
and will gain me much time, and tend to a 
conquest over idleness, and give time for 
other duties." 

Sept. 18, 1768. — "I have now begun the 
sixtieth year of my life. How the last year 
has past I am unwilling to terrify myself 
with thinking." 

Jan. 1, 1769. — "I am now about to begin 
another year: how the last has passed it 
would be, in my state of weakness, per- 
haps not prudent too solicitously to recol- 
lect." 

1772. — " I resolved last Easter to read, 
within the year, the whole Bible, a very great 
part of which I had never looked upon. I 
read the Greek Testament without constru- 

* w [f there is a regard due to the memory of the dead, 
there is yet more respect to be paid to knowledge, to vir- 
tue, and to truth." > 

" It is the business of a biographer to pass lightly over 
those performances and actions which produce vulgar 
greatness; to lead the thoughts into domestic privacies, 
and display the rcinute details of daily life, where ex- 
tern r appcaranfl ** are laid a^ide." — Rambler, No. 60, 
Jol ii. 



ing, and this day concluded the Apocalypse. 
I think that no part was missed." 

'• My purpose of reading the rest of the 
Bible was forgotten, till I took by chance the 
resolutions of last Easter in my hand." 

" I hope to read the whole Bible once a 
year, as long as I live." 

April 26. — " It is a comfort to me, that at 
last, in my sixty-third year, I have attained to 
know, even thus hastily, confusedly, and im- 
perfectly, what my Bible contains." 

1775. — " Yesterday, I do not recollect that 
to go to church came into my thoughts; but I 
sat in my chamber preparing for preparation: 
interrupted I know not how. I was near two 
hours at dinner." 

1777. — "I have this year omitted church 
on most Sundays, intending to supply the 
deficiency in the week. So that J owe twelve 
attendances on worship" 

" When I look back upon resolutions of 
improvement and amendment which have, 
year after year, been made and broken, either 
by negligence, forgetfulness, vicious idleness, 
casual interruption, or morbid infirmity ; when 
I find that so much of my life has stolen un- 
profitably away, and that I can descry, by re- 
trospection, scarcely a fe\v single days prop- 
erly and vigorously employed, why do I yet 
try to resolve again 1 1 try, because reforma- 
tion is necessary, and despair criminal; I try 
in humble hope of the help of God."* 

Our sole object, in the introduction of 
these extracts, is to found upon them an ap- 
peal to those who question the necessity of 
conversion, in that higher sense and accepta- 
tion which implies an inward principle oi 
grace, changing and transforming the heart. 
VVe would beg to ask whether it was not the 
want of the vital power and energy of this 
principle, that produced in Johnson the vacil- 
lation of mind and purpose, which we have 
just recorded ; the hours lost ; the resolu- 
tions broken ; the Sabbaths violated ; and 
the sacred volume not read, till the shades of 
evening advanced upon him? What instance 
can be adduced that more clearly demon- 
strates the insufficiency of the highest ac- 
quirements of human learning, and that noth- 
ing but a Divine power can illuminate the 
mind, and convert the heart ? Happily, 
Jolmson is known to have at length found 
what he needed, and to have died with a full 
hope of immortality, f 

But we would go further. We maintain 
that all men, without respect of character or 
person, need conversion ; for "all have sinned, 
and come short of the glory of God;" all par 
take of the corruption and infirmities of a 
fallen nature, and inherit the primeval curse 
Shall reason, shall philosophy effect the cure 
Reason sees what is right; erring nature, 
in despite :>f reason, follows what is wrong 
* See Diarj jf Dr. Johnson. T See p. 191. 



228 



COWPER'S WORKb. 



Philosophy can penetrate into the abstrusest 
mysteries, ascertain by what laws the uni- 
verse is governed, and trace the heavenly 
bodies in their courses, but cannot eradicate 
one evil passion from the soul. Where then 
lies the remedy ? The Gospel reveals it. 
And what is the Gospel I The Gospel is a 
dispensation of grace and mercy, for the re- 
covery of fallen man, and the application of 
this remedy to the heart and conscience effects 
that conversion of which we are speaking. 
But by whom or by what applied ? By Him 
who holds "the keys of heaven and of hell," 
who " openeth, and no man shutteth,'' and 
whose prerogative it is to say, "Behold, I 
make all things new."* And how ? By his 
word, and by his Spirit. " He sent his word 
and healed them."f " Being born again, not 
of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by 
the word of God, which liveth and abideth for- 
ever."! The word is the appointed instru- 
ment, the Spirit, the mighty agent which 
gives the quickening power :§ not by any su- 
pernatural revelation, but in the ordinary op-- 
erations of divine grace, and consistently with 
the freedom and co-operation of man as a 
moral agent ; speaking pardon and peace to 
the conscience, and delivering from the 
tyranny of sense and the slavery of fear, by 
proclaiming " liberty to the captive, and 
the opening of the prison to them that are 
bound." 

The last subject for reflection suggested 
by the Diary of Dr. Johnson, is the frequent 
neglect of the Sabbath, 'and his confession that 
he had lived a stranger to the greater fart of 
the contents of his Bible till the sixty-third year 
of his age. This is an afflicting record, and 
we notice the fact, from a deep conviction 
that piety can never retain its power and as- 
cendancy in the heart, where the Bible is not 
read, and the ordinances of God are frequent- 
ly neglected. When will genius learn that 
its noblest attribute is to light its fires at the 
lamp of divine truth, and that the union of 
piety and learning is the highest perfection 
of our nature % We beg to commend to the 
earnest attention of the student the following 
eloquent testimony to the sacred volume from 
the pen of Sir William Jones. 

"I have carefully and regularly perused 
these Holy Scriptures, and am of opinion 
that the Volume, independently of its divine 
origin, contains more sublimity, purer moral- 
ity, more important history, and finer strains 
of eloquence, than can be collected from all 
other books, in whatever language they may 
have been written."|| 

* Rev. xxi. 5. t Psalm cvii. 20. 

% 1 Pet. i. 23. See also Heb. iv. 12. 

% " It is the spirit that quickeneth." John vi. 63. The 
union of the Word and the Spirit in imparting spiritual 
Ife to the soul is forcibly expressed in the same verse : 
* The words tht»i I speak unto you, they are spirit and 
tfiey are life." 

It See Lord Teignmouth's Life of Sir William Jones. 



Having quoted Sir William Jones's testi 
mony, we conclude by urging his example. 

" Before thy mystic altar, Heavenly Truth, 
I kneel in manhood, as I knelt, in youth : 
Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay, 
And life's last shade be brighten'd by thy ray. 
Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below, 
Soar without bound, without consuming glow."* 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
% Olney, August 27, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I was low in spirits yes- 
terday, when your parcel came and raised 
them. Every proof of attention and regard 
to a man who lives in a vinegar-bottle is wel- 
come from his friends on the outside of it ; 
accordingly your books were welcome (you 
must not forget, by the way, that I want the 
original, of which you have sent me the trans- 
lation only), and the ruffles from Miss Shut- 
tleworth most welcome. I am covetous, if 
ever man was, of living in the remembrance 
of absentees, whom I highly value and es- 
teem, and consequently felt myself much grat- 
ified by her very obliging present. I have 
had more comfort, far more comfort, in the 
connexions that I have formed within the last 
twenty years, than in the more numerous 
ones that I had before. 

Memorandum. — The latter are almost all 
Unwins or Unwinisms. 

You are entitled to my thanks also for the 
facetious engravings of John Gilpin. A se- 
rious poem is like a swan : it flies heavily, and 
never far ; but a jest has the wings of a swal- 
low that never tire, and that carry it into 
every nook and corner. I am perfectly a 
stranger, however, to the reception that my 
volume meets with, and, I believe, in respect 
of my nonchalance upon that subject, if au- 
thors would but copy so fair an example, ara 
a most exemplary character. I must tell you 
nevertheless that, although the laurels that I 
gain at Olney will never minister much to my 
pride, I have acquired some. The Rev. Mr. 
Scott is my admirer, and thinks my second 
volume superior to my first. It ought to be 
so. If we do not improve by practice, then 
nothing can mend us; and a man has no more 
cause to be mortified at being told that he has 
excelled himself, than the elephant had, whose 
praise it was that he was the greatest elephant 
in the world, himself excepted. 

If it be fair to judge of a-book by an extract, 
I do not wonder that you were so little edi- 
fied by Johnson's Journal. It is even more 

ridiculous than was poor 's, of flatulent 

memory. The portion of it given to us in 
this day's paper contains not one sentiment 
worth one farthing except the last, in which 
he resolves to bind himself with no more un 
♦Ibid. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



22i 



biddi n obligations. Poor man ! one would 
think that to pray for his dead wife, and to 
pinch himself with ehureh-fasts had been al- 
most the whole of his religion. I am sorry 
that he who was so manly an advocate for 
the cause of virtue in all other places was so 
childishly employed, and so superstitiously, 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Sept. 24, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — I am sorry that an ex 
cursion, which you would otherwise have 
found so agreeable, was attended with so 
great a drawback upon its pleasures as Miss 
Cunningham's illness must needs have been. 



too, in his closet. Had he studied his Bible Had she been able to bathe in the sea, it 
more, to which, by his own confession, he ! might have been of service to her, but I knew 
was in great part a stranger, he had known 
better what use to make of his retired hours, 
and had trifled less. His lucubrations of this 
sort have rather the appearance of religious 
dotage than of any vigorous exertion^ to- 
wards God. It will be well if the publication 
prove not hurtful in its' effects, by exposing 



her weakness and delicacy of habit to be such 
as did not encourage any very sanguine hopes 
that the regimen would suit her. I remem- 
ber Southampton well, having spent much 
time there ; but, though I was young, and 
had no objections, on the score of conscience, 
either to dancing- or cards, I never was in the 



the best cause, already too much despised, to assembly-room in my life. I never was fond 
ridicule still more profane. On the other of company, and especially disliked it in the 
side of the same paper, I find a long string I country. A walk to Netley Abbey, or to 
of aphorisms, and maxims, and rules for the Freemantle, or to Redbridge, or a book by 
conduct of life, which, though they appear j the rlre-side, had always "more charms for me 
not with his name, are so much in his man- | than any other amusement that the place af- 
ner, with the above-mentioned, that I suspect ; forded. I was also a sailor, and, being of 



them for his. I have not read them all, but 
several of them I read that were trivial 
enough : for the sake of one, however, I for- 
give him the rest — he advises never to banish 
hope entirely, because it is the cordial of life, 
although it be the greatest flatterer in the 
world. Such a measure of hope as may not 
endanger my peace by a disappointment I 
would wish to cherish upon every subject in 
which I am interested : but there lies the dif- 
ficulty. A cure, however, and the only one, 
for all the irregularities of Jiope and fear, 
is found in submission to the will of God. 
Happy they that have it 



Sir Thomas Hesketh's party, who was him- 
self born one, was often pressed into the 
service. But, though I gave myself an air 
and wore trowsers, I had no genuine right 
to that honor, disliking much to be occupied 
in great waters, unless in the finest weather. 
How they continue to elude the wearisome- 
ness that attends a sea life, who take long 
voyages, you know better than I ; but, for 
my own part, I seldom have sailed so far as 
fr'om Hampton river to Portsmouth without 
feeling the confinement irksome, and some- 
times to a degree that was almost insupport- 
able. There is a certain perverseness, of 



This last sentence puts me in mind of your j which I believe all men have a share, but of 
reference to Blair in a former letter, whom which no man has a larger share than 1— 1 
you there permitted to be your arbiter to ad- mean that temper, or humor, or whatever it 
just the respective claims of who or that. I i is to be called, that indisposes us to a situa- 
do not rashly differ from so great a gramma- 
rian, nor do, at any rate, differ from him al- 
together — upon solemn occasions, as in pray- 
er or preaching, for instance, I would be 
strictly correct, and upon stately ones ; for 
instance, were I writing an epic poem, I 
would be so likewise, but not upon familiar 
occasions. God, who heareth prayer, is right : 
Hector, who saw Patroclus, is right : and the 
man, that dresses me every day, is in my 
mind, right also: because the contrary would 
give an air of stiffness and pedantry to an ex- 
pression that, in respect of the matter of it, 
cannot be too negligently made up. 

Adieu, my dear William ! I have scribbled 
with all my might, which, breakfast-time ex- 
lepted, has been my employment ever since 

rose, and it is now past one. 

Yours, W. C. 



tion, though not unpleasant in itself, merely 
because we cannot get out of it. I could 
not endure the room in which I now write, 
were I conscious that the door were locked. 
In less than five minutes I should feel myself 
a prisoner, though I can spend hours in it 
under an assurance that I may leave it when 
I please without experiencing any tedium at 
all. It was for this reason, I suppose, that 
the yacht was always disagreeable to me. 
Could I have stepped out of it into a corn- 
field or a garden, I should have liked it well 
enough, but, being surrounded with water, \ 
was as much confined in it as if I had been 
surrounded by fire/and did not find that it 
made me any adequate compensation for such 
an abridgment of my liberty. I make little 
doubt but Noah was glad when he was en- 
larged from the ark ; and we are sure that 
Jonah was, when he came out of the fish ; and 
so was I to escape from the good sloop the 
Harriet. 

* Private correspondence. 



230 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



In my last, I wrote you word that Mr. Per- 
ry was given over by his .friends, and pro- 
nounced a dead man by his physician. Just 
when I had reached the end of the foregoing 
paragraph, he came in. His errand hither 
was to bring' two letters, which I enclose ; 
one is to yourself, in which he will give you, 
1 doubt not, such an account, both of his body 
and mind, as will make all that I might say 
upon those subjects superfluous. The only 
eonsequences of his illness seem to be that 
ne looks a little pale, and that, though al- 
ways a most excellent man, he is still more 
angelic than he was. Illness sanctified is 
better than health. But I know a man who 
has been a sufferer by a worse illness than 
his, almost these fourteen years, and who, at 
present, is only the worse for it. 

Mr. Scott called upon us yesterday ; he is 
much inclined to set up a Sunday School, if 
he can raise a fund for the purpose. Mr. 
Jones has had one some time at Clifton, and 
Mr. Unwin writes me word, that he has been 
thinking of nothing else day and night, for a 
fortnight. It is a wholesome measure, that 
seems to bid fair to be pretty generally adopt- 
ed, and, for the good effects that it promises 
deserves well to be so. I know not, indeed, 
while the spread of the gospel continues so 
limited as it is, how a reformation of manners 
in the lower class of mankind can be brought 
to pass ; or by what other means the utter 
abolition of all principle among them, moral 
as well as religious, can possibly be prevent- 
ed. Heathenish parents can only bring up 
heathenish children ; an assertion nowhere 
oftener or more clearly illustrated than at 
Olney ; where children, seven years of age, 
infest the streets every evening with curses 
and with songs, to which it. would be un- 
seemly to give their* proper epithet. Such 
urchins as these coufd not be so diabolically 
accomplished, unless by the connivance of 
their parents. It is well indeed if, in some 
instances, their parents be not themselves 
their instructors. Judging by their profi- j 
ciency, one can hardly suppose any other. 
It is therefore, doubtless, an act of the great- 
est charity, to snatch them out of such hands 
before the inveteracy of the evil shall have 
made it desperate. Mr. Teedon, I should 
imagine, will be employed as a teacher, should 
this expedient be carried into effect. I know 
not at least that we have any other person 
among us so well qualified for the service. 
He is indisputably a Christian man, and mis- 
erably poor, whose revenues need improve- 
ment, as much as any children in the world 
tan possibly need instruction. 
Believe me, my dear friend, 
"With true affection, yours, 

W. C. 

The first establishment of Sunday schools 



in England, which commenced about thi* 
time, is too important an era to be passed 
over in silence. The founder of this system, 
so beneficial in its consequences to the rising 
generation, was Robert Raikes, Esq., of 
Gloucester, and from whose lips the writer 
once received the history of their first insti- 
tution. He had observed in going to divine 
worship on the Sabbath, that the streets were 
generally filled with groups of idle and rag- 
ged children, playing and blaspheming in a 
manner that showed their utter unconscious- 
ness of the sacred obligations of that day. 
The thought suggested itself, that, if these 
children could be collected together, and the 
time so misapplied be devoted to instruction 
and attendance at the house of God, a happy 
change might be effected in their life and con- 
duct. He consulted the clergyman of the 
parish, who encouraged the attempt. A re- 
spectable and pious female was immediately 
selected, and twelve children, who were short- 
ly afterwards decently clothed, were placed 
under her care. Rules and regulations were 
formed, and the school opened and closed 
with prayer. The ignorant were taught to 
read, the word of God was introduced, and 
the children walked in orderly procession to 
church. The visible improvement in their 
moral habits, and their proficiency in learn- 
ing, led to an extension of the plan. The 1 
principal inhabitants of the town became in-' 
terested in its success, and in a short time 
the former noisy inmates of the streets were 
found uniting in the accents of prayer and 
praise in the temple of Jehovah. The exam- 
ple manifested by the city of Gloucester 
soon attracted public attention. The queen 
of George the Third requested to be furnished 
with the history and particulars of the un- 
dertaking, and was so impressed with its im- 
portance as to distinguish it by her sanction. 
The result is well known. Sunday schools 
are now universally established, and have 
been adopted in Europe, in America, and 
wherever the traces of civilization are to be 
discerned. Their sound has gone forth into 
all lands, and, so long as knowledge isneces- , 
sary to piety, and both constitute the grace 
and ornament of the young and the safeguard 
of society, the venerable name of Raikes 
will be enrolled with gratitude among the 
friends and benefactors of mankind.* 

* The editor, once conversing with the late Rev. An- 
drew Fuller, the well-known secretary of the Serampore 
Missionary Society, on the subject of Sunday schools in 
connexion with that noble institution, the British and 
Foreign Bible Society, the latter observed, " Yes ; if the 
BibleSociety had commenced its operations earlier, its 
usefulness would have been comparatively limited, be- 
cause the faculty of reading would not havf- been so 
generally acquired. Each institution is in the order of 
Providence: — God first raised up Sunday schools, and 
children were thereby taught to read ; afterwards, when 
this faculty was obtained, in order that it might not be 
perverted to wrong ends, God raised up the Bible So- 
ciety, that the best of all possible books might be put 
into their hands. Yes, sir," he added in his emphatic 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



vn 



TO JOSEPH Hll.L, ESQ.* 

Olney, Oct. 11, 1785. 

M) dear Sir, — You began your letter with 
an apology for long silence, and it is now in- 
cumbent upon me to do the same : and the 
rather, as your kind invitation to Wargrave 
entitled you to a speedier answer. The 
truth is that I am -become, if not a man of 
business, yet a busy man, and have been en- 
gaged almost this twelvemonth in a work 
that will allow of no long interruption. On 
this account it was impossible for me to ac- 
cept your obliging summons; and, having 
only to tell you that I could not, it appeared 
to me as a matter of no great moment whe- 
ther you received that intelligence soon or 
late. 

You do me justice when you ascribe my 
printed epistle to you to my friendship for 
you ; though, in fact, it was equally owing 
to the opinion that I have of yours for. me. f 
Having, in one part or other of my two vol- 
umes, distinguished by name the majority of 
those few for whom I entertain a friendship, 
it seemed tome that it would be unjustifiable 
negligence to omit yourself; and, if I took 
that step without communicating to you my 
intention, it was only to gratify myself the 
more with the hope of surp-ising you agree- 
ably. Poets are dangerous persons to be 
acquainted with, especially if a man have 
that in his character that. promises to shine 
in verse. To that very circumstance it is 
owing that you are now figuring away in 
mine. For, notwithstanding what you say 
on the subject of honesty and friendship, 
that they are not splendid enough for pub- 
lic celebration, I must still think of them 
as I did before, — that there are no qualities 
of the mind and heart that can deserve it 
better. I can, at least for my owh part, look 
round about upon the generality, and, while 
I see them deficient in those grand requi- 
sites of a respectable character, am not able 
to discover that they possess any other of 
value enough to atone for the want of them. 

I beg that you will present my respects to 
Mrs. Hill, and believe me 

Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 

The period at which we are now arrived 
was marked by the renewal of an intimacy, 
long suspended indeed, but which neither 
time nor circumstances could efface from the 

manner, "the wisdom of God is visible In both ; they fit 
each other like hand and glove." 
* Private correspondence. 

t The epistle in which he commemorates his friendship 
for Mr. Hill begins as follows : — 

" Dear Joseph— Five-and-twenty years ago— 
Alas, how time escapes! 'tis even so — " &c. &c. 
"We add the two concluding lines, as descriptive of his 
person and character. 

"An honest man, close button'd to the chin, 
Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within." 
' » See Poems. 



affectionate heart of Cowper. The person 
to whom we allude is Lady Hesketh, a neai 
relative of the poet, and whose name has 
already appeared in the early part of his his. 
tory. 

Their intercourse had been frequent, and 
endeared by reciprocal esteem in their youth- 
ful years; but the vicissitudes of life had 
! separated them far from each other. During 
i Cowper's long retirement, his accomplished 
cousin had passed some years with her hus- 
j band abroad, and others, after her return, in 
i a variety of mournful duties. She was at 
J t&is time a widow, and her indelible regard 
| for her poetical relation being agreeably stim 
| ulated by the publication of his recent works 
! she wrote to him, on that occasion, a very 
affectionate letter. 

It gave rise to many from him, which we 
shall now introduce to the notice of the 
reader, because they give a minute account 
of their amiable author, at a very interesting 
period of his life ; and because they reflect 
lustre on his character and genius in various 
I points of view, and cannot fail to inspire the 
| conviction that his letters are rivals to his 
poems, in the rare excellence of representing 
life and nature with graceful and endearing 
fidelity. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, Oct. 12, 1785. 
My dear Cousin, — It is no new thing with 
you to give pleasure. But I w;ll venture to 
say that you do not often give more than you 
gave me this morning. When I came down 
to breakfast, and found upon the table a let- 
ter franked by my uncle,* and when opening 
that frank I found that it contained a letter 
from you, I said within myself — "This is 
just as it should be. We are all grown 
young again, and the days that I thought I 
should see no more are actually returned." 
You perceive, therefore, that you judged 
well, when you conjectured that a line from 
you would not be disagreeable to me. It 
could not be otherwise than as in fact it 
proved — a most agreeable surprise, for I can 
truly boast of an affection for you, that nei- 
ther years nor interrupted intercourse have 
'at all abated. I need only recollect how 
much I valued you once, and with how much 
cause, immediately to feel a revival of the 
same value; if that can be said to revive, 
which at the most has only been dormant for 
want of employment. But I slander it when 
I say that it has slept. A thousand times 
have I recollected a thousand scenes, in which 
our two selves have formed the whole of the 
drama, with the greatest pleasure ; at timea 
too when I had no reason to suppose that I 
should ever hear from you again. I hav* 

* Ashley Cowper, Esq. 



232 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



.aughed with you at the Arabian Nights' En- 
tertainments, which afforded us, as you well 
know, a fund of merriment that deserves 
never to be forgot. I have walked with you 
to Netley Abbey, and have scrambled with 
vou over hedges in every direction, and many 
other feats w 7 e have performed together upon 
the field of my remembrance, and all within 
these few years. Should I say within this 
twelvemonth, I should not transgress the 
truth. The hours that I have spent with 
you were among the pleasantest of my for- 
mer days, and are therefore chronicled in my 
mind so deeply as to fear no erasure. Nei- 
ther do I forget my poor friend, Sir Thomas ; 
I should remember him indeed at any rate, 
on account of his personal kindness to my- 
self, but the last testimony that he gave of 
his regard for you endears him to me still 
more. With his uncommon understanding 
(for with many peculiarities he had more 
sense than any of his acquaintance,) and with 
his generous sensibilities, it was hardly pos- 
sible that he should not distinguish you as 
he has done. As it was the List, so it was 
the best proof that he could give of a judg- 
ment that never deceived him, when he would 
allow himself leisure to consult it. 

You say that you have often heard of me ; 
that puzzles me. I cannot imagine from 
what quarter, but it is no matter. I must 
tell you, # however, my cousin, that your in- 
formation has been a little defective. That 
I am happy in my situation is true ; I live, 
and have lived these twenty years, with Mrs. 
Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me, 
during the far greater part of that time, it is, 
under Providence, owing that I live at ail. 
But I do not account myself happy in having 
oeen, for thirteen of these years, in a state 
of mind that has made all that care and at- 
tention necessary; an attention and a care 
that have injured her health, and which, had 
she not been uncommonly supported, must 
have brought her to the grave. But I will 
pass to another subject; it would be cruel 
to particularize only to give pain, neither 
would I by any means give a sable hue to 
the first letter of a correspondence so unex- 
pectedly renewed. 

I am delighted with what you tell me of 
my uncle's good health. To enjoy any meas- 
ure of cheerfulness at so late a day is much. 
But to have that late day enlivened with the 
vivacity of youth is much more, and in these 
postdiluvian times a rarity indeed. Happy 
for the most part are parents who have 
daughters. Daughters are not apt to out- 
live their natural affections, which a son has 
generally survived, even before his boyish 
years are expired. I rejoice particularly in 
my uncle's felicity, who has three female de- 
scendants from his little person, who leave 
aim nn thing to wisr for upon that head. 



My dear Cousin, dejection of spirits which 
(I suppose) may have prevented many a maj 
from becoming an author, made me one. 
find constant employment necessary, an«. 
therefore take care to be constantly em 
ployed. Manual occupations do not engage 
the mind sufficiently, as I know by expe- 
rience, having tried many. But composition, 
especially of verse, absorbs it wholly. I 
write therefore generally three hours in a 
morning, and in an evening I transcribe. 1 
rend also, but less than I write, for I must 
have bodily exercise, and therefore never 
pass a day without it. 

You ask me where I Imve been this sum- 
mer. 1 answer, at Oiney. Should you ask 
me where I spent the last seventeen sum- 
mers, I should still answer, at Oiney. Ay, 
and the winters also. I have seldom left it, 
except when I attended my brother in his 
last illness; never I believe a fortnight to- 
gether. 

Adieu, my beloved Cousin, I shall not 
always be thus nimble in reply, but shall 
always have great pleasure in answering you 
when I can. 

Yours, my dear friend and Cousin, 

W. C. 



The letters addressed to Mr. Newton 'by 
Cowper are frequently characterized by a 
plaintiveness of feeling that powerfully awak- 
ens the emotions of the heart. The follow- 
ing contains some incidental allusions of this 
kind. 

a 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Oliiey, Oct. 16, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — To have sent a child to 
heaven is a great honor and a great blessing, 
and your feelings on such an occasion may 
well be such as render you rather an object 
of congratulation than of condolence. And 
w T ere it otherwise, yet. having yourself free 
access to all the sources of genuine consola- 
tion, I feel that it would be little better than 
impertinence in me to suggest any. An 
escape from a life of suffering to a life of 
happiness and glory is such a deliverance as 
leaves no room for the sorrow of survivors, 
unless they sorrow for themselves. We can- 
not, indeed, lose what we love without re- 
gretting it; but a Christian is in possession 
of such alleviations of that regret as the world 
knows nothing of. Their beloveds, when 
they die, go they know not whither; and if 
they suppose them, as they generally do, in 
a state of happiness, they have yet but an 
indifferent prospect of joining them in that 
state hereafter. But it is not so with you. 
You both know whither your beloved is gone 
and you know that you shall follow her and 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



233 



you know also that in the meantime she is 
ncomparably happier than yourself. So far, 
therefore, as she is concerned, nothing has 
come to pass but what was most fervently to 
be wished. I do not know that I am singularly 
selfish ; but one of the first thoughts that your 
Account of Miss Cunningham's dying moments 
and departure suggested to me had self for its 
object. It struck me that she was not born 
when I sank into darkness, and that she is 
gone to heaven before I have emerged again. 
What a lot, said I to myself, is mine ! whose 
helmet is fallen from my head, and whose 
sword from my hand, in the midst of the 
battle ; who was stricken down to the earth 
when I least expected it; who had just be- 
gun to cry victory ! when I was defeated my- 
self; and who have been trampled upon so 
long, that others have had time to conquer 
and to receive their crown, before I have been 
able to make one successful effort to escape 
from under the feet of my enemies. It 
seemed to me, therefore, that if you mourned 
for Miss Cunningham you gave those tears 
to her to which I only had a right, and I was 
almost ready to exclaim, " I am the dead, and 
not she ; you misplace your sorrows." I 
have sent you the history of my mind on this 
subject without any disguise ; if it does not 
please you, pardon it at least, for it is the 
truth. The unhappy, I beheve, are always 
selfish. I have, I confese, my comfortable 
moments; but they are like the morning 
dew, so suddenly do they pass away and are 
gone. 

It should seem a matter of small moment 
to me, who never hear him, whether Mr. 
Scott shall be removed from Olney to the 
Lock, or no ; yet, in fact, I believe, that few 
interest themselves more in that event than I. 
He knows «ay manner of life, and has ceased 
long since to wonder at it. A new minister 
would need information, and I am not ambi- 
tious of having my tale told to a stranger. 
He would also perhaps think it necessary to 
assail me with arguments, which would be 
more profitably disposed of, if he should dis- 
charge them against the walls of a tower. 
I wish, therefore, for the continuance of Mr. 
Scott. He honored me so far as to consult 
me twice upon the subject. At our first in- 
terview, he seemed to discern but little in the 
proposal that entitled it to his approbation. 
But, when he came the second time, we ob- 
served that his views of it were considerably 
altered. He was warm — he was animated; 
difficulties had disappeared, and allurements 
had started up in their place. I could not 
say to him, Sir, you are naturally of a san- 
guine temper ; and he that is so cannot too 
much distrust his own judgment; — but I am 
glad that he will have the benefit of yours. 
\t seems to me, however, that the minister 
vho shall re-illumine the faded glories of the 



Lock must not only practise great fidelity in 
his preaching, to which task Mr. Scott is per 
fectly equal, but must do it with much ad- 
dress; and it is hardly worth while to ob- 
serve that his excellence does not lie that 
way, because he is ever ready to acknowledge 
it himself. But I have nothing to suggest 
upon this subject that will be new to you, 
and therefore drop it ; the rather, indeed, be- 
cause I may reasonably suppose that by this 
time the point is decided. 

I have reached that part of my paper 
which I generally fill with intelligence, if I 
can find any : but there is a great dearth of it 
at present ; and Mr. Scott has probably anti- 
cipated me in all the little that there is. Lord 

P having dismissed Mr. Jones from his 

service, the people of Turvey* have burnt him 
[Mr. Jones] in effigy, w r ith a bundle of quick- 
thornf under his arm. What consequences 
are to follow his dismission h uncertain. 
His lordship threatens him with a lawsuit; 
and, unless their disputes can be settled by 
arbitration, it is not unlikely that the profits 
of poor Jones's stewardship will be melted 
down at Westminster. He- has labored hard, 
and no doubt with great integrity, and has 
been rewarded with hard words and scandal- 
ous treatment. 

Mr. Scott (which perhaps he may not have 
told you, for he did not mention it here) ha? 
met with similar treatment at a place in this 
country called Hinksey, or by some such 
name.f But he suffered in effigy for the Gos- 
pel's sake ; — a cause in which I presume he 
would not be unwilling, if need were, to be 
burnt in propria persona. 

I have nothing to add, but that we are well, 
and remember you with much affection ; and 
that I am, my dear friend, 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



The following letters communicate various 
interesting particulars respecting Cowper's 
laborious undertaking, the new version of 
Homer's Iliad. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Oct. 22, 1785. 
My dear William, — You might w ell sup- 
pose that your letter had miscarried, though 
in fact it was duly received. I am not often 
so long in arrear, and you may assure your- 
self that when at any time it happens that I 

* The Peterborough family had formerly a mansion 
and large estate in the parish of Turvey. It is mentioned 
in Camden's Britannia, so far back as in the time of 
Henry VIII. There are some marble monuments in the 
parish church, executed with great magnificence, and in 
high preservation, recording the heroes of foreign times 
belonging to that ancient but now extinct race. 

t The dispute originated respecting the enclosure of 
the parish ; and, as this act was unpopular with the poor 
the bundle of quick-thorn was intended to be expressiv# 
of their indignant feelings. 

% The proper name of the placo is TingewAcfc 



234 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



am scs neither neglect nor idleness is the 
cause. I have, as you well know, a daily oc- 
cupation, forty lines to translate, a task which 
I never excuse myself, when it is possible to 
perform it. Equally sedulous I am in the 
matter of transcribing, so that between both 
my morning and evening are most part com- 
pletely engaged. /Add to this that, though 
my spirits are seldom so bad but I can write 
verse, they are often at so low an ebb as to 
make the production of a letter impossible. 
So much for a trespass, which called for 
some apology, but for which to apologize 
further would be a greater trespass still. 

I am now in the twentieth book of Homer, 
and shall assuredly proceed, because the fur- 
ther I go the more I find myself justified in 
the undertaking ; and in due time, if I live, 
shall assuredly publish. In the whole I shall 
have composed about forty thousand verses, 
about which forty thousand verses I shall 
have taken great pains, on no occasion suf- 
fering a slovenly line to escape me. I leave 
you to guess therefore whether, such a labor 
once achieved, I shall not determine to turn 
it to some account, and to gain myself profit 
if I can, if not at least some credit for my 
reward. 

I perfectly approve of your course with 
John. The most entertaining books are best 
to begin with, and none in the world, so far 
as entertainment is concerned, deserves the 
preference to Homer. Neither do I know 
that there is anywhere to be found Greek of 
easier construction — poetical Greek I mean ; 
and as for prose, I should recommend Xeno- 
phon's Cyropsedia. That also is a most amus- 
ing narrative, and ten times easier to under- 
stand than the crabbed epigrams and scrib- 
blements of the minor poets that are gener- 
ally put into the hands of boys. I took par- 
ticular notice of the neatness of John's Greek 
character, which (let me tell you) deserves 
its share of commendation ; for to write the 
language legibly is not the lot of every man 
who can read it. Witness myself for one. 

I like the little ode of Huntingford's that 
you sent me. In such matters we do not ex- 
pect much novelty, or much depth of thought. 
The expression is all in all, which to me at 
least appears to be faultless. 

Adieu, my dear William ! We are well, 
and you and yours are ever the objects of 
our affection. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Nov. 5, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — Were it with me as in 
days past, you should have no cause to com- 
plain of my tardiness in writing. You sup- 
Dosed that I would have accepted your packet 
as an answer to my last; and so indeed I 

* Private correspondence. 



did, and felt myself overpaid ; but, though 
a debtor, and deeply indebted too, had not 
wherewithal to discharge the arrear. You do 
not know nor suspect what a conquest I 
sometimes gain, when I only take up the pen 
with a design to write. Many a time have I 
resolved to say to all my few correspondents, 
— I take my leave of you for the present; if 
I live to see better days, you shall hear from 
me again. — I have been driven to the verj 
verge of this measure ; and even upon this 
occasion was upon the point of desiring Mrs. 
Unwin to become my substitute. She indeed 
offered to write in my stead ; but, fearing that 
you would understand me to be even worse 
than I am, I rather chose to answer for my- 
self. — So much for a subject with which I 
could easily fill the sheet, but with which I 
have occupied too great a part of it already. 
It is time that I should thank you, and return 
you Mrs. Unwin's thanks for your Narrative.* 
I told you in my last in what manner I felt 
myself affected by the abridgement of it con- 
tained in i your letter ; and have therefore 
only to add, upon that point, that the im- 
pression made upon me by the relation at 
large was of a like kind. I envy all that live 
in the enjoyment of a good hope, and much 
more all who die to enjoy the fruit of it: but 
I recollect myself in time ; I resolved not to 
touch that chord again, and yet was just 
going to trespass upon my resolution. As 
to the rest, your history of your happy niece 
is just what it should be, — clear, affectionate, 
and plain; worthy of her, and worthy of 
yourself. How much more beneficial to the 
world might such a memorial of an unknown, 
but pious and believing child eventually 
prove, would the supercillious learned con- 
descend to read it, than the history of all the 
kings and heroes that ever lived'; But the 
world has its objects of admiration, and God 
has objects of his love. Those make a noise 
and perish; and these weep silently for a 
short season, and live forever. I had rather 
have been your neice, or the writer of her 
story, than any Caesar that ever thundered. 

The vanity of human attainments was 
never so conspicuously exemplified as in the 
present day. The sagacious moderns make 
discoveries, which, how useful they may 
prove to themselves I know not ; certainly 
they do no honor to the ancients. Homer 
and Virgil have enjoyed (if the dead have any 
such enjoyments) an unrivalled reputation af 
poets, through a long succession of ages-, 
but it is now shrewdly suspected that Homer 
did not compose the poems for which he has 
been so long applauded ;f and it is even as- 

* The narrative of Miss Eliza Cunningham's last illnesf 
and happy death. 

t In the Prolegomena to Villoisson's Iliad it is stated, 
that Pisistratus, in collecting the works of Homer, wat 
imposed upon by spurious imitations of the Grecian 
bard's style ; and that not suspecting the fraud, he waa 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



23„ 



sei ted by a certain Robert Heron, Esq., that 
Virgil never wrote a line worth reading. He 
is a pitiful plagiary; he js a servile imitator, 
a bungler in his plan, and has not a thought 
in his whole work that will bear examina- 
tion. In short, he is anything but what the 
literati for two thousand years have taken 
him to be — a man of genius and a fine writer. 
I fear that Homer's ease is desperate. After 
the lapse of so many generations, it would 
be a difficult matter to elucidate a question 
which time and modern ingenuity together 
combine to puzzle. And 1 suppose that it 
were in vain for an honest plain man to in- 
quire, if Homer did not write the Iliad and 
Odyssey, who did? The answer would un- 
doubtedly be — it is no matter ; he did not : 
which is all that I undertook to prove. For 
Virgil, however, there still remains some con- 
solation. The very same Mr. Heron, who 
finds no beauties in the iEneid, discovers not 
a single instance of the sublime in Scrip- 
ture. Particularly he says, speaking of the 
prophets, that Ezekiel, although the filthiest 
of all writers, is the best of them. He there- 
fore, being the first of the learned who has 
reprobated even the style of the Scriptures, 
may possibly make the fewer proselytes to 
his judgment of the Heathen writer. For 
my own part at least, had I been accustomed 
to doubt whether the iEneid were a noble 
composition or not, this gentleman would at 
once have decided the question for me ; and 
I should have been immediately assured that 
a work must necessarily abound in beauties 
that had the happiness to displease a cen- 
surer of the Word of God. What enter- 
prises will not an inordinate passion ibr fame 
suggest ? It prompted one man to tire the 
Temple of Ephesus ; another, to fling himself 
into a volcano; and now has induced this 
wicked and unfortunate Squire either to deny 
his own feelings, or to publish to all the 
world that he has no feelings at all.* 

Mr. Scott is pestered with anonymous let- 
ters, but he conducts himself wisely; and 
the question whether he shall go to the Lock 

led to incorporate them as the genuine productions of 
Homer. 

Cowper justly ridicules so extravagant a supposition. 

* The playful spirit in which the writer adverts to this 
Subject appears to have yielded afterwards to a feeling 
of indignation; the following lines in his own hand- 
writing having been found by Dr. Johnson amongst his 
D-ipers : — 

ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE. 

The Genius of th' Angnsmn age 
His head among Rome's ruins rear d 
And, bursting with heroic rage, 
When literary Heron appeared, 
Thou hast, he cried, like him of old 
Who set th' Ephesian dome on fire. 
By being scandalously bold, 
Attain'd the mark of thy desire. 

And for traducing Virgil's name 
Shalt share his merited reward ; 
A perpetuity of fame. 
That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd. 



or not, s'eems hasting to a decision in the af- 
firmative. 

We are tolerably well ; and Mrs. Unwin 
adds to mine her affectionate remembrances 
of yourself and Mrs. Newton. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

The work of Mr. Heron is entitled, " Let- 
ters on Literature," in which he spares neither 
things sacred nor profane. The author seems 
j to be a man of talent, but it is talent pain- 
| fully misapplied. After calling Virgil a ser- 
j vile imitator of Homer, and indulging in 
■ various critiques, he thus concludes his an- 
| imadversions. " Such is the JEneid, which 
; the author, with good reason, on his death- 
| bed, condemned to the flames ; and, had it 
suffered that fate, real poetry would have lost 
nothing by it. I have said that, notwith- 
standing all, Virgil deserves his fame ; for 
his fame is now confined to schools and 
academies ; and his style (the pickle that has 
preserved his mummy from corruption) is 
pure and exquisite." 

Wit, employed at the expense of taste and 
sound judgment, can neither advance the 
reputation of its author, nor promote the 
cause of true literature. This supercilious 
treatment of the noble productions of classic 
genius too much resembles that period in the 
literary history of France, when the question 
was agitated (with Perrault at its head) as to 
the relative superiority of the ancients or 
moderns. It was at 'that time fashionable 
with one of the contending parties to decry 
the pretensions of the ancients. One of 
their writers exclaims, 

" Depouillons ces respects serviles 
Que nous portons aux temps passes. 
Les Hotneres et les Virgiles 
Peuvent encore etre effaces." — La Motte. 

We trust that this corrupt spirit will neve ■ 
infect the Lyceums of British literature ; but 
that they will be reserved ever to be the 
sanctuaries of high-taught genius, chastened 
by a refined and discriminating taste, and 
embellished with the graces of a simple and 
noble eloquence, formed on the pure models 
of classic antiquity. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov. 7, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — Your time being so much 
occupied as to leave you no opportunity for 
a word more than the needful, I am the more 
obliged to you that you have found leisure 
even for that, and thank you for the note 
above acknowledged. 

I know not at present what subject 1 
could enter upon, by which I should not put 
you tc an expense of moments that you cao 

* Private correspondence. 



236 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



11 spare : I have often been displeased when 
a neighbor of mine, being himself an idle 
man, has delivered himself from the burden 
of a vacant hour or two, by coming to repose 
Vis idleness upon me. Not to incur there- 
fore, and deservedly, the blame that I have 
charged upon him, by interrupting you, who 
are certainly a busy man, whatever may be 
the case with myself, I shall only add that I 
am, with my respects to Mrs. Hill, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



The tried stability of Cowper's friendship, 
after a long interval of separation, and the 
delicacy with which he accepts Lady Hes- 
keth's offer of pecuniary aid, are here de- 
picted in a manner that reflects honor on 
both parties. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, Nov. 9, 1785. 

My dearest Cousin, — Whose last most af- 
fectionate letter has run in my head ever since 
I received it, and which I now sit down to 
answer, two days sooner than the post will 
serve me. I thank you for it, and with a 
warmth for which I am sure you will give 
me credit, though I do not spend many words 
in describing it. I do not seek new friends, 
not being altogether sure that I should find 
them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being 
still beloved by an old one. I hope that now 
our correspondence ha& suffered its last in- 
terruption, and that we shall go down to- 
gether to the grave, chatting and chirping as 
merrily as such a scene of things as this will 
permit. 

I am happy that my poems have pleased 
you. My volume has afforded me no such 
pleasure at any time, either while I was writ- 
ing it or since its publication, as I have de- 
rived from yours and my uncle's opinion of 
it. I make certain allowances for partiality, 
and for that peculiar quickness of taste with 
which you both relish what you like, and, 
after all drawbacks upon those accounts duly 
made, find myself rich in the measure of your 
approbation that still remains. But, above 
all, I honor John Gilpin, since it was he who 
first encouraged you to write. I made him 
on purpose to laugh at, and he served his 
purpose well ; but I am now indebted to him 
for a more valuable acquisition than all the 
laughter in the world amounts to, the re- 
covery of my intercourse with you, which is 
to me inestimable. My benevolent and gen- 
erous cousin, when I was once asked if I 
wanted anything, and given delicately to 
understand that the inquirer was ready to 
supply all my occasions, I thankfully and 
civilly, but positively declined the favor. I 
neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such in- 
conveniences as I had not much rather en- 



dure than corrfe under obligations of that 
sort to a person comparatively with yourself 
a stranger to me. But to you I answer 
otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the 
liberality of your disposition, and have that 
consummate confidence in the sincerity of 
your wish to serve me, that delivers me from 
all awkward constraint, and from all fear of 
trespassing by acceptance. To you, there- 
fore, I reply, yes. Whensoever and whatso- 
ever, and in what manner soever you please ; 
and add moreover that my affection for the 
giver is such as will increase to me tenfold 
the satisfaction that I shall have, in receiving. 
It is necessary, however, I should let you a 
little into the state of my finances, that you 
may not suppose them more narrowly cir- 
cumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Un- 
win and I have lived at Olney, we have had 
but one purse, although during the whole 
time, till lately, her income was nearly dou- 
ble mine. Her revenues indeed are now in 4 
some measure reduced, and not much ex- 
ceed my own; the worst consequence of 
this is, that we are forced to deny ourselves 
some things which hitherto we have been 
better able to afford, but they are such things 
as neither life, nor the well-being of life, de- 
pend upon. My own income has been bet- 
ter than it is, but when it was best, it would 
not have enabled me to live as my connex- 
ions demanded that I should, had it not been 
combined with a better than itself, at least at 
this end of the kingdom. Of this I had full 
proof during three months that I spent in 
lodgings at Huntingdon, in which time, by 
the help of good management and a clear 
notion of economical matters, I contrived to 
spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, 
my beloved cousin, you are in possession of 
the whole case as it stands. Strain no 
points to your own inconvenience or hurt, 
for there is no need of it, but indulge your- 
self in communicating (no matter what) that 
you can spare without missing it, since by 
so doing, you will be sure to add to the com- 
forts of my life one of the sweetest that I 
can enjoy — a token and proof of your affec- 
tion. 

In the affair of my next publication* to- 
ward which you also offer me so kindly your 
assistance, there will be no need that you 
should help me in the manner that you pro- 
pose. It will be a large work, consisting I 
should imagine of six volumes at least. The 
12th of this month I shall have spent a year 
upon it, and it will cost me more than 
another. I do not love the booksellers well 
enough to make them a present of such a 
labor, but intend to publish by subscription 
Your vote and interest, my dear cousin, upon 
the occasion, if you please, but nothing more . 
I will trouble you with some papers of pro* 
* His translation of Homer's Iliad. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



23T! 



posals when the time sha'' come, and am 
sure that you will circulate as many for me 
as you can. Now, my dear, I am going to 
tell you a secret. It is a great secret, that 
you must not whisper even to your cat. No 
creature is at this moment apprized of it but 
Mrs. Unwin and her son. I am making a 
new translation of Homer, and am on the 
point of finishing the twentflfirst book of the 
Iliad. The reasons upon which I undertake 
this Herculean labor, and by which I justify 
an enterprise in which I seem so effectually 
anticipated by Pope, although in fact he has 
not anticipated me at all, I may possibly give 
you, if you wish for them, when I can find 
nothing more interesting to say. A period 
which I do not conceive to be very near ! I 
have not answered many things in your letter, 
nor can do it at present for want of room. I 
cannot believe but that I should know you, 
notwithstanding all that time may have done. 
There is not a feature of your face, could I 
meet it upon the road by itself, that I should 
not instantly recollect. I should say, that is 
my cousin's nose, or those are her lips and 
her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim 
them but herself. As for me, I am a very 
smart youth of my years. 1 am not indeed 
grown gray so much as I am# grown bald. 
No matter. There was more hair in the 
world than ever had the honor to belong to 
me. Accordingly having found just enough 
to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix 
with a little of my own that still hangs be- 
hind, I appear, if you see me in an afternoon, 
to have a very decent head-dress, not easily 
distinguished from my natural growth, which 
being worn with a small bag, and a black 
riband about my neck, continues to me the 
charms of my youth even on / the verge of 
age. Away with the fear of writing .too 
often. W. C. 

P. S. — That the view I give you of myself 
may be complete I add the two following 
items — That I am in debt to nobody, and 
that I grow fat. 

— ♦ — 

There is no date to the following letter, 
but it evidently refers to this period of time. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

My dearest Cousin, — I am glad that T al- 
ways loved you as I did. It releases me 
from any occasion to suspect that my pres- 
ent affection for you is indebted for its ex- 
istence to any selfish considerations. No, I 
am sure I love you disinterestedly and for 
your own sake, because I never tho lght of 
you with any other' sensations than those of 
the truest affection, even while I was under 
the persuasion that I should never hear from 
/ou ag-ain. But, with my present feelings I 
superadded to those that 1 always had for | 



you, I find it no easy matter to do justice to 
my sensations. I perceive myself in a state 
of mind similar to that of the traveller de- 
scribed in Pope's Messiah, who, as he passes 
through a sandy desert, starts at the sudden 
and unexpected souud of a waterfall.* You 
have placed me in a situation new to me. 
and in which I feel mysalf somewhat puzzled 
how to behave. At the same time I would 
not grieve you by putting a check upon your 
bounty, I would be as careful not to abuse 
it, as if I were a miser, and the question not 
about your money but my own. 

Although I do not suspect that a secret to 
you, my cousin, is any burden, yet, having 
maturely considered that point since I wrote 
my last, I feel myself altogether disposed to 
release you from the injunction to that effect 
under which I laid you. I have now made 
such a progress in my translation that I need 
neither fear that I shall stop short of the end, 
nor that any other rider of Pegasus should 
overtake me. Therefore, if at any time it 
should fall fairly in your way, or you should 
feel yourself invited to say I am so occupied, 
you have my poetship's free permission. Dr. 
Johnson read and recommended my first 
volume. W. C. 

TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT.f 

Olney, Nov. 9, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — You desired me to re- 
turn your good brother the bishop's Charge,| 
as scon as I conveniently could, and the 
weather having forbidden us to hope for the 
pleasure of seeing you and Mrs. Bagot with 
you this morning, I return it now, lest, as 
you told me that your stay in this country 
would be short, you should be gone before 
it could reach you. 

I wish as you do, that the Charge in ques- 
tion could find its way into all the parsonages 
in the nation. It is so generally applicable, 
and yet so pointedly enforced, that it de- 
serves the most extensive spread. I find in 
it the happiest mixture of spiritual authority, 
the meekness of a Christian, and the good 
manners of a gentleman. It has convinced 
me that the poet who, like myself, shall take 
the liberty to pay the author of such valu- 
able admonition a compliment, shall do at 
least as much honor to himself as to his 
subject. 

Yours, W. C. 

* The following is the passage alluded to : — 
" The swain in bBrren deserts with surprise 
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 
New falls of water murrn'ring in his ear." 

Pope's Messiah, line 67, &c. 
t Cowperwas at Westminster school with five brothers 
of this name. He retained through life the friendship o« 
the estimable character to whom this letter is addressed. 

t Lewis Bagot, D.D. He was formerly Dean of Chrisl 
Church, Oxford; afterwards Bishop of Norwich, and 
finally Bishop of St. Asaph. 



238 



COWPER'S WORKS 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olncy, Dec. 3, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I am glad to hear that 
there is svzh a demand for your last Narra- 
tive. If I may judge of their general utility 
by the effect that they have heretofore had 
upon me, there are few things more edifying 
than death-bed memoirs. They interest every 
reader, because they speak of a period at 
which all must arrive, and afford a solid 
ground of encouragement to survivors to 
expect the same, or similar, support and 
comfort, when it shall be their turn to die. 

I also am employed in writing narrative, 
but not so useful. Employment, however, 
and with the pen, is through habit become 
essential to my well-being; and to produce 
always original poems, especially of consid- 
erable length, is not so easy. For some 
weeks after I had finished " The Task," and 
sent away the last sheet corrected, I was 
through necessity idle, and suffered not a 
little in my spirits for being so. One day, 
being in such distress of mind as was hardly 
supportable, I took up the Iliad ; and, merely 
to divert attention, and with no more pre- 
conception of what I was then entering upon 
than I have at this moment of what I shall 
be doing this day twenty years hence, trans- 
lated the twelve first lines of it. The same 
necessity pressing me again, I had recourse 
to the same expedient and translated more. 
Every day bringing its occasion for employ- 
ment with it, every day consequently added 
something to the work ; till at last I began 
to reflect thus : — The Iliad and the Odyssey 
together consist of about forty thousand 
verses. To translate these forty thousand 
verses will furnish me with occupation for a 
considerable time. I have already made 
some progress, and I find it a most agree- 
able amusement. Homer, in point of purity 
is a most blameless writer; and though he 
was not an enlightened man, has inter- 
spersed many great and valuable truths 
throughout both his poems. In short, he is 
in all respects a most venerable old gentle- 
man, by an acquaintance with whom no man 
can disgrace himself. The literati are all 
agreed to a man that, although Pope has 
given us two pretty poems under Homer's 
titles, there is not to be found in them the 
least portion of Homer's spirit, nor the least 
resemblance of his manner. I will try there- 
fore whether* I cannot copy him somewhat 
more happily myself. I have at least the 
advantage of Pope's faults and failings, 
which, like so many buoys upon a dangerous 
coast, will serve me to steer by, and will 
make my chance for success more probable. 
These and many other considerations, but 
especially a mind that abhorred a vacuum as 

* Private correspondence. 



its chief bane, impelled me so effectually to 
the work, that ere long I mean to publish 
proposals for a subscription to it, having ad- 
vanced so far as to be warranted in doing 
so. I jiave connexions, and no few such, by 
means of which I have the utmost reason to 
expect that a brisk circulation may be pro- 
cured; and if it should prove a profitable 
enterprise, the profit will not accrue to a 
man who may be said not to want it. It is . 
a business such as it will not indeed' lie 
much in your way to promote ; but among 
your numerous connexions it is possible 
that you may know some who would suffi- 
ciently interest themselves in such a work tc 
be not unwilling to subscribe to it. I do not 
mean — far be it from me — to put you upon 
making hazardous applications, where you 
might possibly incur a refusal, that would 
give you though but a moment's pain. You 
know best your own opportunities and pow- 
ers in such a cause. If you can do but little, 
I shall esteem it much ; and if you can do 
nothing, I am 'sure that it will not be for 
want of a will. 

I have lately had three visits from my old 
schoolfellow Mr. Bagot, a brother of Lord 
Bagot, and of Mr. Chester of Chicheley. At 
his last visit he brought his wife with him, a 
most amiable woman, to see Mrs. Unwin. 
I told him my purpose and my progress. 
He received the news with great pleasure; 
immediately subscribed a draft of twenty 
pounds ; and promised me his whole heart 
aud his whole interest, which lies principally 
among people of the first fashion. 

My correspondence has lately also been 
renewed with my dear cousin, Lady Hes- 
keth, whom I ever loved as a sister, (for we 
were in a manner brought up together,) and 
who writes to me as affectionately as if she 
were so. She also enters into my views 
and interests upon this occasion With a 
warmth that gives me great encouragement. 
The circle of her acquaintance is likewise 
very extensive; and I have no doubt that 
she will exert her influence to its utmost pos- 
sibilities among them. I have other strings 
to my bow, (perhaps, as a translator of Ho- 
mer, I should say, to my lyre,) which I can- 
not here enumerate ; but, upon the whole, 
my prospect seems promising enough. 1 
have not yet consulted Johnson upon the 
occasion, but intend to do it soon. 

My spirits are somewhat better than they 
were. In the course of the last month, I 
have perceived a very sensible amendment. 
The hope of better days seems again to 
dawn upon me ; and I have now and then an 
intimation, though slight and transient, that 
God has not abandoned me forever. 

Having been for some years troubled with 
an inconvenient stomach ; and lately with a 
stomach that will digest nothing without 



LIFE OF COWPER 



23L 



nelp ; and we having reached the bottom of 
our own medical skill into which we have 
dived to little or no purpose ; I have at 
length consented to consult Dr. Kerr, and 
expect to see him in a day s>r two. En- 
gaged as I am and am likely to be, so long 
as I am capable of it. in writing for the 
press, I cannot well afford to entertain a 
malady that is such an enemy to all mental 
operations. 

This morning is beautiful, .and tempts me 
forth into the garden. It is all the walk 
that I can have at this season, but not all 
the exercise. I ring a peal every day upon 
the dumbbells. 

I am, my dear friend, most truly, 
Yours and Mrs. Newton's, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Dec. 10, 1785. 

My dear Friend. — What you say of my 
last volume gives me the sincerest pleasure. 
I have heard a like favorable report of it 
from several different quarters, but never 
any (for obvious reasons) that has gratified 
me more than yours. I have a relish for 
moderate praise, because it bids fair to be 
'"udicjous ; but praise excessive, such as our 

poor friend 's, (I have an uncle also 

who celebrates me exactly in the same lan- 
guage,) — such praise is rather too big for an 
ordinary swallow. I set down nine-tenths 
of it to the account of family partiality. J 
know no more than you what kind of a mar- 
ket my book has found ; but this I believe, 
that had not Henderson died,f and had it 
been worth my while to have given him a 
hundred pounds to have read it in public, it 
would have been more popular than it is. I 
am at least very unwilling to esteem John 
Gilpin as better worth than all the rest that I 
have written, and he has been popular enough. 

Your sentiments of Pope's Homer agree 
perfectly with those of every competent judge 
with whom I have at any time conversed 
about it. I never saw a copy so unlike the 
origina.1. There is not I believe in all the 
world to be found an uninspired poem so 
simple as those of Homer, nor in all the 
world a poem more bedizened with orna- 
ments than Pope's translation of them. Ac- 
cordingly, the sublime of Homer in the hands 
of Pope becomes bloated and tumid, and his 
description tawdry. Neither had Pope the 
faintest conception of those exquisite dis- 
criminations of character for which Homer 
is so remarkable. All his persons, and 
equally upon all occasions, speak in an in- 
flated and strutting phraseology as Pope has 

* Private correspondence. 

t A public reciter, well known in his day, who de- 
livered his recitations with all the effect of tone, empha- 
sis, and graceful elocution. 



managed them ; although in the original the 
dignity of their utterance, even when they 
are most majestic, consists principally in the 
simplicity of their sentiments and of their 
language. Another censure I must needs 
pass upon our Anglo-Grecian, out of many 
that obtrude themselves upon me, but for 
which I have neither time to spare, nor room, 
which is, that with all his great abilities he 
was defective in his feelings to a degree that 
some passages in his own poems make it dif- 
ficult to account for. # No writer more pa- 
thetic than Homer, because none more nat- 
ural ; and because none less natural than 
Pope in his version of Homer, therefore than 
he none less pathetic. But I shall tire you 
with a theme with which I would not wish to 
cloy you beforehand. 

If "the great change in my experience, of 
which you express so lively an expectation, 
should take place, and whenever it shall take 
place, you may securely depend upon receiv- 
ing the first notice of it. But, whether you 
come with congratulations, or whether with- 
out them, I need not say that you and yours 
will always be most welcome here. Mrs. 
Unwin's love both to yourself and to Mrs. 
Newton joins itself as usual, and as warmly 
as usual, to that of 

Yours, my dear friend, 
Affectionately and faithfully, W. C. 

The following this moment occurs to mo 
as a possible motto for the Messiah, if you 
do not think it too sharp : — 

Nunquam inducunt animumcantare, rogati ; 

Injussi, nunquam desistunt. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. 

Olney, Dec. 24, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — You would have'found a 

letter from me at Mr. 's, according to 

your assignation, had not the post, setting 
out two hours sooner than the usual time 
prevented me. The Odyssey that you sent 
has but one fault, at least but one that I have 
discovered, which is that I cannot read it. 
The very attempt, if persevered in, would 
soon make me as blind as Homer was him- 
self. I am now in the last book of the Iliad, 
shall be obliged to you therefore for a more 
legible one by the first opportunity. 

I wrote to Johnson lately, desiring him to 
give me advice and information on the subject 
of proposals for a subscription, and he desired 
me in his answer not to use that mode of 
publication, but to treat with him, adding that 
he could make me such offers as (he believed) 
I should approve. I have replied to his let- 
ter, but abide by my first purpose. 

Having occasion to write to Mr. ,* con* 

* John Thornton, feq. 



240 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



cerning his princely benevolence, extended 
this year also to the poor of Olney, T put in 
a go'od word for ray poor self likewise, and 
have received a very obliging and encourag- 
ing answer. He promises me six names in 
particular, lhat (he says) will do me no dis- 
3redit, and expresses a wish to be served 
with papers as soon as they shall be printed. 

I meet with encouragement from all quar- 
ters, such as T find need of indeed in an en- 
terprise of such length and moment, but such 
as at the same time I find effectual. Homer 
is not a poet to be translated under the dis- 
advantage of doubts and dejection. 

Let me sing the praises of the desk which 

has sent me. In general it is as elegant 

as possible. In particular it is of cedar beau- 
tifully lacquered. When put together, it as- 
sumes the form of a handsome small chest, 
and contains all sorts of accommodations ; it 
is inlaid with ivory, and serves the purpose 
of a reading desk.** 

Your affectionate W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Dec. 24, 1785. 
My dear Friend,— Till I had made such a 
progress in my present undertaking as to put 
it out of all doubt that, if I lived, I should 
proceed in and finish it, I kept the matter to 
myself. It would have done me little honor 
to have told my friends that I had an arduous 
enterprise in hand, if afterwards I must have 
told them that I had dropped it. Knowing 
it to have been universally the opinion of the 
literati, ever since they have allowed them- 
selves to consider the matter coolly, that a 
translation, properly so called, of Homer is, 
notwithstanding what Pope has done, a de- 
sideratum in the English language ; it struck 
me that an attempt to supply the deficiency 
woul 1 be an honorable one, and having made 
myself, in former years, somewhat critically 
a master of the original, I was by this double 
consideration induced to make the attempt 
myself. I am now translating into blank 
verse the last book of the Iliajl, and mean 
to publish by subscription. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 

Olney, Dec. 31, 1785. 
My dear William, — You have learned from 
my laot that I am now conducting myself 
upon the plan that you recommended to me 
in the summer. But since I wrote it I have 
made still farther advances in my negociation 
with Johnson. The proposals are adjusted. 
The proof-sheet has been printed off, cor- 

* This interesting relic was bequeathed to Dr. Johnson, 
and is now in the possession of his family. It was pre- 
sented to Cowper by Lady Hesketh. 



rected, and returned. They will be sent 
abroad, as soon as I make up a complete list 
of the personages and persons to whom ] 
would have them sent, which in a few davs J 
hope to be able to accomplish. Johnson be- 
haves very well, at least according to my 
conception of the matter, and seems sensible 
that I dealt liberally with him. He wishes 
me to be a gainer by my labors, in his own 
words, " to put something handsome into ray 
pocket," and recommends two large quartos 
for the whole. He would not, he says, by 
any means advise an extravagant price, and 
has fixed it at three guineas, the half, aa 
usual, to be paid at the time of subscribing, 
the remainder on delivery. Five hundred 
names, he adds, at this price will put above 
a thousand pounds into my purse. I am 
doing my best to obtain them. Mr. Newton 
is warm in my service, and can do not a little. 
I have of course written to Mr. Bagot, who, 
when he was here, with much earnestness 
and affection intreated me so to do as soon 
as 1 could have settled the conditions. If I 
could get Sir Richard Sutton's address, I 
would write to him also, though I have been . 
but once in his company since I left West- 
minster, where he and I read the Iliad and 
Odyssey through together. I enclose Lord 
Dartmouth's answer to my application, which 
I will get you to show to Lady Hesketh, be- 
cause it will please her. I shall be glad if 
you can make an opportunity to call on her 
during your present stay in town. You ob- 
serve therefore that I am not wanting to my- 
se 1 ^ He that is so has no just claim on the 
assistance of others, neither shall myself have 
cause to complain of me in other respects. 1 
thank you for your friendly hints and pre- 
cautions, and shall not fail to give them the 
guidance of my pen. I respect the public 
and I respect myself, and had rather want 
bread than expose myself wantonly to the 
condemnation of either. I hate the affecta- 
tion, so frequently found in authors, of neg- 
ligence and slovenly slightness, and in the 
present case am sensible how necessary it is 
to shun them, when I undertake the vast and 
invidious labor of doing better than Pope has 
done before me. I thank you for all that 
you have said and done in my cause, and be- 
forehand for all that you shall do and say 
hereafter. I am sure that there will be no 
deficiency on your part. In particular 1 
'thank you for taking such jealous care of my 
honor, and respectability, when the man you 
mentioned applied for samples of my trans- 
lation. When I deal in wine, cloth, or cheese, 
I will give samples, but of verse never. No 
consideration would have induced me to 
comply with ^,he gentleman's demand, unless 
he could have assured me that his wife had 
longed. 

I have frequently tho ight with pleasure Oj 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



241 



the summer that you have toad in your heart, 
while you have been employed in softening' 
the severity of winter in behalf of so many 
who must otherwise have been exposed to it. 
f wish that you could make a general gaol- 
delivery, leaving only those behind who can- 
not elsewhere be so properly disposed of. 
You never said a better thing in your life 
than when you assured Mr. of the ex- 
pedience of a gift of bedding to the poor of 
Olney. There is no one article of this world's 
comforts with which, as Palstaff says, they 
are so heinously unprovided. When a poor 
woman, and an honest one, whom we know 
well, carried home two pair of blankets, a 
pair for herself and husband, and a pair for 
her six children ; as soon as the children saw 
them, they jumped out of their straw, caught 
them in their arms, kissed them, blessed 
them, and daaced for joy. An old woman, a 
very old one, the first ni^ht that she found 
herself so comfortably covered, could not 
sleep a wink, being kept awake by the con- 
trary emotions of transport on the one hand, 
and the fear of not being thankful enough on 
the other. 

It just occurs to me to say that this manu- 
script of mine will be ready for the press, as 
I hope, by the end of February. I shall have 
finished the Iliad, in about ten days, and shall 
proceed immediately to the revisal of the 
whole. You must if possible come down to 
Olney, if it be only that you may take 
charge- of its safe delivery to Johnson. For, 
if by any accident it should be lost, I am un- 
done — the first copy being but a lean coun- 
terpart of the second. 

Your mother joins with me in love and 
good wishes of every kind to you and all 



yours. 



Adieu, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, Jan. 10, 1786. 

It gave me great pleasure that you found 
my friend Unwin, what I was sure you would 
find him, a most agreeable man. I did not 
usher him in with the marrow-bones and 
cleavers of high-sounding panegyric, both be- 
cause I was certain that, whatsoever merit he 
had, your discernment would mark it, and 
because it is possible to do a man material 
injury by making his praise his harbinger. 
It is easy to raise expectation to such a pitch 
that the reality, be it ever so excellent, must 
necessarily fall below it. 

I hold myself much indebted to Mr. , 

of whom I have the first information from 
yourself, both for his friendly disposition to- 
wards me, and for the manner in which he 
marks the defects in my volume. An author 
must be tender indeed to wince on being 



touched so gently. It is undoubtedly as he 
says, and as you and my uncle say, you can- 
not be all mistaken, neither is it at all prob- 
I able that any of you should be so. I take it 
j for granted, therefore, that there are inequal- 
| ities in the composition, and I do assure you, 
j my dear, most faithfully, that, if it should 
j reach a second edition, I will spare no pains 
; to improve it. It may serve me for an agree- 
able amusement perhaps when Homer shall 
be gone, and done with. The first edition 
of poems has generally been susceptible oi 
improvement. Pope I believe never pub- 
lished one in his life that did not undergo 
variations, and his longest pieces many. I 
; will only observe that inequalities there must 
! be always, and in every work of length. 
! There are level parts of every subject, parts 
j which we cannot with propriety attempt to 
• elevate. They are by nature humble, and 
! can only be made to assume an awkward and 
j uncouth appearance by being mounted. But 
again I take it for granted that this remark 
does not apply to the matter of your objec- 
tion. You were sufficiently aware of it be- 
fore, and have no need that I should suggest 
it as an apology, could it have served that 
office, but would have made it for me your- 
self. In truth, my dear, had you known in 
what anguish of mind I wrote the whole of 
that poem, and under what perpetual inter 
raptions from a cause that has since been re- 
moved, so that sometimes I had not an op- 
portunity of writing more than three lines at 
a sitting, you would long since have won- 
dered as much as I do myself that it turner 
out anything better than Grub-street. 

My cousin, give yourself no trouble to find 
out any of the magi to scrutinize my Homer. 
I can do without them ; and, if I were not 
conscious that I have no need of their help, 
I would be the first to call for it, Assure 
yourself that I intend to be careful to the ut- 
most line of all possible caution, both wiih 
respect to language and versification. I will 
not send a verse to the press that shall no* 
have undergone the strictest examination. 

A subscription is surely on every account 
the most eligible mode of publication. When 
I shall have emptied the purses of my friends 
and of their friends into my own, I am still 
free to levy contributions upon the world at 
large, and I shall then have a fund to defray 
the expenses of a new edition. I have ordered 
Johnson to print the proposals immediately, 
and hope that they will kiss your hands be- 
fore the week is expired. 

I have had the kindest letter from Josephus 
that I ever had. He mentioned my purpose 
to one of the masters of Eton, who replied, 
that " such a work is much wanted." 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



16 



242 



CUWPER S WORKS 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. 14, 1786. 

My dear William, — I am glad that you 
nave seen Lady Hesketh. I knew that you 
would find her everything that is amiable and 
elegant. Else, being my relation, I would 
never have shown her to you. She was also 
delighted with her visitor, and expects the 
greatest pleasure in seeing you again ; but is 
under some apprehensions that a tender re- 
gard for the drum of your ear may keep you 
from her. Never mind ! You have two 
drums, and if she should crack both, I will 
buy you a trumpet. 

General Cowper having much pressed me 
to accompany my proposals with a specimen, 
I have sent him one. It is taken from the 
twenty-fourth book of the Iliad, and is part 
of the interview between Priam and Achilles. 
Tell me, if it be possible for any man to tell 
me — why' did Homer leave off at the burial 
of Hector? Is it possible, that he could be 
determined to it by a conceit so little worthy 
of him as that, having made the number of 
nis books completely the alphabetical num- 
ber, he would not for the joke's sake proceed 
any further ? Why did he not give us the 
death of Achilles, with the destruction of 
Troy % Tell me also if the critics, with Aris- 
totle at their head, have not found that he 
left off exactly where he should, and that 
every epic poem to all generations is bound 
to conclude with the burial of Hector ? I do 
not in the least doubt it. Therefore if I live 
to write a dozen epic poems, I will always 
take care to bury Hector,, and to bring all 
matters at that point to an immediate con- 
clusion. 

I had a truly kind letter from Mr. , 

written immediately on his recovery from the 
fever. I am bound to honor James's powder, 
not only for the services it has often ren- 
dered to myself, but still more for having 
been the means of preserving a life ten times 
more valuable to society than mine is ever 
likely to be. 

You say, "Why should I trouble you with 
mj troubles V I answer, " Why not ? What 
is a friend good for, if we may not lay one 
end of the sack upon his shoulders, while we 
ourselves carry the other ?" 

You see your duty to God, and your duty 
to your neighbor, and you practise both with 
your best ability. Yet a certain person ac- 
co unts you blind. I would, that all the world 
were so blind even as you are. But there 
are some in it who, like the Chinese, say, 
" We have two eyes ; and other nations have 
but one I" I am glad however that in your 
one eye you have sight enough to discover 
that such censures are not worth minding. 

I thank you heartily for every step you 
take in the advancement of my present pur- 
pose. 



Contrive to pay Ladv H. a long visit, fo* 
she has a thousand things to say. 
Yours, my dear William, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Jan. 14, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — My proposals are al- 
ready printed. I ought rather to say that 
they are ready for printing; having near ten 
days ago returned the correction of the proof. 
But a cousin of mine, and one who will I 
dare say be very active in my literary cause, 
(I mean General Cowper,) having earnestly 
recommended it to me to annex a specimen, 
I have accordingly sent him one, extracted 
from the latter part of the last book of the 
Iliad, and consisting of a hundred and seven 
lines. I chose to extract it from that part of 
the poem, because if the reader should happen 
to find himself colftent with it, he will natu- 
rally be encouraged by it to hope well of the 
part preceding. Every man who can do any- 
thing in the translating way is pretty sure 
to set off with spirit ; but in w T orks of such a 
length, there is always danger of flagging 
near the close. » 

My subscription I hope will be more pow 
erfully promoted than subscriptions generally 
are. I have a warm and affectionate friend 
in Lady Hesketh ; and one equally disposed, 
and even still more able to serve me, in the 
General above mentioned. The Bagot fam- 
ily all undertake my cause with ardor ; and 
I have several others, of whose ability and 
good will I could not doubt without doing 
them injustice. It will however be necessary 
to bestow yet much time on the revisal of 
this work, for many reasons ; !&nd especially, 
because he who contends with Pope upon 
Homer's ground can of all writers least 
afford to be negligent. 

Mr. Scott brought me as much as he could 
remember of a kind message from Lord Dart- 
mouth : but it was rather imperfectly de- 
livered. Enough of it however came to 
hand to convince me that his lordship takes 
a friendly interest in my success. When his 
lordship and I sat side by side, on the sixth 
form at Westminster, we little thought that 
in process of time one of us was ordained to 
give a new translation of Homer. Yet at 
that very time it seems I was laying the 
foundation of this superstructure. 

Much love upon all accounts to you and 
yours. 

Adieu, my friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olney, Jan. 15, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I have just time to give 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



243 



rou a hasty line to explain to you the delay 
that the publication of my proposals has un- 
expectedly encountered, and at which I sup- 
pose that you'have been somewhat surprised. 

I have a near relation in London, and a 
warm friend in General Cowper; he is also a 
person as able as willing to render me mate- 
rial service. I lately made him acquainted 
with my design of sending into the world a 
lew Translation of Homeland told him that 
my papers would soon attend him. He soon 
after desired that I would annex to them a 
specimen of the work. To this I at first ob- 
jected, for reasons that need not be enume- 
rated here, but at last acceded to his advice ; 
and accordingly the day before yesterday I 
sent him a specimen. It consists of one 
hundred and seven lines, and is taken from 
the interview between Priam and Achilles in 
the last book. I chose to extract from the 
latter end of the poem, and as near to the 
close of it as possible, that I might encourage 
a hope in the readers of it, that if they found 
it in some degree worthy of their approbation, 
they would find the former parts of The work 
not less so. For if a writer flags anywhere, 
it must, be when he is near the end. 

My subscribers will have an option given 
them in the proposals respecting- the price. 
My predecessor in the same business was 
not quite so moderate. You may say, per- 
haps (at least if your kindness for me did not 
prevent it, you would be ready to say.) " It is 
well — but do you place yourself on a level 
with Pope ?" I answer, or rather should 
answer, " By no means — not as a poet; but 
as a translator of Homer, if I did not expect 
and believe that I should even surpass him, 
why have I meddled with this matter at all ? 
If I confess inferiority, I reprobate my own 
undertaking." 

When I can hear of the rest of the bishops 
'hat they preach and live as your bi'other does, 
I will think more respectfully of them than I 
feel inclined to do at present. They may be 
learned, and I know that some of them are ; 
but your brother, learned as he is, has other 
more powerful recommendations. Persuade 
him to publish his poetry, and I promise you 
that he shall find as warm and sincere an ad- 
mirer in me as in any man that lives. 
Yours, my dear friend, 

Very affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olney, Jan. 23, 1786. 

My dear and faithful friend, — . 

The paragraph that I am now beginnin.g 
m ! contain information of a kind that I am 
not very fond of communicating, and on a 
subject that I am not very fond of writing 
\bout. On to vou T will open my budget 



without any reserve, because I know that ir. 
what concerns my authorship you take an in- 
terest that demands my confidence, and will 
be pleased with every occurrence that is at all 
propitious to my endeavors. Lady Hesketh, 
who, had she as many mouths as Virgil's 
Fame, with a tongue in each, would employ 
them all in my service, writes me word that 
Dr. Maty, of the Museum, has read my " Task." 
I cannot, even to you, relate what he says of 
it, though, when I began this story, I thought 
I had courage enough to tell it boldly. He 
designs, however, to give his opinion of it in 
his next Monthly Review; and, being informed 
that I was about to finish a translation of 
Homer, asked her ladyship's leave to mention 
the circumstance on that occasion. This in- 
cident pleases me the more, because I have 
authentic intelligence of his being a critical 
character, in all its forms, acute, sour, and 
blunt, and so incorruptible withal, and so un- 
susceptible of bias from undue motives, that, 
as my correspondent informs me, he would 
not praise his own mother, did he not think 
she deserved it. 

The said " Task" is likewise gone to Ox- 
ford, conveyed thither by an intimate friend 

of Dr. , with a purpose of putting it into 

his hands. My friend, what will they do with 
me at Oxford ? Will they burn me at Carfax, 
or will they anthematize me with bell, book, 
and candle ? I can say with more truth thai: 
Ovid did — Parve, nee invideo. 

The said Dr. has been heard to say 

and I give you his own words, (stop both 
your ears while I utter them,) " that Homer 
has never been translated, and that Pope was 
a fool." Very irreverend language, to be sure, 
but, in consideration of the subject on which 
he used them, we will pardon it, even in a 
dean.* One of the masters of Eton told a 
friend of mine lately, that a translation of 
Homer is much wanted. So now you have 
all my news. 

Yours, my dear friend, cordially, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, Jan. 31, 178& 

It is very pleasant, my dearest Cousin, U 
receive *a present so delicately conveyed as 
that which I received so lately from Anony- 
mous-; but it is also very painful to have 
nobody to thank for it, I find myself, there- 
fore, driven by stress of necessity to the fol- 
lowing resolutions, viz., that I will constitute 
you my thanks-receiver-general, for whatso- 
ever gift I shall receive hereafter, as well as 
for those that I have already received from a 
nameless benefactor. I therefore thank you, 

* The person here alluded to is Dr. Cyril Jackson, dean 
of Christ Church, Oxford, a man of profound acquire- 
ments and of great classical taste. He was formerly pro- 
ceptor to the Prince of Wales, afterwards Georre TV 



244 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



my cousin, for a most elegant present, includ- 
ing the most elegant compliment that ever 
poet was honored with; for a snuff-box of 
tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on 
the lid of it, glazed with crystal, having the 
figures of three hares in the fore ground, and 
inscribed above with these word.-, The Peas- 
ants Nest — and below with these, Tiney, 
Puss, and Bess. For all and every of these 
I thank you, and also for standing proxy on 
this occasion. Nor must I forget to thank 
you, that so soon after I had sent you the 
first letter of Anonymous, I received another 
in the same hand. — There ! Now I am a little 
easier. 

I have almost conceived a design to send 
up half a dozen stout country fellows, to tie 
by the leg to their respective bed-posts, the 
company that so abridges your opportunity 
of writing to me. Your letters are the joy 
of my heart, and I cannot endure to be 
robbed, by I know not whom, of half my 
treasure. But there is no comfort without a 
drawback, and therefore it is that I, who have 
unknown friends, have unknown enemies also. 
Ever since I wrote last, I find myself in better 
health, and my nocturnal spasms and fever 
considerably abated. I intend to write to Dr. 
Kerr on Thursday, that I may gratify him 
with an account of my amendment : for to 
him I know that it will be a gratification. 
Were he not a physician, I should regret that 
he lives so distant, for he is a most agreeable 
man ;f but, being what he is, it would be im- 
possible to have his company, even if he were 
a neighbor, unless in time of sickness, at 
which time, whatever charms he might have 
himself, my own must necessarily lose much 
of their effect on him. 

When I write to you, my dear, what I have 
already related to the General, I am always 
fearful lest I should tell you that for news 
with which you are well acquainted. For 
once, however, I will venture. On Wednes- 
day last I received from Johnson the MS. copy 
of a specimen that I had sent to the General, 
and inclosed in the same cover Notes upon it 
by an unknown critic. Johnson, in a short 
letter, recommended him to me as a man of 
unquestionable learning and ability. On pe- 
msal and consideration of his remarks, I 
found him such, and, having nothing so much 
•at heart as to give all possible security to 
yourself and the General that my work shall 
not come forth unfinished, I answered John- 
son that I would gladly submit my MS. to 
his friend. He is in truth a very clever fellow, 
perfectly a stranger to me, and one who, I 
promise you, will not spare for severity of 
animadversion, where he shall find occasion. 
\t is impossible for you, my dearest cousin, 
lo express a wish that I do not equally feel a 

* Dr. Kerr was an eminent physician, in great prac- 
tice, and resident at Northampton. 



wish to gratify. You are desirous that Maty 
should see a book of my Homer, and for thai 
reason, if Maty will see a book of it. he shall 
be welcome, although time is likely to be 
precious, and consequently any delay that ia 
not absolutely necessary as much as possible 
to be avoided. I am now revising the " Iliad." 
It is a business that will cost me four months, 
perhaps five : for I compare the very words 
as I go, and, if much alteration should* occur 
must transcribe the whole. The first book I 
have almost transcribed already. To these 
five months Johnson says that nine more must 
be added for printing, and upon my own ex- 
perience, I will venture to assure you that the 
tardiness of printers will make those nine 
months twelve. There is danger therefore 
that my subscribers may think that I make 
them wait too long, and that they who know 
me not, may suspect a bubble. How glad 
shall I be to read it over in an evening, book 
by book, as fast as I settle the copy, to you 
and to Mrs. Unwin ! She has been my touch- 
stone always, and without reference to her 
taste and judgment I have printed nothing. 
With one of you at each elbow, I should 
think myself the happiest of all poets. 

The General and I, having broken the ice, 
are upon the most comfortable terms of cor- 
respondence. He writes very affectionately 
to me, and I say everything that comes up- 
permost. I could not write frequently to any 
creature living upon any other terms than 
those. He tells me of infirmities that he has, 
which make him less active than he was. I 
am sorry to hear that he has any such. Alas 
alas ! he was young when I saw him, only 
twenty years ago. 

I have the most affectionate letter imagina- 
ble from Colman, who writes to me like a 
brother. The Chancellor is yet dumb. 

May God have you in his keeping, my be- 
loved cousin. 

Farewell, W. C. 



Lady Hesketh having announced her in- 
tention of paying a visit to Cowper, the fol- 
lowing letters abound in all that delightful 
anticipation which the prospect of renewing 
so endeared an intercourse naturally sug- 
gested. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, Feb. 9, 1786. 

My dearest Cousin, — I have been impa- 
tient to tell you that I am impatient to see 
you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me 
in all my feelings upon this subject, and 
longs also to see you. I should have told 
you so by the last post, but have been so 
completely occupied by this tormenting speci- 
men, that it was impossible to do it. I sent 
the General a letter on Monday that would 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



24d 



'jstress .and alarm him ; I sent him another 
yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. 
Johnson nas apologized very civilly for the 
multitude of his friend's strictures; and his 
friend has promised to confine himself in 
future to a comparison with the original, so 
chat (I 'doubt not) we shall jog on merrily 
together. And now, my dear, let me tell 
7011 ori£e more that your kindness in prom- 
ising us a visit has charmed us both. I shall 
Sie you again. I shall hear your voice. We 
shall take walks together. I will show you 
my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the 
Ouse, and its banks, everything that I have 
aescribed. I anticipate the pleasure of those 
days not very far distant, and feel a part of 
it at this moment. Talk not of an inn ! 
Mention it not for your life ! We have 
never had so many visitors but we could 
easily accommodate them all, though we 
kave received Unwin, and his wife, and his 
sister, and his son, all at once. My dear, I 
will not let you come till the end of May, or 
beginning oi* June, because, before that time 
my green-house will not be ready to receive 
us, and it is the only pleasant room belong- 
ing to us. When the plants go out, we go 
in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor 
with mats ; and there you shall sit. with a 
bed of mignonette at your side, and a hedge 
of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine ; and I 
will make you a bouquet of myrtle every 
day. Sooner than the time 1 mention the 
country will not be in complete beauty. 
And I will tell you what you shall find at 
your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as 
you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a 
look on either side of you, you shall see on 
the right hand a box of my making. It is 
the box in which have been lodged all my 
hares, and in which lodges Puss at present. 
But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, 
and promises to die before you can see him. 
On the right hand stands a cupboard, the 
work of the same author ; it was once a 
dove-cage, but 1 transformed it. Opposite 
to you stands a table, which I also made. 
But, a merciless servant having scrubbed it 
until it became paralytic, it serves no pur- 
pose now but of ornament ; and all my clean 
shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at 
the farther end of this superb vestibule, you 
will find the door of the parlor, into which I 
will conduct you, and where I will introduce 
you to Mrs. Unwin, unless we should meet 
her before, and where we will be as happy 
as the- day is long. Order yourself, my 
cousin, to the Swan, at Newport, and there 
you shall find me ready to conduct you to 
-Olney. 

My dear, I have told Homer what you say 
about casks and urns, and have asked him 
whether he is sure that it is a cask in which 
T upiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is 



a cask, and that it will never be anything 
better than a cask to eternity. So if the god 
is content with it, we must even wonder at 
his taste, and be so too. 

Adieu ! my deare et. dearest Cousin, 

W. C. 



TO LA7»Y HESKETH. 

Olney, Feb. 11, 1786. 

Jly dearest Cousin, — It must be, I sup- 
pose, a fortnight or thereabout since I wrote 
last, I feel myself so alert and so ready to 
write again. Be that as it may, here I come. 
We talk of nobody but you, what we will do 
with you when we get you, where you shall 
walk, where you shall sleep, in short every- 
thing that bears the remotest relation to your 
well-being at Olney occupies all our talking 
time, which is all that I do not spend at 
Troy. 

I have every reason for writing to you as 
often as I can, but I have a particular reason 
for doing it now. I want to tell you, that 
by the diligence on Wednesday next, I mean 
to send you a quire of my Homer for Maty's 
perusal. It will contain the first book, and 
as much of the second as brings us to the 
catalogue of the ships, and is every morsel 
of the revised copy that I have transcribed. 
My dearest cousin, read it yourself, let the 
General read it, do what you please with it, 
so that it reach Johnson in due time. But 
let Maty be the only Critic that has anything 
to do with it. The vexation, the perplexity, 
that attends a multiplicity of criticisms by 
various hands, many of which are sure to be 
futile, many of them ill-founded, and some 
of them contradictory to others, is incon- 
ceivable, except by the author whose ill-fated 
work happens to be the subject of them. 
This also appears to me self-evident, that if 
a work have passed under the review of one 
man of taste and learning, and have had the 
good fortune to please him, his approbation 
gives security for that of all others qualified 
like himself. I speak thus, my dear, after 
having just escaped from such a storm of 
trouble, occasioned by endless remarks, hints, 
suggestions, and objections, as drove me al- 
most to despair, and to the very verge of a 
resolution to drop my undertaking forever. 
With infinite difficulty I at last sifted the 
chaff from the wheat, availing myself of 
what appeared to me to be just, and rejected 
the rest, but not till the labor and anxiety 
had nearly undone all that Kerr had been 
doing for me. My beloved cousin, trust me 
for it, as you safely may, that temper, vanity 
and self-importance, had nothing to do in all 
this distress that I suffered. It was merely 
the effect of an alarm that I could not help 
taking, when I compared the great trouble I 
had with a few lines only, thus handled, with 



that which I foresaw such handling of the 
whole must necessarily give me. I felt be- 
forehand that my constitution would not 
bear it. I shall send up this second speci- 
men in a box that I have made on purpose ; 
ind when Maty has done with the copy, and 
you have done with it yourself, then you 
must return it in said box to my translator- 
ship. Though Johnson's friend has teased 
me sadly, I verily believe that I shall have 
no more such cause to complain of hyn. 
We now understand one another, and I 
firmly believe that I might have gone the 
world through before I had found his equal 
in an accurate and familiar acquaintance with 
the original. 

A letter to Mr. Urban in the last Gentle- 
man's Magazine, of which I's book is the sub- 
ject, pleases me more than anything I have 
seen in the way of eulogium yet. I have no 
guess of the author. 

I do not wish to remind the Chancellor of 
his promise. Ask you why, my Cousin? 
Because I suppose it would be impossible. 
He has, no doubt, forgotten it entirely, and 
would be obliged to take my word for the 
truth of it, which I could not bear. We 

drank tea together with Mrs. C e, and 

her sister, in King-street, Bloomsbury, and 
there was the promise made. I said, " Thur- 
low, I am nobody, and shall be always no- 
body, and you will be Chancellor. You shall 
provide for me when you are.'' He smiled, 
and replied, " I surely will." " These ladies," 
said I, " are witnesses." He still smiled, and 
said, " Let them be so, for I certainly will do 
it." But alas ! twenty-four years have passed 
since the day of the date thereof; and to 
mention it now would be to upbraid him 
with inattention to his plighted troth. Nei- 
ther do I suppose that he could easily serve 
such a creature as I am, if he would. 
Adieu, whom I love entirely, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Feb. 18, 1786. 
My dear Friend, — I feel myself truly 
obliged to you for the leave that you give me 
to be less frequent in my writing, and more 
brief than heretofore. I have a long work 
upon my hands; and standing engaged to 
the public (for by this time I suppose my 
subscription papers to be gone abroad, not 
only for the performance of it, but for the 
performance of it in a reasonable time), it 
seems necessary to me not to intermit it 
»ften. My correspondence has also lately 
been renewed with several of my relations, 
and unavoidably engrosses now and then 
one of the few opportunities that I can find 

* I fivate correspondence. 



for writing. I nevertheless intend, in t*l 
exchange of letters with you, to be as reg« 
ular as I can be, and to use, like a friend, 
the friendly allowance that you have made 
me. 

My reason for giving notice of an Odyssey 
as well as an Iliad, was this ■ I feared that 
the public being left to doubt whether I 
should ever translate the former, would be 
unwilling to treat with me for the latter ; 
which they would be apt to consider as an 
odd volume, and unworthy to stand upon 
their shelves alone. It is hardly probable, 
however, that I should begin the Odyssty for 
some months to come, being now closely en- 
gaged in the revisal of my translation of the 
Iliad, which I compare as I go most minutely 
with the original. One of the great defects 
of Pope's translation is that it is licentious. 
To publish therefore a translation now, that 
should be at all chargeable with the same 
fault, that were not indeed as close and as 
faithful as possible, would be only actum 
agere, and had therefore better be left un- 
done. Whatever be said of mine when it 
shall appear, it shall never be said that it is 
not faithful. 

I thank you heartily, both for your wishes 
and prayers that, should a disappointment 
occur, I may not be too much hurt by it. 
Strange as it may seem to say it, and un- 
willing as I should be to say it to any person 
less candid than ycurself, I will nevertheless 
say that I have not entered on this work, un- 
connected as it must needs appear with the 
interests of the cause of God, without the 
direction of his providence, nor altogether 
unassisted by him in the performance of it. 
Time will show to what it ultimately tends. 
I am inclined to believe that it has a ten- 
dency to which I myself am at present per- 
fectly a stranger. Be that as it may, h*: 
knows my frame, and will consider that I am 
but dust; dust, into the bargain, that has 
been so trampled under foot and beaten, that 
a storm, less violent than an unsuccessfu 
issue of such a business might occasion, 
would be sufficient to blow me quite away. 
But I will tell you honestly, I have no fears 
upon the subject. My predecessor has given 
me every advantage. 

As I know not tc what end this my pres- 
ent occupation may finally lead, so nei-thei 
did I know, when I wrote it, or at all suspect 
one valuable end at least that was to be an- 
swered by " The Task." It has pleased God 
to prosper it ; and, being composed in blank 
verse, it is likely to prove as seasonable an 
introduction to a blank verse Homer by ths 
same hand as any that could have been de 
vised; yet, when I wrote the last line ol 
"The Task," I as little suspected that 1 
should ever engage in a version of the oM 
Asiatic tale as you do now. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



24, 



I should choose for your general motto : — 
Carmina turn melius, cum venerit ipse, canemus. 

For Vol. L— 

Unum pro multis dabitur caput. 

For Vol. II.— 

Aspice, venturo 1 etentur ut omnia sseclo. 

It seems to me that you cannot have bet- 
ter than these. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, Feb. 19, 1786. 

My dearest Cousin, — Since so it must be, 
so it shall be. If you will not sleep under 
the roof of a friend, may you never sleep 
under the roof of an enemy! An enemy, 
however, you will not presently find. Mrs. 
Unwin bids me mention her affectionately, 
and tell you that she willingly gives up a 
part, for the sake of the rest — willingly, at 
least as far as willingly may consist with 
some reluctance : I feel my reluctance too. 
Our design was that you should have slept 
in the room that serves me for a study, and 
its having been occupied by you would have 
been an additional recommendation of it to 
me. But all reluctances are superseded by 
the thought of seeing you ; and because we 
have nothing so much at heart as the wish 
to see you happy and comfortable, we are 
desirous therefore to accommodate you to 
your own mind, and not to ours. Mrs. Un- 
win has already secured for you an apart- 
ment, or rather two, just such as we could 
wish. The house in which you will find 
them is within thirty yards of our own, and 
opposite to it. The whole affair is thus 
commodiously adjusted; and now I have 
nothing to do but to wish for June; and 
June, my Cousin, was never so wished for 
since June was made. I shall have a thou- 
sand things to hear, and a thousand to say, 
and they will all rush into my mind together, 
till it will be so crowded with things im- 
patient to be said, that for some time I shall 
say nothing. But no matter — sooner or 
later they will all come out ; and since we 
shall have you the'longer for not having you 
under our own roof (a circumstance that 
more than anything reconciles us to that 
measure), they will stand the better chance. 
After so long a separation, — a separation 
that of late seemed likely to last for life — 
we bhall meet each other as alive from the 
dead ; and for my own part, I can truly say, 
that I have not a friend in the other world 
whose resurrection wou.d give me greater 
pleasure. 

I am truly happy, my dear, in having pleased 



you with what you have seen of my Homer 
I wish that all English readers had your un. 
sophisticated, or rather unadulterated taste 
and could relish simplicity like you. But 1 
am well aware that in this respect I am undei 
a disadvantage, and that many, especially 
many ladies, missing many turns and pretti- 
nesses of expression, that they have admired 
in Pope, will account my translation in those 
particulars defective. But I comfort myself 
with the thought, that in reality it is no de- 
fect ; on the contrary, that the want of all 
such embellishments as do not belong to the 
original, will be one of its principal merits 
with persons indeed capable of relishing Ho- 
mer. He is the best poet that ever lived for 
many reasons, but for none more than for 
that majestic plainness that distinguishes him 
from all others. As an accomplished person 
moves gracefully without thinking of it, in 
like manner the dignity of Homer seems to 
cost him no labor. It was natural to him 
to say great things, and to say them well 
and little ornaments were beneath his notice. 
If Maty, my dearest cousin, should return to 
you my copy, with any such strictures as 
may make it necessary for me to see it 
again, before it goes to Johnson, in that case 
you shall send it to me, otherwise to John- 
son immediately ; for he writes me word he 
wishes his friend to go to work upon it as 
soon as possible. When you come, my dear, 
we will hang all these critics together; fo* 
they have worried me without remorse or 
conscience. At least one of them has. I 
had actually murdered more than a few of 
the best lines in the specimen, in compliance 
with his requisitions, but plucked up my 
courage at last, and, in the very last oppor- 
tunity that I had, recovered them to life 
again by restoring the original reading. At 
the same time I readily confess that the spe- 
cimen is the better for all this discipline its 
author has undergone, but then it has been 
more indejbted for its improvement to that 
pointed accuracy of examination to which 
I was myself excited, than to any proposed 
amendments from Mr. Critic ; for, as sure as 
you are my cousin, whom I long to see at 
Olney, so surely would he have done me ir- 
reparable mischief, if I would have given him 
leave. 

My friend Bagot writes to me in a most 
friendly strain, and calls loudly upon me for 
original poetry. When I shall have done 
with Homer, probably he will not call in vain. 
Having found the prime feather of a swan 
on the banks of the smug and silver Trent^ 
he keeps ft for me. 

Adieu, dear Cousin, W. C. 

I am sorry that the General has such indif- 
ferent hea.th. He must not die. I can by 
no means spare a person so kind to me. 



248 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olney, Feb. 27, 1786. 
Alas ! alas ! my dear, dear friend, may God 
nimself comfort you ! I will not be so ab- 
surd as to attempt it .* By the close of your 
letter, it should seem that in this hour of 
great trial he withholds not his consolations 
from you. I know, by experience, that they 
are neither few nor small; and though I 
feel for you as I never felt for man before, 
yet do I sincerely rejoice in this, that, where- 
as there is but one true comforter in the uni- 
verse, under afflictions such as yours, you 
both know Him, and know where to seek 
Him. I thought you a man the most happily 
mated that I had ever seen, and had great 
pleasure in your felicity. Pardon me, if 
now I feel a wish that, short as my ac- 
quaintance with her was, I had never seen 
her. I should have mourned with you, but 
not as I do now. Mrs. Unwin sympathizes 
with you also most sincerely, and you nei- 
ther are nor will be soon forgotten in such 
prayers as we can make at Olney. I will 
not detain you longer now, my poor afflict- 
ed friend, than to commit you to the tender 
mercy of God, and to bid you a sorrowful 
adieu! 

Adieu ! Ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, March 6, 1786. 
My dearest Cousin, — Your opinion has 
more weight with me than that of all the 
critics in the world ; and, to give you a proof 
of it, I make you a concession that I would 
hardly have made to them all united. I do 
not indeed absolutely covenant, promise, and 
agree, that I will discard all my elisions, but 
I hereby bind myself to dismiss as many of 
them as, without sacrificing energy to sound, 
I can. It is incumbent upon me in the mean- 
time to say something in justification o*t* the 
few that I shall retain, that I may not seem 
a poet mounted rather on a mule than on 
Pegasus. In the first place, The is a barba- 
rism. We are indebted for it to the Celts, 
or the Goths, or to the Saxons, or perhaps to 
them all. In the two best languages that 
ever were spoken, the Greek and the Latin, 
there is no similar incumbrance of expres- 
sion to be found. Secondly, the perpetual 
use of it in our language is, to us miserable 
poets, attended with two great inconve- 
niences. Our verse consisting only of ten 
syllables, it not unfrequenly happens that 
the fifth part of a line is to be engrossed, 
and necessarily too, unless elision prevents 
it, by this abominable intruder, and, which is 
worse on my account, open vowels are con- 
tinually the consequence — The element — 

* Mr. Bagot had recently sustained the loss of his wife. 



The air, &c. Thirdly, the French, who are 
equally with the English chargeable with 
barbarism in this particular, dispose of their 
he and their ha without ceremony, and al 
ways take care that they shall be absorbed, 
both in verse and in prose, in the vowel that 
immediately follows them. Fourthly, a^d I 
believe lastly, (and for your sake I wish it 
may prove so,) the practice of cutting short 
The is warranted by Milton, who of all Eng- 
lish poets that ever lived, had certainly the 
finest ear. Dr. Warton indeed has dared to 
say that he had a bad one, for which he de- 
serves, as far as critical demerit can deserve 
it, to lose his own. I thought I had done, 
but there is still a fifthly behind ; and it is 
this, that the custom of abbreviating The, 
belongs to the style in which, in my adver- 
tisement annexed to the specimen, I profes* 
to write. The use of that style would have 
warranted me in the practice of much greater 
liberty of this sort than I ever intended to 
take. In perfect consistence with that style, 
.1 might say, T' th' tempest, I' th' doorway, 
&c, which, however, I would not allow my- 
self to do, oecause I was aware that it would 
be objected to, and with reason. But it seems 
to me, for the causes above-said, that when I 
shorten The, before a vowel, or before wh, as 
in the line you mention, 

" Than th' whole broad Hellespont in all ita 
parts," 

my license is not equally exceptionable, be- 
cause W, though he rank as a consonant, in 
the word whole, is not allowed to announce 
himself to the ear ; and H is an aspirate. But 
as I said in the beginning, so say I still, I am 
most willing to conform myself to your very 
sensible observation, that it is necessary, if 
we would please, to consult the taste of ou 
own day ; neither would I have pelted you, 
my dearest cousin, with any part of this vol- 
ley of good reasons, had I not designed 
them as an answer to those objections, which 
you say you have heard from others. But I 
only mention them. Though satisfactory to 
myself, I waive them, and will allow to The 
his whole dimensions, whensoever it can be 
done. 

Thou only critic of my verse that is to be 
found in all the earth, whom I love, what 
shall I say in answer to your own objection 
to that passage ? 

" Softly he placed his hand 
On th' old man's hand, and pushed it gently 
away." 

I can say neither more nor less than this, 
that when our dear friend, the General, sent 
me his opinion on the specimen, quoting 
those very words from it, he added — " With 
this part I was particularly pleased : there ia 
nothing in poetry more descriptive." Such 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



24* 



tfere his very words. Taste, my dear, is 
various; there is «iothing so various; and 
even between persons of the best taste there 
are diversities of opinion on the same sub- 
ject, for which it is not possibl-e to account. 
So much for these matters. 

You advice me to consult the General and 
to confide in him. , I follow your advice, and 
have done both. By the last post I asked 
his permission to send him the books of my 
Homer, as fast as I should finish them off. 
I shall be glad of his remarks, and more 
glad, than of anything, to do that which I 
hope may be agreeable to him. They will 
of course pass into your hands before they 
are sent to Johnson. The quire that I sent 
is now in the hands of Johnson's friend. I 
intended to have told you in my last, but 
forgot it, that Johnson behaves very hand- 
somely in the affair of my two volumes. 
He acts with a liberality not often found in 
persons of his occupation, and to mention it 
when occasion calls me to it is a justice due 
to him. 

I am very much pleased with Mr. Stanley's 
letter — several compliments were paid me 
on the subject of that first volume by my 
own friends, but I do not recollect that I 
ever knew the opinion of a stranger about it 
before, whether favorable or otherwise ; I 
only heard by a side wind that it was very 
much read in Scotland, and more than here. 

Farewell, my dearest cousin, whom we ex- 
pect, of whom we talk continually, and 
whom we continually long for. W. C. 

P. S. Your anxious wishes for my success 
delight me, and you may rest assured, my 
dear, that I have all the ambition on the sub- 
ject that you can wish me to feel. I more 
than admire my author. I often stand as- 
tonished at his beauties : I am forever amused 
with the translation of him, and I have re- 
ceived a thousand encouragements. These 
are all so .many happy omens that I hope 
shall be verified by the event. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, March 13, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I seem to be about to 
write to you, but I foresee that it will not be 
a letter, but a scrap that I shall send you. I 
could tell you things, that, knowing how 
much you interest yourself in my success, I 
am sure would please you, but every mo- 
ment of my leisure is necessarily spent at 
Troy. I am revising my translation, and be- 
stowing on it more labor than at first. At 
the repeated solicitation of General Cowper, 
who had doubtless irrefragable reason on his 
side, I have put my book into the hands of the 
most extraordinary critic that I have ever 
fcetird of. He is a Swiss; has an accurate 



knowledge of English, and, for his knowledge 
of Homer, has I verily believe no fellow 
Johnson recommended him to me. I am to 
send him the quires as fast as I finish them 
off, and the first is now in his hands. I have 
the comfort to be able to tell you that he is 
very much pleased with what he has seen ■ 
Johnson wrote to me lately on purpose to 
tell me so. Things having taken this turn, 
I fear that I must beg a release from my en- 
gagement to put the MS. into your hands. I 
am bound to print as soon as three hundred 
shall have subscribed, and consequently have 
not an hour to spare. 

People generally love to go where they are 
admired, yet Lady Hesketh complains of not 
having seen you. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, April 1, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I have made you wait 
long for an answer, and am now obliged to 
write in a hurry. But, lest my longer silence 
should alarm you, hurried as I am, still ] 
write. I told you, if I mistake not, that the 
circle of my correspondence has lately been 
enlarged, and it seems still increasing ; which, 
together with my poetical business, makes 
an hour a momentous affair. Pardon an un- 
intentional pun. You need not fear for my 
health : it suffers nothing by my employment. 

We who in general see no company are at 
present in expectation of a great deal, at 
least, if three different visits may be called 
so. Mr. and Mrs. Powley, in the first place, 
are preparing for a journey southward. She 
is far from well, but thinks herself well 
enough to travel, and feels an affectionate 
impatience for another sight of Olney.f 

In the next place, we expect, as soon as 
the season shall turn up bright and warm, 
General Cowper and his son. I have not seen 
him these twenty years and upwards, but our 
intercourse, having been lately revived, is like- 
ly to become closer, warmer, and more inti 
mate than ever. 

Lady Hesketh also comes down in June, 
and if she can be accommodated with anything 
in the shape of a dwelling at Olney, talks of 
making it always, in part, her summer resi- 
dence. It has pleased God that I should, like 
Joseph, be put into a well, and, because there 
are no Midianites in the way to deliver me, 
therefore my friends are coming down into 
the well to see me. 

I wish you, we both wish you, all happi- 
ness in your new habitation: at least you 
will be sure to find the situation more com- 
modious. I thank you for all your hints 
concerning my work, which shall be riu. v at 

* Private correspondence, 
f Mrs. Unwin's daughter. 



250 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tended to. You may assure all whom it may 
concern, that all offensive elisions will be done 
away. With Mrs. Unwin's love to yourself 
and Mrs. Newton, I remain, my dear friend, 
affectionately yours, 

W. C. 



The friends of Cowper were not without 
alarm at his engaging in so lengthened and 
perilous an undertaking as a new version of 
the Iliad, when the popular translation of 
Pope seemed to render such an attempt su- 
perfluous. To one of his correspondents, 
who -urged this objection, he makes the fol- 
lowing reply. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, April 5, 1786. 
I did, as you suppose, bestow all possible 
consideration on the subject of an apology 
for my Homerican undertaking. I turned 
the matter about in my mind a hundred dif- 
ferent ways, and, in every way in which it 
would present itself, found it an impractica- 
ble business. It is impossible for me, with 
what delicacy soever I may manage it, to 
state the objections that lie against Pope's 
translation, without incurring odium and the 
imputation of arrogance ; foreseeing this dan- 
ger, I choose to say nothing. 

W. C. 

P. S. You may well wonder at my cour- 
age, who have undertaken a work of such 
enormous length. You would wonder more 
if you knew that I translated the whole Iliad 
with no other help than a Clavis. But I 
.lave since equipped myself better for this 
immense journey, and am revising the work 
in company with a good commentator. 

The motives which induced Cowper to en- 
gage in a new version of the Iliad originated 
in the conviction, that, however Pope's trans- 
lation might be embellished with harmonious 
numbers, and all the charm and grace of po- 
etic diction, it failed in being a correct and 
faithful representation of that immortal pro- 
duction. Its character is supposed to be just- 
ly designated by its title of "Pope's Homer." 
It is not the Homer of the heroic ages ; it does 
not express his majesty — his unadorned, yet 
sublime simplicity. It is Homer in modern 
costume, decked in a court dress, and in the 
trappings of refined taste aud fashion. His 
sententious brevity, which possesses the art 
of conveying much compressed in a short 
space, is also expanded and dilated, till it re- 
sembles a paraphrase, and an imitation, rather 
than a just and accurate version of its ex- 
pressive and speaking original. We believe 
this to be the general estimate of the merits 
*f Pope's translation. Profound scholars, 



and one especially, whose discriminating taste 
and judgment conferred *ithority on his de- 
cision, Dr. Cyril Jackson (formerly the well' 
known Dean of Christ Church, Oxford), con- 
cur in this opinion. But notwithstanding this 
redundance of artificial ornament, and the 
" labored elegance of polished version," the 
translation of Pope will perhaps always re- 
tain its pre-eminence, and be considered what 
Johnson calls it, " the noblest version of po- 
etry which the world has ever seen," and " its 
publication one of the greatest events in the 
annals of learning."* 

Of the merits of Cowper's translation, we 
shall have occasion hereafter to speak. But rt 
is due to the cause of sound criticism, and to 
the merited claims of his laborious under- 
taking, to declare that he who would wish to 
know and understand Homer must seek for 
him in the expressive and unadorned version 
of Cowper. 

i In the course of the following letters we 
shall discover many interesting particulars of 
the progress of this undertaking. 

Cowper was now looking forward with 
great anxiety, to the promised visit of Lady 
Hesketh. The followiug letter adverts to 
the preparations making at the vicarage at. 
Olney for her reception ; and to her delicate 
mode of administering to his personal com- 
forts and enjoyments. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, April 17, 1786. 
My dearest Cousin, — If you will not quote 
Solomon, my dearest cousin, I will. He says, 
and as beautifully as truly — "Hope deferred 
maketh the heart sick, but when the desire 
cometh, it is a tree of life !" I feel how much 
reason he had on his side when he made this 
observation, and am myself sick of your fort- 
night's delay. 

The vicarage was built by Lord Dartmouth, 
and was not finished till some time after we 
arrived at Olney, consequently it is new. It is 
a smart stone building, well sashed, by much 
too good for the living, but just what 1 would 
wish for you. It has, as. you justly concluded 
from my premises, a garden, but rather calcu- 
lated for use than ornament. It is square, and 
well walled, but has neither arbor nor alcove 
nor other shade, except the shadow of the 
house. But we have two gardens, which are 
yours. Between your mansion and ours is in- 
terposed nothing but an orchard, into which a 
door, opening out of our garden, affb *ds ua 
the easiest communication imaginable, will 
save the round about by the town, and make 
both houses one. Your chamber windows 

* See Johnson's Life of Pope. The original manu- 
script copy of Pope's translation is deposited in the 
British Museum. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



25i 



rfook over the river, and over the meadows, to 
a village called Embert )n, and command the 
whole length of a long bridge, described by a 
certain poet, together with a view of the road 
at a distance.* Should you wish for books 
at Olney, vja must bring them with you, or 
you will wish in vain, for I have none but 
the works of a certain poet. Cowper, of 
whom, perhaps, you have heard, and they 
are as yet but two volumes. They may 
multiply hereafter, but at present they are no 
more. 

You are the first person for whom I have 
heard Mrs. Unwin express such feelings as 
she does for you. She is not profuse in pro- 
fessions, nor forward to enter into treaties 
of friendship with new feces, but when her 
friendship is once engaged, it may be con- 
fided in, even unto death. She loves you 
already, and how much more will she love 
you before this time twelvemonth! I have 
indeed endeavored to describe you to her, 
but, perfectly as I have you by heart. I am 
sensible that my picture cannot do you jus- 
tice. I never saw one that did. Be you what 
you may. you are much beloved, and will be 
so at Olney. and Mrs. U. expects you with 
the pleasure that one feels at the return of a 
long absent, dear relation ; that is to say, with 
a pleasure such as mine. She sends you her 
warmest affections. 

On Friday, I received a letter from dear 
Anonymous.! apprizing me of a parcel that 
the coach would bring me on Saturday. Who 
is there in the world that has, or thinks he 
has reason to love me to the degree that he 
does ? But it is no matter. He chooses to 
oe unknown, and his choice is, and ever shall 
oe so sacred to me, that, if his name lay on 
the table before me reversed, I would not 
turn the paper about, that I might read it. 
Much as it would gratify me to thank him, I 
>vould turn my eyes away from the forbidden 
discovery. I long to assure him that those 
same eyes, concerning which he expresses 
such kind apprehensions, lest they should suf- 
fer by this laborious undertaking, are as well 
as I could expect them to be, if 1 were never 
to touch either book or pen. Subject to 
weakness and occasional slight inflammations 
t is probable that they will always be, but I 
cannot remember the time when they enjoyed 
anything so like an exemption from thr.se in- 
firmities as at present. One would almost 
suppose that reading Homer were the best 
ophthalmic in the world. I should be happy 
.o remove his solicitude en the subject, but 
't is a pleasure that he will not let me enjoy. 

* Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge 
That wift its wearisome but needful lenarth 
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright 

The Task, Book IV. 
+ Lady Hesketh adopted this delicate mode of extend- 
tag her kindness to the Poet. 



Well then, I will be content without it ; and 
so content, that though I believe you, my 
dear, to be in full possession of all this mys- 
tery, you shall never know me, while you live, 
either directly or by hints of any sort, attempt 
to extort or to steal the secret from you : I 
should think myself as justly punishable aa 
the Bethshemites, for looking into the ark, 
which they were not allowed to touch. 

I have not sent for Kerr* for Kerr can do 
nothing but send me to Bath, and to Bath ] 
cannot go for a thousand reasons. The sum- 
mer will set me up again ; I grow fat every 
day, and shall be as big as Gog or Magog, op 
both put together, before you come. 

I did actually live three years with Mr. 
Chapman, a solicitor, that is to say, I slept 
three years in his house, but I lived, that is to 
say, I spent my days in Southampton Row, 
as you very well remember. There was I, 
and the future Lord Chancellor, constantly 
employed from morning to night in o-iggling 
and making giggle, instead of studying the 
law. O fie. cousin ! how could you do so ? 
I am pleased with Lord Thurlow's inquiries 
about me. If he takes it int# that inimitable 
head of his, he may make a man of me yet. 
I could love him heartily, if he would de- 
serve it at my hands. That I did so once is 

certain. The Duchess of , who in the 

world set her agoing ? But if all the duch- 
esses in the world were spinning, like so 
many whirligigs, for my benefit, I would not 
stop them. It is a noble thing to be a poet, 
it makes all the world so lively. I might 
have preached more sermons than even Til- 
lotson did, and better, and the world would 
have been still fast asleep, but a volume of 
verse is a fiddle that puts the universe in 
motion. 

Yours, 
My dear friend and cousin, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, April 24, 1786. 

Your letters are so much my comfort, that 
I often tremble lest by Occident I should be 
disappointed ; and the more because vou 
have been, more than once, so engaged in 
company on the writing day, that I have had 
a narrow escape. Let me give you a piece 
of good counsel, my cousin : follow my laud- 
able example, write when you can. take time's 
forelock in one hand, and a pen in the other, 
and so make sure of your opportunity. It is 
well for me that you write faster than any- 
body, and more in an hour than other people 
in two, else I know not what would become 
of me. When I read your letters, I hear you 
talk, and I love talking letters dearly, es- 
pecially from you. Well ! the middle of June 

* Dr. Kerr, of Northampton. 



252 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



will not be always a thousand years off, and 
when it comes I shall hear you, and see you 
too, and shall not care a farthing then if you 
do not touch a pen in a month. By the way, 
you must either send me or bring me some 
more paper, for before the moon shall have 
performed a few more revolutions, I shall 
not have a scrap left, and tedious revolutions 
they are just now, that is certain. 

I give you leave to be as peremptory as 
you please, especially at a distance; but, 
when you say that you are a Cowper, (and 
the better it is for the Cowpers that such you 
are, and I give them joy of you, with all my 
hear*-,) you must not forget, that I boast my- 
self a Cowper too, and have my humors, and 
fancies, and purposes, and determinations, as 
well as others of my name, and hold -them as 
fast as they can. You indeed tell me how 
often I shall see you when you come. A 
pretty story truly. I am an he Cowper, my 
dear, and claim the privileges that belong to 
my noble sex. But these matters shall be 
settled, as my cousin Agamemnon used to 
say, at a more convenient time. 

I shall rejoice |o see the letter you promise 
me, for, though I met with a morsel of praise 
last week, I do not know that the week cur- 
rent is likely to produce me any, and having 
lately been pretty much pampered with that 
diet, I expect to find myself rather hungry 
by the time when your next letter shall ar- 
rive. It will therefore be very opportune. 
The morsel above alluded to came from — 
whom do you think ? From , but she de- 
sires that her authorship may be a secret. 
And in my answer I promised not to divulge 
it, except to you. It is a pretty copy of 
verses, neatly written and well turned, and 
when you come you shall see them. I intend 
to keep all pretty things to myself till then, 
that they may serve me as a bait to lure you 
hither more effectually. The last letter that 

I had from I received so many years 

since, that it .seems as if it had reached me a 
good while before I was born. 

I was grieved at the heart that the General 
could not come, and that illness was in part 
the cause that hindered him. I have sent him, 
by his express desire, a new edition of the first 
book and half of the second. He would not 
suffer me to send it to you, my dear, lest you 
should post it away to Maty at once. He did 
not give that reason, but being shrewd I 
found it. 

The grass begins to grow, and the leaves 
to bud, and everything is preparing to be 
beautiful against you come. 

Adieu! W. C. 

P. S. You inquire of our walks, I perceive, 
as well as our rides. They are beautiful. You 
inquire also concerning a cellar. You have 
two cellars. Oh ! what years have passed 



since we took the same walks, and drank out 
of the same bottk but a few more weeks, 
and then ! 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, May 8, 1786. 

I did not at all doubt that your tenderness 
for my feelings had inclined you to suppress 
in your letters to me the intelligence con- 
cerning Maty's critique, that yet reached me 
from another quarter. When 1 wrote to you, 
I had not learned it from the General, but 
from my friend Bull, who only knew it by- 
hearsay. The next post brought me the 
news of it from the first mentioned, and tht 
critique itself inclosed. Together with it 
came also a squib discharged against me in 
the " Public Advertiser." The General's let 
ter found me in one of my most melancholy 
moods, and my spirits did not rise on the re- 
ceipt of it. The letter indeed that he had 
cut from the newspaper gave me little pain, 
both because it contained nothir formida- 
ble, though written with malevolence enough, 
and because a nameless author can have no 
more weight with his readers than the reason 
which he has on his side can give him. But 
Maty's animadversions hurt me more. In 
part they appeared to me unjust, and in part 
ill-natured, and yet, the man himself being 
an oracle in everybody's account, I appre- 
hended that he had done me much mischief 
Why he says that the translation is far from 
exact is best known to himself. For I know 
it to be as exact as is compatible with poetry ; 
and prose translations of Homer are not 
wanted, the world has one already. But I 
will not fill my letter to you with hypercriti- 
cisms, I will only add an extract from a letter 
of Colman's, that I received last Friday, and 
will then dismiss the subject. It came ac- 
companied by a copy of the specimen which 
he himself had amended, and with so much 
taste and candor that it charmed me. He 
says as follows : — 

" One copy I have returned, with some re- 
marks prompted by my zeal for your success, 
not, Heaven knows, by arrogance or imperti- 
nence. I know no other way, at once so plain 
and so short, of delivering my thoughts on 
the specimen of your translation, w T hich on 
the whole, I admire exceedingly, thinking it 
breathes the spirit and conveys the manner 
of the original; though having here neither 
Homer, nor Pope's Homer, I cannot speak 
precisely of particular lines or expressions, or 
compare your blank verse with his rhyme, 
except by declaring that I think blank verse 
infinitely more congenial to the magnificent 
simplicity of Homer's hexameters, than the 
confined couplets and the jingle of rhyme." 

His amendments are chiefly bestowed on 
the lines encumbered with elisions, and I 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



25* 



vill just take this opportunity to tell you, 
tny dear, because I know you to be as much 
interested n what I write as myself, that 
some of tlie most offensive of these elisions 
were occasioned by mere criticism. I was 
fairly hunted into them, by vexatious objec- 
tions made without end, by and his 

friend, and altered, and altered, till at last I 
did not care how I altered. Many thanks 

for — 's verses, which deserve just the 

character you give of them. They are neat 
and easy — but I would mumble her well, if 
T could get at her, for allowing herself to 
suppose for a moment that I praised the chan- 
cellor with a view to emolument.* I wrote 
those stanzas merely for my own amuse- 
ment, and they slept in a dark closet years 
after I composed them ; not in the least de- 
signed for publication. But when Johnson 
had printed off the longer pieces, of which 
the first volume principally consists, he wrote 
me word that he wanted yet two thousand 
lines to swell it to a proper size. On that 
occasion it was that I collected every scrap 
of verse that I could find, and that among 
the rest. None of the smaller poems had 
Deen introduced, or had been published at 
all with my name, but for this necessity. 

Just as I wrote the last word, I was called 
down to Dr. Kerr, who came to pay me a 
voluntary visit. Were I sick, his cheerful 
and friendly manner would almost restore 
me. Air and exercise are his theme ; them 
he recommends as the best physic for me, 
and in all weathers. Come, therefore, my 
dear, and take a little of this good physic 
with me, for you will find it beneficial as 
well as I; come and assist Mrs. Unwin in 
the re-establishment of your cousin's health. 
Air and exercise, and she and you together, 
will make me a perfect Samson. You will 
have a good house over your head, comforta- 
ble apartments, obliging neighbors, good 
roads, a pleasant country, and in us, your 
constant companions, two who will love you, 
and do already love you dearly, and with all 
our hearts. If you are in any danger of 
trouble, it is from myself, if any fits of de- 
ection seize me ; and, as often as they do, 
/ou.will be grieved for me ; but perhaps by 
your assistance I shall be able to resist them 
better. If there is a creature under heaven. 
from whose co-operations with Mrs. Unwin 
I can reasonably expect such a blessing, that 
creature is yourself. I was not without such 
attacks when I lived in London, though at 
that time, they were less oppressive, but in 
your company I was never unhappy a whole 
day in all my life. 

Of hovv much importance is an author to 
Himself! I return to that abominable speci- 
men again, just to notice Maty's impatient 
* Sfce the verses on Lord Thurlow— 

' Round Thu flow's head in early youth," &c. &c. 



censure of the repetition that you mention. 
I mean of the word hand. In the original 
there is not a rer/etition of it. But to repeat 
a word in that manner, and on such an occa- 
sion, is by no means (what he calls it) a 
modern invention. In Homer I could show 
him many such, and in Virgil they abound. 
Colman, who in his judgment of classical 
matters is inferior to none, says, " J know not 
why Maty objects to this expression.'''' I could 
easily change it. But, the case standing thus, 
I know not whether my proud stomach will 
condescend so low. I rather feel myself dis- 
inclined to it. 

One evening last week, Mrs. Unwin and I 
took our walk to Weston, and, as we were 
returning through the grove opposite the 
house, the Throckmortons presented them- 
selves -at the door. They are owners of a 
house at Weston, at present empty. It is a 
very good one, infinitely superior to ours. 
When we drank chocolate with them, they 
both expressed their ardent desire that we 
would take it, wishing to have us for nearer 
neighbors. If you, my cousin, were not so 
well provided for as you are, and at our very 
elbow, I verily believe I should have mus- 
tered all my rhetoric to recommend it to 
you. You might have it forever without 
danger of ejectment, whereas your posses- 
sion of the vicarage depends on the life of 
the vicar, who is eighty-six.* The environs 
are most beautiful, and the village itself one 
of the prettiest I ever saw. Add to this, 
you would step immediately into Mr. Throck- 
morton's pleasure-ground, where you would 
not soil your slipper even in winter. A most 
unfortunate mistake was made by that gen- 
tleman's bailiff in his absence. Just before 
he left Weston last year for the winter, he 
gave him orders to cut short the tops of the 
flowering shrubs, that lined a serpentine walk 
in a delightful grove, celebrated by my poet- 
ship in a little piece, that (you remember) 
was called " The Shrubbery."! The dunce, 
misapprehending the order, cut down and 
fagoted up the whole grove, leaving neither 
tree, bush, nor twig; nothing but stumps 
about as high as my ancle. Mrs. T. told us 
that she never saw her husband so angry in 
his life. I judge indeed by his physiognomy. 
which has great sweetness in it, that he is 
very little addicted to that infernal passion, 
but had he cudgelled the man for his cruel 
blunder and the havoc made in consequence 
of it, I could have excused him. 

I felt myself really concerned for the chan- 
cellors illness, and, from what I learned of 
it, both from the papers and from General 
Cowper, concluded that he must die. I am 
accordingly delighted in the same proportion 
with the news of his recovery. May he live, 

* The Rev. Moses Brown. 
t " O happy shades, &c. &c. 



254 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and live to be still the support of government ! 
If it shall be his good pleasure to render me 
personally any material service, I have no ob- 
jection to it. But Heaven knows that it is 
impossible for any living wight to bestow 
less thought on that subject than myself. 
May God be ever with you, my beloved 



eousm 



W. C. 



The mingled feelings with which we meet 
a long absent friend, and the alternate sensa- 
tions of delight and nervous anxiety experi- 
enced as the long wished for moment ap- 
proaches, are expressed with singular feli- 
city in the following letter. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, May 15, 1786. 

My dearest Cousin, — From this very morn- 
ing I begin to date the last month of our long 
separation, and confidently and most comfort- 
ably hope, that before the 15th of June shall 
present itself we shall have seen each other. 
Is it not so ? And will it not be one of the 
most extraordinary eras of my extraordinary 
life ? A year ago, we neither corresponded 
nor expected to meet in this world. But this 
world is a scene of marvellous events, many 
of them more marvellous than fiction itself 
would dare to hazard ;* and, blessed be God ! 
they are not all of the distressing kind. Now 
and then, in the course of an existence whose 
hue is for the most part sable, a day turns 
up that makes amends for many sighs and 
many subjects of complaint. Such a day 
shall I account the day of your arrival at 
Olney. 

Wherefore is it (canst thou tell me ?) that, 
together with all those delightful sensations, 
to which the sight of a long absent dear 
friend gives birth, there is a mixture of some- 
thing painful, flutterings, and tumults, and I 
Know not what accompaniments of our pleas- 
ure, that are in fact perfectly foreign from the 
occasion ? Such I feel, when I think of our 
meeting, and such, I suppose feel you : and 
the nearer the crisis approaches, the more I 
am sensible of them. I know, beforehand, 
that they will increase with every turn of the 
wheels that shall convey me to Newport, 
when I shall set out to meet you, and that, 
when we shall actually meet, the pleasure, 
and this unaccountable pain together, will be 
as much as I shall be able to support. I am 
utterly at a loss for the cause, and can only 
resolve it into that appointment by which it 
has been foreordained that all human delights 
shall be qualified and mingled with their con- 
traries. For there is nothing formidable in 
you. To me at least there is nothing such, 
uo, not even in your menaces, unless when 
vc u threaten me to write no more. Nay, I 
* " Truth is strange, stranger than fiction." 



verily believe, did I not know you to be what 
yo.u are, and had less affection for you than 
I have, I should have fewer of these emotions, 
of which I would have none, if I could help 
it. But a fig for them all ! Let us resolve 
to combat with and to conquer them. They 
are dreams. They are illusions of the judg- 
ment. Some enemy, that hates the happi- 
ness of human kind, and is ever industrious 
to dash it, works them in us ; and their being 
so perfectly unreasonable as they are is a 
proof of it. Nothing that is such can be the 
work of a good agent. This I know too by 
experience, that, like all other illusions, they 
exist only by force of imagination, are in- 
debted for their prevalence to the absence 
of their object, and in a few moments after 
its appearance cease. So then this is a set- 
tled point, and the case stands thus. You 
will tremble as you draw near to Newport, 
and so shall I. But we will both recollect 
that there is no reason why we should ; and 
this recollection will at least have some little 
effect in our favor. We will likewise both 
taKe the comfort of what we know to be 
true, that the tumult will soon cease, and the 
pleasure long survive the pain, even as long, 
I trust, as we ourselves shall survive it. 

What you said of Maty gives me all the 
consolation that you intended. We both 
think it highly probable that you suggest 
the true cause'of his displeasure, when you 
suppose him mortified at not having had a 
part of the translation laid before him, ere 
the specimen was published. The General 
was very much hurt, and calls his censures 
harsh and unreasonable. He likewise sent 
me a consolatory letter on the occasion, in 
which he took the kindest pains to heal the 
wound that (he supposed) I might have suf- 
fered. I am not naturally insensible, and the 
sensibilities that I had by nature have been 
wonderfully enhanced by a long series of 
shocks given to a frame of nerves that was 
never very athletic. I feel accordingly, whe- 
ther painful or pleasant, in the extreme, am 
easily elevated, and easily cast down. The 
frown of the critic freezes my poetical pow- 
ers, and discourages me to a degree that 
makes me ashamed of my own weakness. 
Yet I presently recover my confidence again. 
The half of what you so kindly say in your 
last would, at any time, restore my spirits ; 
and, being said by you, is infallible. I am 
not ashamed to confess, that, having com- 
menced an author, I am most abundantly de- 
sirous to succeed as such. I have {what per- 
haps you Utile suspect me of) in my nature an 
infinite share of ambition. But- with it I rave, 
at the same time, as you well know, an equal 
share of diffidence. To this combination of 
opposite qualities it has been owing that, till 
lately, I stole through life without undertak- 
ing anything, yet always wishing to distin. 



guish myself. At last I ventured, ventured 
too in the only path that, at so late a period, 
was yet open to me ; and am determined, if 
God have not determined otherwise, to work 
my way, through the obscurity that has been 
so long my portion, into notice. Everything, 
therefore, that seems to threaten this my fa- 
vorite purpose with disappointment affects 
me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious 
minds are in the same predicament. He 
who seeks distinction must be sensible of 
disapprobation, exactly in the same propor- 
tion as he desires applause. And now, my 
precious cousin, I have unfolded my heart to 
you in this particular, without a speck of 
dissimulation. Some people, and good peo- 
ple too, would blame me. But you will not; 
and they (I think) would blame without just 
cause. We certainly do not honor God, 
when we bury, or when we neglect to im- 
prove, as far as we may, whatever talent he 
may have bestowed on us, whether it be lit- 
tle or much. In natural things, as well as in 
spiritual, it is a never-failing truth, that to 
him who hath (that is, to him who occupies 
what he hath diligently and so as to increase 
it) more shall be given. Set me down, there- 
fore, my dear, for an industrious rhymer, so 
long as I shall have the ability. For in this 
only way is it possible for me, so far as I can 
see, either to honor God, or to serve man, or 
even to serve myself. 

I rejoice to hear that Mr. Throckmorton 
wishes to be on a more intimate footing. I 
am shy, and suspect that he is not very much 
otherwise, and the consequence has been, 
that we have mutually wished an acquaint- 
ance without being able to accomplish it. 
Blessings on you for the hint that you 
dropped on the subject of the house at Wes- 
ton ! For the burthen of my song is — 
" Since we have met once again, let us never 
be separated, as we have been, more." 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olney, May 20, 1786. 
My dear Friend, — About three weeks since 
I met your sister Chester* at Mr. Throck- 
morton's, and from her learned that you are 
at Blithfield,f and in health. Upon the en- 
couragement of this information it is that I 
write now; I should not otherwise have 
known with certainty where to find you, or 
have been equally free from the fear of un- 
seasonable intrusion. May God be with 
you, my friend, and give you a just measure 
of submission to his will, the most effectual 
of all remedies for the evils of this changing 

* Charles Ba^ot, the brother of Walter, took the name 
of Chester on the death of Sir Charles Bagot Chester, and 
rived at Ch icheley, not far from Weston, the seat of Mr. 
Throckmorton. 

t He was rector of Blithfleld Staffordshire. 



scene. I doubt not that he has granted you 
this blessing already, and may he still con- 
tinue it! 

Now I will talk a little about myself; for 
except myself, living in this terrarum angulo, 
what can I have to talk about? In a scene 
of perfect tranquillity and the profoundest 
silence, I am kicking up the dust of heroic 
narrative and besieging Troy again. I told 
you that I had almost finished the translation 
of the Iliad, and I verily thought so. But I 
was never more mistaken. By the time 
when I had reached the end of the poem, 
the first book of my version was a twelve- 
month old. When I came to consider it 
after having laid it by so long, it did not 
satisfy me. I set myself to mend it, and I 
did so ; but still it appeared to me improve- 
able, and that nothing would so effectually 
secure that point as to give to the whole 
book a new translation. With the exception 
of a very few lines I have so done, and was 
never in my life so convinced of the sound- 
ness of Horace's advice^ to publish nothing 
in haste ; so much advantage have I derived 
from doing that twice which I thought I had 
accomplished notably at once. He indeed 
recommends nine years' imprisonment of 
your verses before you send them abroad ; 
but the ninth part of that time is, I believe, 
as much as there is need of to open a man's 
eyes upon his own defects, and to secure 
him from the danger of premature self-ap- 
probation. Neither ought it to be forgotten, 
that nine years make so wide an interval be- 
tween the cup and the lip, that a thousand 
things may fall out between. New engage- 
ments may occur, which may make the fin- 
ishing of that which a poet has begun im- 
possible. In nine years he may rise into a 
situation, or he may sink into one, utterly 
incompatible with his purpose. His consti- 
tution may break in nine years, and sick- 
ness may disqualify him for improving what 
he enterprised in the days of health. His 
inclination may change, and he may find 
some other employment more agreeable, 01 
another poet may enter upon the same work, 
and get the start of him. Therefore, my 
friend Horace, though I acknowledge your 
principle to be good, I must confess that I 
think the practice you would ground upon it 
carried to an extreme. The rigor that I ex- 
ercised upon the first book I intend to exer- 
cise upon all that follow, and have now ac- 
tually advanced into the middle of the 
seventh, nowhere admitting more than one 
line in fifty of the first translation. You 
must not imagine that I had been careless 
and hasty in the first instance. In truth I 
had not; but, in rendering so excellent a 
poet as Homer into our ( language, there are 
so many points to be attended to, both in 
respect of language and r umbers, that a first 



256 



COWPER'S WORKS 



attempt must be fortunate indeed if it does 
not call loud for a second. You saw the 
specimen, and you saw (I am sure) one great 
fault in it ; I mean the harshness of some of 
the elisions. I do not altogether take the 
blame of these to myself; for into some of 
them I was actually driven and hunted by a 
series of reiterated objections made by a 
critical friend, whose scruples and delicacies 
teazed me out of all my patience. But no 
such monsters will be found in the volume. 

Your brother Chester has furnished me 
with Barnes's Homer, from whose notes I 
collect here and there some useful informa- 
tion, and whose .fair and legible type pre- 
serves from the danger of being as blind as 
was my author. I saw a sister of yours at 
Mr. Throckmorton's, but I am not good at 
making myself heard across a large room, 
and therefore nothing passed between us. I 
however felt that she was my friend's sister, 
and much esteemed her for your sake. 

Ever yours, W. C. 

P. S. — The swan is called argutus (I sup- 
pose) a non arguendo and canorus a non ca- 
nendo. But whether he be dumb or vocal, 
more poetical than the eagle or less, it is no 
matter. A feather of either, in token of 
your approbation and esteem, will never, you 
may rest assured, be an offence to me. 



Cowper seems to have reserved for the 
tried friendship of Newton the disclosure of 
those secret sorrows which he so seldom in- 
truded on others. The communications 
which he makes on these occasions are pain- 
fully affecting. The mind labors, and the 
language responds to the intensity of the in- 
ward emotion. Sorrow is often sublime and 
eloquent, because the source of eloquence is 
not so much to be found in the powers of 
the intellect as in the acute feelings of an 
ardent and sensitive heart. It is the heart 
that unlocks the intellect. 

These remarks will prepare the reader for 
the following letter. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, May 20, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — Within this hour arrived 
three sets of your new publication,! for 
which we sincerely thank you. We have 
breakfasted since they came, and conse- 
quently, as you may suppose, have neither of 
us had yet an opportunity to make ourselves 
acquainted with the contents. I shall be 
happy (and when I say that, I mean to be 
understood in the fullest and most emphatical 
sense of the word) if ray frame of mind 
shall be such as may permit me to study 
them. But Adam's' approach to the tree of 
* Private correspondence. t Messiah. 



life, after he had sinned, was not more effect* 
ually prohibited by the flaming sword that 
turned every way, than mine to its great 
Antitype has been now almost these thirteen 
years, a short interval of three or four days, 
which passed about this time twelvemonth, 
alone excepted. For what reason it is that 1 
am thus long excluded, if I am ever again to 
be admitted, is known to God only. 1 can say 
but this ; that if he is still my Father, this 
paternal severity has toward me been such as 
that I have reason to account it unexampled. 
For though others have suffered desertion, 
yet few, I believe, for so long a time, and 
perhaps none a desertion accompanied with 
such experiences. But they have this be- 
longing to them, that, as they are not fit for 
recital, being made up merely of infernal in- 
gredients, so neither are they susceptible oi 
it; for I know no language in which they 
could be expressed. They are as truly 
things which it is not possible for man to 
utter as those were which Paul heard and 
saw in the third heaven. If the ladder oi 
Christian experience reaches, as I suppose it 
does, to the very presence of God, it has 
nevertheless its foot in the abyss. And ii 
Paul stood, as no doubt he did, in that expe- 
rience of his to which I have just alluded, on 
the topmost round of it, I have been stand- 
ing, and still stand, or the lowest, in this 
thirteenth year that has passed since I de- 
scended. In such a situation of mind, en- 
compassed by the midnight of absolute de- 

i spair, and a thousand times filled with un- 
speakable horror, I first commenced as an 
author. Distress drove me to it, and the im- 
possibility of subsisting without some em- 
ployment still recommends it. I am not, in- 
deed, so perfectly hopeless as I was ; but I 
am equally in need of an occupation, being 
often as much, and sometimes even more, 

| worried than ever. I cannot amuse myself 
as I once could, with carpenters' or with 
gardeners' tools, or with squirrels and guinea- 
pigs. At that time I was a child. But since 
it has pleased God, whatever else he with- 
holds, to restore to me .a man's mind, I have 
put away childish things. Thus far, there- 
fore, it is plain that I have not chosen or pre- 
scribed to myself my own way, but have been 
providentially led to it; perhaps I might say 
with equal propriety, compelled and scourged 
into it ; for certainly, could I have made my 
choice, or were I permitted to make it even 
now, those hours which I spend in poetry I 
w y ould spend with God. But it is evidently his • 
will that I should spend them as I do, be- 
cause every other way of employing them ho 
himself continues to make impossible. If in 
the course of such an occupation, or by in- 
evitable consequence of it, either my for- 
mer connexions are revived or new ones oc 
cur, these things are as much a part of th« 



L.IFE OF COWPER. 



257 



dispensation as the leading- points of it them- 
selves; the effect as much as the cause. If 
lis purposes in thus directing me are gracious, 
he will take care to prove them such in the 
issue, and in the meantime will preserve me 
v for he is able to do that in o_ne condition of 
life as in another) from all mistakes in con- 
duct that might prove pernicious to myself, 
or give reasonable offence to others. I can 
say it as truly as it was ever spoken — Here 
I am : let him do with me as seemeth him 
good. 

At present, however, I have no connexions 
it which either you, 1 trust, or any who love 
me, and wish me well, have occasion to con- 
ceive alarm. Much kindness indeed I have 
experienced at the hands of several, some of 
them near relations, others not related to me 
at all ; but I do not know that there is among 
them a single person from Avhom I am likely 
to catch contamination. I can say of them 
all witfi more truth than Jacob uttered when 
he called kid venison, " The Lord thy God 
brought them unto me." I could show you 
among them two men whose lives, though 
they have but little of what we call evangeli- 
cal light, are ornaments to a Christian coun- 
try; men who fear God more than some 
who even profess to love him. But I will not 
particularize farther on such a subject. Be 
they what they may, our situations are so dis- 
tant, and we are likely to meet so seldom, 
that, were they, as they are not, persons of 
even exceptionable manners, their manners 
would have little to do with me. We cor- 
respond at present only on the subject of 
what passed at Troy three thousand years 
ago ; and they are matters that, if they can 
do no good, will at least hurt nobody. 

Your friendship for me, and the proof that 
I see of it in your friendly concern for my 
welfare on this occasion, demanded that I 
should be explicit. Assure yourself that I 
love and honor you, as upon all accounts, so 
especially for the interest that you take and 
have ever taken in my welfare, most sincerely. 
I wish you all happiness in your new abode, 
all possible success in your ministry, and 
much fruit of your newly published labors, 
and am, with Mrs. Unwin's love to yourself 
and Mrs. Newton, 

Most affectionately vours, 

My dear friend, W. C. 

Of all the letters, addressed by Cowper to 
Newton, that we have yet laid before the 
reader, we consider the last to be the fullest 
development of the afflicting and mysterious 
dispensation under which he labored. These 
are indeed the deep waters, the sound of the 
terrible storm and tempest. We contem- 
plate this state of mind with emotions of sol- 
emn awe, deep interest, and merited admira- 
tion, when we observe the spirit of patient 



resignation by which it is accompanied. — 
" Here I am," exclaims Cowper, " let him do 
with me as seemeth him good." To acqui- 
esce in submissive silence, under circumstan- 
ces the most opposed to natural feeling, to 
bear an oppressive load daily, continuously, 
and with little hope of intermission, anu 
amidst this pressure and anguish of ttoe soul 
to have produced writing characterised by 
sound judgment, exalted morality, and a train 
of lucid and elevated thought, is a phenome- 
non that must ever remain a mystery ; but 
the poet's submission is the faith of a suffer- 
ing martyr, and will finally meet with a 
martyr's triumphant crown. 

But, after ail, who does not see, in the case 
of Cowper, the evident marks of an aberra- 
tion of mind on one particular subject, found- 
ed on the delusion of supposing himself ex 
eluded from the mercy ot God, when his fear 
of offending him, the blameless tenor of his 
life, and his anxiety to render his works sub- 
servient to the amelioration of the age, prove 
the fallacy of the persuasion ? How can a 
tree be corrupt which produces good fruits'? 
How can a gracious Lord cast off those who 
delight in fearing and serving him ? The 
supposition is repugnant to every just and 
sound view of the equity of the Divine gov- 
ernment : God cannot act inconsistently with 
his own character and attributes. The Bible 
is the record of what He is, of his declarations 
to man, of his moral government, and of his 
dealings with his people. And what does the 
Bible proclaim ? It tells us " God is love ;" 
" he delighteth in mercy ;" " he does not 
willingly afflict the children of men;" "in all 
their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel 
of his presence saved them." " Can a woman 
forget her sucking child, that she should not 
have compassion on the son of her womb 
Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget 
thee." " Fear not, thou worm Jacob ; I will 
help thee, saith the Lord, and thy Redeemer, 
the Holy One of Israel."* His moral gov- 
ernment and the history of his dealings to- 
wards the most eminent saints is a powerful 
illustration of these truths. He may indeed 
infuse hitter ingrediems in the cup of his 
children: all of them, in due time, taste the 
wormwood and the gall. It is a part of the 
covenant; the token of his love, and essential 
to the trial of their faith and to their purifi- 
cotion. But that he ever administers what 
Cowper i;ere painfully calls infernal ingre- 
dients is impossible. These elements of evil 
spring not from above but from below. They 
may occur, as in the case of Job, by a per- 
missive Providence, but sooner or later a di- 
vine power interposes, and vindicates his own 
wisdom and equity. We know from various 
sources of information, that Cowpei fully ad- 
mitted the force of this reasoning, and the 
* Isaiah lxiii 9. 

17 



258 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



justness of its application in every other pos- 
sible instance, himself alone excepted. The 
answer to this objection is that the equity of 
God's moral dealings admits of no exception. 
Men may change; they may act in opposition 
to their own principles, falsify their judgment, 
violate their most solemn engagements, and 
be influenced by the variation of time- and 
circumstances. But this can never be true 
of the Divine nature. " I, the Lord, change 
not." " The same yesterday, to-day, and for- 
ever." " With him is no variableness, nor 
shadow of turning." " Have I ever been a 
wilderness unto Zion ?" 

We have indulged in this mode of reason- 
ing, because it has been our lot to meet with 
some examples of this kind, and to have ap- 
plied the argument with success. If the con- 
solations of the Gospel, administered by an 
enlightened, tender, and judicious minister, 
formed a more prominent part in the treat- 
ment of cases of disordered intellect and de- 
pressed spirit, we feel persuaded that the in- 
stances of recovery would be for more nu- 
merous than they are found to be under 
existing circumstances — that suicides would 
be diminished, and the ills of life be borne 
with more submissive resignation. We con- 
sider the ambassador of" Christ to be as es- 
sential as the medical practitioner. The 
afflicted father, recorded in the Gospel,* as 
having a lunatic son, " sore vexed," tried all 
means for his re Dvery, but without success. 
It is emphatically said, " they could not cure 
Mm;" everything failed. What followed? 
Jesus said, " Bring him hither to me." The 
same command is still addressed to us, and 
there is still the same Lord, the same healing 
balm and antidote, and the same Almighty 
power and will to administer it. What was 
the final result? "And the child was cured 
from that very hour" or, as the narrative adds 
in another account of the same event,f "Je- 
sus took him by the hand, and lifted him up, 
and he arose." 

The miracles of Christ, recorded in the 
New Testament, are but so many emblems of 
the spiritual power and mercy that heals the 
infirmities of a wounded spirit. 

Other opportunities will occur in the course 
of the ensuing history to resume the consid- 
eration of this important subject. 

The strain of affectionate feeling which 
pervades the following letters to Lady Hes- 
ko.th, is strongly characteristic of the stability 
r»f Cowper's friendships. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, May 25, 1786. 

I have at length, my cousin, found my way 
Inio rr.v summer abode. I believe that I de- 
■cr bor ,t t«; }ou some time since, and will 
Vatt xvii 14- 1; t Mark ix. 27. 



therefore now leave it undescribed. I wil. 
only say that I am writing in a band-box, 
situated, at least in my account, delightfully 
because it has a window on one side that 
opens into that orchard through which, as I 
am sitting here, I shall see you often pass, 
and which therefore I already prefer to all 
the orchards in the world. You do well to 
prepare me for all possible delays, because 
in this life all sorts of disappointments are 
possible, and I shall do well, if any such de- 
lay of your journey should happen, to prac- 
tise that lesson of patience which you incul- 
cate. But it is a lesson which, even with 
you as my teacher, I shall be slow to learn. 
Being sure however that you will not pro- 
crastinate without cause, I will make myself 
as easy as I can about it, and hope the best. 
To convince you how much I am under dis- 
cipline and good advice, I will lay aside a 
favorite measure, influenced in doing so by 
nothing but the good sense of your contrary 
opinion. I had set my heart on meeting yon 
at Newport; in -my haste to see you once 
again, I was willing to overlook many awk- 
wardnesses I could not but foresee would 
attend it. I put them aside so long as I 
only foresaw them myself, but since I find 
that you foresee them too, I can no longer 
deal so slightly with them : it is therefore 
determined that we meet at Olney. Much I 
shall feel, but I will not die if I can help it, 
and I beg that you will take al possible care 
to outlive it likewise, for I know what it is 
to be balked in the moment of acquisition, 
and should be loath to know it again. 

Last Monday, in the evening, we walked to 
Weston, according to our usual custom. It 
happened, owing to a mistake of time, that we 
set out half an hour sooner than usual. This 
mistake we discovered while we were in the 
Wilderness : so finding that we had time be- 
fore us, as they say, Mrs. Unwin proposed 
that we should go into the village, and take 
a view of the house that 1 had just mentioned 
to you. We did so, and found it such a one 
as in most respects would suit you well.* 
But Moses Brown, our vicar, who, as I told 
you, is in his eighty-sixth year, is not bound 
to die for that reason. He said himself, when 
he was here last summer, that he should live 
ten years longer, and for aught that appears 
so he may. In which case, for the sake of 
its near neighborhood to us, the vicarage has 
charms for me that no other place can rival 
But this, and a thousand things more, shall 
be talked over when you come. 

We have been industriously cultivating 
our acquaintance with out Weston neighbors 
since I wrote last, and they on their part 
have been equally diligent in the same cause. 
I have a notion that we shall all suit well 

* The lodge at Weston to which Cowper removed ir 
the November followiue. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



25. 



I see much in them both that I admire. You 
know perhaps that they are Catholics. 

It is a delightful bundle of praise, my 
uousin, that you have sent me : all jasmine 
and lavender. Whoever the lady is, she has 
evidently an admirable pen and a cultivated 
mind. If a person reads, it is no matter in 
what language, and if the mind be informed, I 
it is no matter whether that mind belongs to ' 
a man or a woman : the taste and the judg- 
ment will receive the benefit alike in both. 
Long before the Task was published, I made 
an experiment one day, being in a frolicsome 
mood, upon my friend : we were walking in 
the garden, and conversing on a subject sim- 
ilar to these lines. 

The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss. 

And. seeking gmce t' improve the present good, 

Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 

I repeated them, and said to him with an air 
of nonchalance, " Do you recollect those 
lines ? I have seen them somewhere, where 
are they ?" He put on a considering face, 
and after some deliberation replied, " Oh, I 
will tell you where they must be — in the 
Night Thoughts." I was glad my trial 
turned out so well, and did not undeceive 
him. I mention this occurrence only in con- 
firmation of the letter-writer's opinion, but 
at the same time I do assure you, on the 
faith of an honest man, that I never in my 
life designed an imitation of Young or of 
any other writer; for mimicry is my abhor- 
rence, at least in poetry. 

Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that, 
ooth for your sake, since you make a point 
of it, and for my own, I will be as philo- 
sophically careful as possible that these fine 
nerves of mine shall not be beyond measure 
agitated when you arrive. In truth, there is 
much greater probability that they will be 
benefited, and greatly too. Joy of heart, 
from whatever occasion it may arise, is the 
best of all nervous medicines, and I should 
not wonder if such a turn given to my spir- 
its should have even a lasting effect, of the 
most advantageous kind, upon them. You 
mast not imagine, either, that I am on the 
whole in any great degree subject to nervous 
affections ; occasionally I am, and have been 
these many years, much liable to dejection. 
But, at intervals, and sometimes for an in- 
terval of weeks, no creature would suspect 
it ; for I have not that which commonly is a 
symptom of such a case belonging to me : I 
mean extraordinary elevation in the absence 
of Mr. Bluedevil. When I am in the best 
aealth, my tide of animal sprightlincss flows 
with great equality, so that I am never at 
any time exalted in proportion as I am 
.ometimes depressed. My depression has a 
pause, and if that cause were to cease, I 
*hou d be as cheerful thenceforth, and per- 



haps forever, as any man need be. But, aa 
I have often said, Mrs. Unwin shall be my 
expositor. 

Adieu, my beloved cousin. God grant 
that our friendship, which, while we could 
see each other, never suffered a moment's 
interruption, and which so long a separation 
has not in the least abated, may glow in us 
to our last hour, and be renewed in a better 
world, there to be perpetuated forever. 

For you must know, that I should not 
love you half so well, if I did not believe 
you would be my friend to eternity. There 
is not room enough for friendship to unfold 
itself in full bloom in such a nook of life as 
this. Therefore I am, and must and will be, 
Yours forever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, May 29, 1786. 

Thou dear, comfortable cousin, whose let- 
ters, among all that I receive, have this 
property peculiarly their own — that I expect 
them without trembling, and never find any- 
thing in them that does not give me pleas- 
ure — for which, therefore, I would take noth- 
ing in exchange that the world could give 
me, save and except that for which I inusi 
exchange them soon — (and happy shall I be 
to do so) — your own company. That in- 
deed is delayed a little too long; to my im- 
patience, at lenst, it seems so, who find the 
spring, backward as it is, too forward, be- 
cause many of its beauties will have faded 
before you will have an opportunity to see 
them. We took our customary walk yes- 
terday in the Wilderness at Weston, and 
saw, with regret, the laburnums, syringas, 
and guelder-roses, some of them blown, and 
others just upon the point of blowing, and 
could not help observing — all these will be 
gone before Lady Hesketh comes. Still, 
however, there will be roses, and jasmine, 
and honeysuckle, and shady walks, and cool 
alcoves, and you will partake them with us. 
But I want you to have a share of every- 
thing that is delightful here, and canno" bear 
that the advance of the season should ste!tl 
away a single pleasure before you can come 
to enjoy it. 

Every day I think of you, and almost all 
day long; I will venture to say, that even 
you were never so expected in your life. I 
called last week at the Quaker's, to see the 
furniture of your bed, the fame of which had 
reached me. It is, I assure you, superb, of 
printed cotton, and the subject classical 
Every morning you will open your eyes on 
Phaeton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring 
his father to grant him the conduct of his 
chariot fos. a day. May your sleep be a* 
sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and 
vour nights, at least, will be well pr nided for 



260 



COWPER'S WORKS 



1 shall send you up the sixth and seventh 
oook* of the IlFad shortly, and shall address 
them to you. You will forward them to the 
General. I long to show you my workshop, 
and to see you sitting on the opposite side 
of my table. We shall be as close packed 
as two wax figures in an old-fashioned pic- 
ture-frame. T am writing in it now. It is 
the place in which I fabricate all my verse in 
summer time. I rose an hour sooner than 
usual, this morning, that I might finish my 
sheet before breakfast, for I must write this 
day to the General. 

The grass under my windows is all be- 
spangled with dew-drops, and the birds are 
singing in the applet rees, among the blos- 
soms. Never poet had a more commodious 
oratory, in which to invoke his muse. 

I have made your heart ache too often, 
my poor dear cousin, about my fits of dejec- 
tion. Something has happened that has led 
me to the subject, or I would have^ men- 
tioned them more sparingly. Do not sup- 
pose, or suspect, that I treat you with re- 
serve; there is nothing in which I am con- 
cerned that you shall not be made acquainted 
with; but the tale is too long for a letter. 
I will only add, for your present satisfaction, 
that the cause is not exterior, that it is not 
within the reach of human aid, and that yet 
I have a hope myself, and Mrs. Unwin a 
strong persuasion, of its removal. I am in- 
deed even now, and have been for a consid- 
able time, sensible of a change for the bet- 
ter, and expect, with good reason, a comfort- 
able lift from you. Guess, then, my beloved 
cousin, with what wishes I look forward to 
the time of your arrival, from whose coming 
I promise myself not only pleasure but 
peace of mind, at least an additional share 
of it. At present it is an uncertain and 
transient guest with me, but the joy with 
which I shall see and converse with you at 
Olnev may perhaps make it an abiding one. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, June 4 and 5, 1786. 
Ah ! my cousin, you begin already to fear 
and quake. What a hero am I, compared 
with you ! I have no fears of you, on the 
contrary, am as bold as a lion. I wish that 
your carriage were even now at the door. 
You should see with how much courage I 
would face you. But what cause have you 
for fear? Am I not your cousin, with whom 
you have wandered in the fields of Free- 
mantle and at Bevis's Mount? — who used 
to read to you, laugh with you, till our sides 
bave ached at anything or nothing? And 
nm I in these respects at all altered ? You 
ivill not find me so, but just as ready to 
.augh and to wander as you ever knew me. 



A cloud, perhaps, may come over me nont 
and then, for a few hours, but i'rom clouds ] 
was never exempted. And are not you the 
identical cousin with whom I have performed 
all these feats? the very Harriet whom 1 
saw, for the first time, at De Grey's, in Nor- 
folk-street ?* (It was on a Sunday, when 
you came with my uncle and auntf to drink 
tea there, and I had dined there, and waa 
just going back to Westminster.) If these 
things are so, and I am sure that you cannot 
gainsay a syllable of them all, then this con- 
sequence follows, that I do not promise my- 
self more pleasure from your company than 
I shall be sure to find. Then you are my 
cousin, in whom I always delighted, and in 
whom I doubt not that I shall delight, even 
to my latest hour. But this^ wicked coach- 
maker" has sunk my spirits. What a miser- 
able thing it is to depend, in any degree^ for 
the accomplishment of a wish, and that wish 
so fervent, on the punctuality of a creature, 
who, I suppose, was never punctual in his 
life ! Do tell him, my dear, in order to 
quicken him, that if he performs his promise, 
he shall make my coach, when I want one, 
and that if he performs it not, I will most 
assuredly employ some other man. 

The Throckmortons sent us a note to invite 
us to dinner : we went, and a very agreeable 
day we had. They made no fuss with us, 
which I was heartily glad to see, for where I 
give trouble I am sure that I cannot be wel- 
come. Themselves, and their chaplain, and 
we, were all the party. After dinner we had 
much cheerful and pleasant talk, the particu- 
lars of which might not perhaps be so enter- 
taining upon paper, therefore, all but one I 
will omit, and that I will mention only be- 
cause it will of itself be sufficient to give you 
an insight into their opinion on a very im- 
portant subject — their own religion. I hap- 
pened to say that in all professions and trades 
mankind affected an air of mystery. Physi- 
cians, I observed, in particular, were objects 
of that remark, who persist in preserving in 
Latin, many times, no doubt, to the hazard of 
a patient's life through" the ignorance of an 
apothecary. Mr. Throckmorton assented to 
what I said, and, turning to his chaplain, to 
my infinite surprise observed to him, " That 
is just as absurd as our praying in hatin" I 
could have hugged him for his liberality and 
freedom from bigotry, but thought it rather 
more decent to let the matter pass without 
any visible notice. I therefore heard it with 
pleasure, and kept my pleasure to myself. 
The two ladies in the meantime were tete-a- 
tete in the drawing-room. Their conversation 
turned principally (as I afterwards learned 

* This Mr. De Grey has been already mentioned. Ha 
rose to the dignity of Lord Chief Justice of the Common 
Pleas, and was finally created Lord Walsingham. 

t Ashley Cowper and hia wife, Lady Hesketh's fathe* 
and mother. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



261 



from Mrs. Unwin) on a most delightful topic, 
viz., myself. In the first place, Mrs. Throck- 
morton admired my book, from which she 
quoted by heart more than I could repeat 
though 1 so lately wrote it. In short, my 
iear, I cannot proceed to relate what she said 
of the book and the book's author, for that 
abominable modesty that I cannot even yet 
ge* if i of. Let it suffice to say, that yon, who 
»* . disposed to love everybody who speaks 
kindly of your cousin, will certainly love Mrs. 
Throckmorton, when you shall be 'told what 
she said of him, and that you icill be told is 
equally certain, because it depends on Mrs. 
Unwin. It is a very convenient thing to have 
i Mrs. Unwin, who will tell you many a good 
ong story for me, that I am not able to tell 
for myself. I am however not at all in ar- 
rears to our neighbors in matter of admira- 
tion and esteem, but the more I know the 
more I like them, and have nearly an affec- 
tion for them both. I am delighted that 
'' The Task" has so large a share of the ap- 
pro bution of your sensible Suffolk friend. 

I received yesterday from the General 
another letter of T. S. An unknown auxil- 
iary having started up in my behalf, I believe 
I shall leave the business of answering to 
him, having no leisure myself for contro- 
versy. He lies very open to a very effectual 
reply. 

My dearest cousin, adieu ! I hope to write 
to you once more before we meet. But oh ! 
this coach-maker ! and oh ! this holiday week ! 

Yours, with impatient desire to see you, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, June 9, 1786. 

My dear Friend,— The little time that I 
can devote to any other purpose than that 
of poetry, is, as you may suppose, stolen. 
Homer is urgent. Much is done, but much 
remains undone, and no school-boy is more 
attentive to the performance of his daily 
task than I am. You will therefore excuse 
me, if, at present, I am both unfrequent and 
short. 

The paper tells me that the Chancellor has 
relapsed, and I am truly sorry to hear it. 
The first attack was dangerous, but a second 
must be more formidable still. It is not 
probable that I should ever hear from him 
again if he survive; yet of the much that I 
should have felt for him, had our connexion 
never been interrupted, I still feel much. 
Everybody will feel the loss of a man, whose 
abilities have made him of such general im- 
portance. 

I correspond again with Colman, and upon 
tie most friendly footing, and find in his in- 
stance, and in some others, that an intimate 
-ntercourse, wlicr. has been only casually 



suspended, not forfeited on either side by out. 
rage, is capable not only of revival but im 
provement. 

I had a letter some time since from yout 
sister Fanny, that gave me great pleasure. 
Such notices from old friends are always 
pleasant, and of such pleasures I have re 
ceived many lately. They refresh the re- 
membrance of early days, and malce me 
young again. The noble institution of the 
Nonsense Club* will be forgotten when we are 
gone who composed it, but I often think of 
your most heroic line, written at one of our 
meetings, and especially think of it when I 
am translating Homer, 

" To whom replied the Devil yard-long-tail'd." 

There never was anything more truly Grecian 
than that triple epithet, and, were it possible 
to introduce it into either Iliad or Odyssey, I 
should certainly steal it. I am now flushed 
with expectation of Lady Hesketh, who 
spends the summer with us. We hope to 
see her next week. We have found admira- 
ble lodgings both for her and her suite, and a 
Quaker in this town, still more admirable than 
they, who, as if he loved her as much as I do, 
furnishes them for her with real elegance. 

W. C. 

The period so long and so fervently ex- 
pected at length approached. Lady Hesketh 
arrived at Olney in the middle of June, 1786. 
These two relatives and friends met together, 
after a separation of twenty-three years, 
anxious to testify to each other that time, 
" that great innovator," had left inviolate the 
claims of a friendship, which absence could 
not impair, because it was founded on esteem, 
and strengthened by the most endearing rec- 
ollections. It does not always happen, when 
the mind has indulged in the anticipation of 
promised joy, that the result corresponds 
with the expectation. But in the present 
case the cherished hope was amply realized, 
though its first emotions were trying to the 
sensitive frame of Cowper. He was truly 
delighted in welcoming his endeared relative ; 
and, as his own house was inadequate for 
her reception, Lady Hesketh was comforta- 
bly lodged in the vicarage of Olney; a situ- 
tion so near to his own residence, and so 
eligible from the private communication 
between their two houses, as to admit of 
all the facilities of frequent intercourse and 
union. 

The influence of this event proved bene- 
ficial to the health and spirits of Cowper. 
The highly cultivated mind of Lady Hes- 
keth, the charm of her manners, and her en- 

* The club designated by this humorous title, was com 
posed of Westminster men, and included among its mem 
bers, Bonnell Thornton, Colman, Lloyd, Hill, Benslev, 
and Cowper. They were accustomed to meet togetb«t 
for the purpose of literary relaxation and amusement 



262 



COWPER'S WORKS 



clearing qualities, called forth the develop- 
ment of kindred feelings in his own charac- 
ter. As she was- furnished with a carriage 
and horses, he was- gradually induced to 
avail himself of this opportunity of explor- 
ing the neighborhood, and of multiplying his 
innocent enjoyments. His life had been so 
retired .at Olney, that he. had not even ex- 
tended his excursions to the neighboring 
town of Newport-Pagnell in the course of 
many years ; but the convenience of a car- 
nage led him, in August, to visit Mr. Bull, 
who resided there — the friend from whose as- 
siduous attention he derived so much benefit 
in a season of mental depression. It was at 
his suggestion, as we have already stated, 
that Cowper engaged in the translation of 
Madame Guion's Poems. As it is some time 
since we have had occasion to refer to this 
ju&tly esteemed character, we think the fol- 
lowing snort letter, addressed to him by Cow- 
per, will exhibit an amusing portrait of his 
character and habits. 

" Mon aimable and tres cher Ami, — It is 
not in the power of chaises, or chariots, to 
carry you where my affections will not follow 
you ; if I heard that you were gone to finish 
your days in the moon, I should not love 
you the less; but should contemplate the 
place of your abode, as often as it appeared 
in the heavens, and say — Farewell, my friend, 
forever ! Lost ! but not forgotten ! Live 
happy in thy lantern, and smoke the remain- 
der of thy pipes in peace ! Thou art rid of 
earth, at least of all its cares, and so far can 
I rejoice in thy removal ; and as to the cares 
that are to be found in the moon, I am re- 
solved to suppose them lighter than those 
below — heavier they can hardly be." 

We also add the following beautifnl de- 
scription of a thunder-storm, in a letter to 
the same person, expressed with the feel- 
ings of a poet, that knew how to embody the 
sublime in language of corresponding gran- 
deur. 

"I was always an admirer of thunder- 
storms, even before I knew whose voice I 
heard in them ; but especially an admirer of 
thunder rolling over the great waters. There 
is something singularly majestic in the sound 
of it at sea, where the eye and the ear have 
uninterrupted opportunity of observation, and 
the concavity above being made spacious re- 
flects it with more advantage. I have conse- 
juently envied you your situation, and the 
enjoyment of those refreshing breezes that 
oelong to it. We have indeed been regaled 
with some of these bursts of ethereal music. 
The peals have been as loud, by the report 
of a gentleman who lived many years in the 
West Indies, as were ever heard in those 



islands, and the flashes as splendid. But wher 
the thunder preaches, an horizon bounded by 
the ocean is the only sounding-board."* 

The visit of Lady Hesketh to Olney led to 
a very favorable change in the residence of 
Cowper. He had now passed nineteen years 
in a scene that was far from being adapted 
to his taste and feelings. The house which 
he inhabited looked on a market-place, and 
once, in a season of illness, he was so appre- 
hensive of being incommoded by the bustle 
of a fair, that he requested to lodge for a 
single night under the roof of his friend Mr. 
Newton, where he was induced, by the more 
comfortable situation of the vicarage, to re- 
main fourteen months. His intimacy with 
this excellent and highly esteemed character 
was so great that Mr. Newton has described 
it in the following remarkable terms, in me- 
moirs of the poet, which affection induced 
him to begin, but which the troubles and in- 
firmities of very advanced life obliged him to 
relinquish. 

" For nearly twelve years we were seldom 
separated for seven hours at a time, when 
we were awake, and at home : the first six 
I passed in daily admiring, and aiming to 
imitate him : during the second six, I walked 
pensively with him in the valley of the shadow 
of death." 

Mr. Newton also bears the following hon- 
orable testimony to the pious and benevolent 
habits of Cowper. " He loved the poor. He 
often visited them in their cottages, con- 
versed with them in the most condescending 
manner, sympathized with them, counselled 
and comforted them in their distresses ; and 
those who were seriously disposed were often 
cheered and animated by his prayers !" These 
are pleasing memorials, for we believe that 
the cottages of the poor will ever be found 
to be the best school for the improvement 
of the heart. After the removal of Mr. New- 
ton to London, and the departure of Lady 
Austen, Olney had no particular attractions 
for Cowper; and Lady Hesketh was happy 
in promoting the project, which had occurred 
to him, of removing with Mrs. Unwin to the 
near and picturesque village of Weston — a 
scene highly favorable to his health and 
amusement. For, with a very comfortable 

* There are few countries where a thunder-storm pre- 
sents so sublime and terrific a spectacle as in Switzer- 
land. The writer remembers once witnessing a scene of 
this kind in the Castle of Chillon, on the banks of the 
Lake of Geneva. The whole atmosphere seemed to be 
overcharged with the electric fluid. A stillness, like 
that of death, prevailed, forming a striking contrast with 
the tumult of the elements that shortly succeeded. The 
lightning at length burst forth, in vivid coruscations, like 
a flame of fire, darting upon the agitated waters ; while 
the rain descended in torrents. Peals of thunder fol- 
lowed, rolling over the wide expanse of the lake, and re- 
echoing along the whole range of the Alps to the left 
and then taking a complete circuit, finally passed over to 
the Jura, on the opposite side, impressing the mind witfc 
indescribable awe and aumiration. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



26> 



nouse, it afforded him a garden, and a field 
of considerable extent, which he delighted to 
cultivate and embellish. With these he had 
advantages still more desirable — easy, and 
constant access to the spacious and tranquil 
pleasure-grounds of his accomplished and be- 
nevolent landlord, Mr. Throckmorton, whose 
neighboring house supplied him with an in- 
tercourse peculiarly suited to his gentle and 
delicate spirit. 

Cowper removed from Olney to Weston 
in November, 1786. The course of his life, 
in his new situation, (the scene so happily 
embellished by his Muse.) will be best de- 
scribed by the subsequent series of his let- 
ters to that amiable relative, to whom he 
considered himself chiefly indebted for this 
improvement in his domestic scenery and 
comforts. With these will be connected a 
selection of his letters to other friends, and 
particularly the letters addressed to one of 
his most intimate correspondents, Samuel 
Rose, Esq., who commenced his acquaint- 
ance in the beginning of the year 1787. 
Another endeared character will also be in- 
troduced to the notice of the reader, whose 
affectionate and unremitting attention to the 
poet, when he most needed these kind and ten- 
der offices, will ever give him a just title to the 
gratitude and love of the admirers of Cowper : 
we allude to the late Rev. Dr. Johnson. 

We now resume the correspondence. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, June 19, 1786. 

My dear cousin's arrival has, as it could 
not fail to do, made us happier than we ever 
were at Olney. Her great kindness in giving 
us her company is a cordial that I shall feel 
the effect of not only while she is here, but 
while I live. 

Onley will not be much longer the place 
of our habitation. At a village two miles 
distant we have hired a house of Mr. Throck- 
morton, a much better than we occupy at 
present, and yet not more expensive. It is 
situated very near to our most agreeable 
landlord and his agreeable pleasure-grounds. 
In him, and in his wife, we shall find such 
companions, as will always make the time 
pass pleasantly while they are in the country, 
and his grounds will afford us good air and 
good walking-room in the winter ; two ad- 
vantages which we have not enjoyed at Ol- 
ney, where I have no neighbor with whom I 
can converse, and where, seven mouths in 
the year, I have been imprisoned by dirty 
and impassable ways, till both my health and 
Mrs. Unwin's have suffered materially. 

Homer is ever importunate, and will not 
Buffer mo to spend half the time with my dis- 
tant trie ids that I would gladly give them. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, June 22, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I am not glad that I am 
obliged to apologize for an interval of three 
weeks that have elapsed since the receipt of 
yours; but, not having it in my power to 
write oftener than I do, I am glad that my 
reason is such a one as you admit. In truth. 
my time is very much occupied ; and the 
more because I not only have a long and la- 
borious w.ork in hand, for such it would 
prove at any rate, but because I make it a 
point to bestow my utmost attention upon 
it, and to give it all the finishing that the 
most scrupulous accuracy can command. Aa 
soon as breakfast is over, I retire to my nut- 
shell of a summer-house, which is my verse- 
rnanufactory, and here I abide seldom les* 
than three hours, and not often more. In the 
afternoon I return to it again ; and all the 
daylight that follows, except what is devoted 
to a walk, is given to Homer. It is well for 
me that a course which is now become ne-' 
cessary is so much my choice. The regu- 
larity of it indeed has been, in the course of 
this last week, a little interrupted by the ar- 
rival of my dear cousin, Lady Hesketh ; but 
with the new week I shall, as they say, turn 
over a new leaf, and put myself under the 
same rigorous discipline as before. Some- 
thing, and not a little, is due to the feelings 
that the sight of the kindest relation that 
ever man was blessed with must needs give 
birth to, after so long a separation. But she, 
whose anxiety for my success is I believe 
even greater than my own, will take care that 
I shall not play truant and neglect my proper 
business. It was an observation of a sensi 
ble man, whom I knew- well in ancient days, 
(I mean when I was very young,) that people 
are never in reality hap"py when they boast 
much of being so. I feel myself accordingly 
well content to say, without any enlarge- 
ment on the subject, that an inquirer aftei 
happiness might travel far, and not find a 
happier trio than meet every day either in 
our parlor, or in the parlor at the vicarage 
I will not say that mine is not occasionally 
somewhat dashed with the sable hue of those 
notions concerning myself and my situation, 
that have occupied or rather possessed me 
so long: but, on the other hand, I can also 
affirm that my cousin's affectionate behavio. 
to us both, the sweetness of her temper, and 
the sprightliness of her conversation, relieve 
me in no small degree from the presence of- 
them. 

Mrs. Unwin is greatly pleased with yout 
Sermons; and has told me so repeatedly; 
and the pleasure that they have given hei 
awaits me also in due time, as I am well and 
confidently assured: both because the sub- 
ject of them is the greatest and the most in 
* Private correspondence. 



364 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



teresting that can fall under the pen of any 
writer, and because no writer can be better 
qualified to discuss it judiciously and feel- 
ingly than yourself. The third set with 
A'hich you favored us we destined to Lady 
Hesketh ; and, in so disposing of them, are 
inclined to believe that we shall not err far 
from the mark at which you yourself directed 
them. 

Our affectionate remembrances attend 
yourself and Mrs. Newton, to which you ac- 
quired an everlasting right while you dwelt 
under the roof where we dined yesterday. It 
is impossible that we should set our foot 
over the threshold of the vicarage without 
recollecting all your kindness. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, July 3, 1786. 

My dear William, — After a long silence I 
begin again. A day given to my friends is a 
day taken from Homer ; but to such an in- 
terruption now and then occurring I have no 
objection. Lady Hesketh is, as you observe, 
arrived, and has been with us near a fort- 
night. She pleases everybody, and is pleased, 
in her turn, with everything she finds at Ol- 
ney, is always cheerful and sweet-tempered, 
and knows no pleasure equal to that of com- 
municating pleasure to us and to all around 
her. This disposition in her is the more 
comfortable, because it is not the humor of 
the day, a sudden flash of benevolence and 
good spirits occasioned merely by a change 
of scene, but it is her natural turn, and has 
governed all her conduct ever since I knew 
her first. We are consequently happy in her 
society, and shall be happier still to have you 
partake with us in ourjoy. I am fond of the 
sound of bells, but was never more pleased 
with those of Olney than when they rang 
her into her new habitation. It is a compli- 
ment that our performers upon those instru- 
ments have never paid to any other person- 
age (Lord Dartmouth excepted) since we 
knew the town. In short, she is, as she ever 
was, my pride and my joy, and I am delighted 
with everything that means to do her honor. 
Her first appearance was too much for me ; 
my spirits, instead of being gently raised, as 
I had inadvertently supposed they would be, 
broke down with me under the pressure of 
too much joy, and left me flat, or rather mel- 
ancholy, throughout the day, to a degree that 
was mortifying to myself and alarming to 
her. But I have made amends for this failure 
since, and in point of cheerfulness have far 
exceeded her expectations, for she knew that 
sable had been my suit for many years. 

And now I shall communicate news that 
*"ill give you pleasure. When you first con- 
«mplated the front of our abode, you were 



shocked. In your eyes it had the appearance 
of a prison, and you sighed at the thought 
that your mother lived in it. Your view of it 
was not only just, but prophetic. It had not 
only the aspect of a place built for the pur- 
poses of incarceration, but has actually 
served that purpose through a long, long pe- 
riod, and we have been the prisoners. But a 
jail-delivery is at hand. The bolts and bars 
are to be loosed, and we shall escape. A 
very different mansion, both in point of ap- 
pearance and accommodation, expects us, and 
the expense of living in it not greater than 
we are subjected to in this. It is situated at 
Weston, one of the prettiest villages in Eng- 
land, and belongs to Mr. Throckmorton. We 
all three dine with him 1 to-day by invitation, 
and shall survey it in the afternoon, point 
out the necessary repairs, and finally adjust 
the treaty. I have my cousin's promise that 
she will never let another year pass without 
a visit to us, and the house is large enough 
to take us and our suite, and her also, with 
as many of hers as she shall choose to bring. 
The change will, I hope, prove advantageous 
both to your mother and me in all respects. 
Here we have no neighborhood; there we 
shall have most agreeable neighbors in the 
Throckmortons. Here we have a bad air 
in winter, impregnated with the fishy-smel- 
ling fumes of the marsh miasma; there we 
shall breathe in an atmosphere untainted. 
Here we are confined from September to 
March, and sometimes longer; there we shall 
be upon the very verge of pleasure-grounds 
in which we can always ramble, and shall 
not wade through almost impassable dirt to 
get at them. Both your mother's constitu- 
tion and mine have suffered materially, by 
such close and long confinement, and it is' 
high time, unless we intend to retreat into 
the grave, that we should seek out a more 
wholesome residence. So far is well, the 
rest is left to Heaven. 

I have hardly left myself room for an an 
swer to your queries concerning my frieno 
John and his studies. I shou.d recommend 
the Civil War of Caesar, because he wrote it 
who ranks, I believe, as the best writer, as 
well as soldier, of his day. There are books 
(I know not what they are, but you do, and 
can easily find them) that will inform him 
clearly of both the civil and military manage- 
ment of the Romans, the several officers, J 
mean, in both departments, and what was the 
peculiar province of each. The study of 
some such book would, I should think, prove 
a good introduction to that of Livy, unlesa 
you have a Livy with notes to that effect 
A want of intelligence in those points har 
heretofore made the Roman history very 
dark and difficult to me; therefore I thu§ 
advise. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



259 



The following letter contains some particu- 
lars relative to his version of Homer. 

TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olney, July 4, 1786. 

1 rejoice, my dear friend, that you have at 
.ast received my proposals, and most cordially 
thank you for all your labors in my service. 
I have friends in the world, who, knowing 
that I am apt to be careless when left to my- 
self, are determined to watch over me with a 
jealous eye upon this occasion. The conse- 
quence will be, that the work will be better 
executed, but more tardy in the production. 
To them I owe it, that my translation, as fast 
as it proceeds, passes under the revisal of a 
most accurate discerner of all blemishes. I 
know not whether I told you before, or now 
tell you for the first time, that I am in the 
hands of a very extraordinary person. He is 
intimate with my bookseller, and voluntarily 
offered his service. I was at first doubtful 
whether to accept it or not, but, finding that 
my friends abovesaid were. not to be satisfied 
on any other terms, though myself a perfect 
stranger to the man and his qualifications, ex- 
cept as he was recommended by Johnson, I at 
length consented, and have since found great 
reason to rejoice that I did. I called him an 
extraordinary person, and such he is. For he 
is not only versed in Homer, and accurate in 
his knowledge of the Greek to a degree that 
entitles him to that appellation ; but, though 
a foreigner, is a perfect master of our lan- 
guage, and has exquisite taste in English 
poetry. By his assistance I have improved 
many passages, supplied many oversights, and 
corrected many mistakes, such as will of 
course escape the most diligent and attentive 
laborer in such a work. I ought to add, be- 
cause it affords the best assurance of his zeal 
and fidelity, that he does not toil for hire, nor 
will accept of any premium, but has entered 
on this business merely for his amusement. 
In the last instance, my sheets will pass 
through the hands of our old schoolfellow 
Colman, who has engaged to correct the press, 
and make any little alterations that he may 
see expedient. With all this precaution, little 
as I intended it once, I am now well satisfied. 
Experience has convinced me that other eyes 
than my own are necessary, in order that so 
long and arduous a task may be finished as it 
ought, and may neither discredit me nor 
mortify and disappoint my friends. You, 
who I know interest yourself much and 
deeply in my success, will, I dare say, be 
satisfied with it too. Pope had many aids, 
and he who follows Pope ought not to walk 
alone. 

Though I announce myself by my very un- 
dertaking to be one of Homer's most enrapt- 
ured admirers, I am not a blind one. Per- 
aaps the speech . f Achil <&, given in my 



specimen, is, as you hint, rather too much in 
the moralizing strain to suit so young a man 
and of so much fire. But, whether it be or 
not, in the course of the close application 
that I am forced to give my author 1 discover 
inadvertences not a few ; some perhaps that 
have escaped even the commentators them- 
selves, or perhaps, in the enthusiasm of their 
idolatry, they resolved that they should pass 
for beauties. Homer, however, say what 
they will, was man ; and in all the works of 
man, especially in a work of such lengtn and 
variety, many things will of necessity occur 
that might have been better. Pope and Ad- 
dison had a Dennis, and Dennis, if I mistake 
not, held up as he has been to scorn and de- 
testation, was a sensible fellow, and passed 
some censures upon both those writers, that, 
had they been less just, would have hurt them 
less. Homer had his Zoilus, and perhaps, \i 
we knew all that Zoilus said, we should be 
forced to acknowledge that, sometimes at 
least, he had reason on his side. But it is 
dangerous to find any fault at all with what 
the world is determined to esteem faultless. 
I rejoice, my dear friend, that you enjoy 
some composure* and cheerfulness of spirits 
may God preserve and increase to you so 
great a blessing ! 

I am affectionately and truly vours, 

" W. C. 



Cowper again resumes the subject of his 
painful dispensation, in the following lettei 
to Newton. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Olney, Aug. 5, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — You have heard of oui 
intended removal. The house that is to re- 
ceive us is in a state of preparation, and, 
when finished, will be both smarter and more 
commodious than our present abode. But the 
circumstance that recommends it chiefly is 
its situation. Long confinement in the win 
ter, and, indeed, for the most part in the au 
tumn too, has hurt us both. A gravel-walk, 
thirty yards long, affords but indifferent scope 
to the locomotive faculty : yet it is all that 
we have had to move in for eight months in 
the year, during thirteen years that I have 
been a prisoner. Had I been confined in the 
Tower, the battlements of it would have fur- 
nished me with a larger space. You say 
well, that there was a time when I was happy 
at Olney ; and I am now as happy at Olney 
as I expect to be anywhere without the pres- 
ence of God. Change of situation is with 
me no otherwise an object than as both Mrs, 
Unwin's health and mine may happen to be 
concerned in it. A fever of the slow and 
spirit-oppressing kind seems to belong to all, 

* Private correspond ?nce. 



i66 



COWPER'S WORKS 



except the natives, who have dwelt in Olney 
•aany years ; and the natives have putrid fe- 
vers. Both they and we, I believe, are im- 
mediately indebted for our respective mala- 
dies to an atmosphere encumbered with raw 
vapors, issuing from flooded meadows ; and 
,ve in particular, perhaps, have fared the 
worse for sitting so often, and -sometimes for 
months, over a cellar filled with water. — 
These ills we shall escape in the uplands; 
and, as we may reasonably hope, of course, 
theiv consequences. But, as for happiness, 
he that has once had communion with his 
Maker, must be more frantic than ever I was 
yet, if he can dream of finding it at a distance 
from Him. I no more expect happiness at 
Weston than here, or than I should expect it 
in company with felons and outlaws in the 
hold of a ballast-lighter. Animal spirits, 
however, have their value, and are especially 
desirable to him who is condemned to carry 
a burthen, which, at any rate, will tire him, 
but which, without their aid, cannot fail to 
crush him. The doalings of God with me 
are to myself utterly unintelligible. I have 
never met, either in books or .in conversation, 
with an experience at all similar to my own. 
More than a twelvemonth has passed since 
I began to dope that, having walked the 
whole breadth of the bottom of this Red Sea, 
I was beginning to climb the opposite shore, 
and I prepared to sing the song of Moses.' 
But I have been disappointed; those hopes 
have been blasted : those comforts have been 
wrested from me. I could not be so duped, 
even by the arch-enemy himself, as to be 
made to question the divine nature of them ; 
but I have been made to believe, (which, you 
will say, is being duped still more) that God 
gave them to me in derision and took them 
away in vengeance. Such, however, is, and 
has been, my persuasion many a long day, 
and when I shall think on that subject more 
'.•omfortably, or, as you will be inclined to 
tell me, more rationally and scripturally, I 
Vnow not. In the meantime, I embrace with 
ilacrity every alleviation of my case, and with 
the more alacrity, because whatsoever proves 
a relief of my distress is a cordial to Mrs. 
Unwin, whose sympathy with me 4 through 
the whole of it, has been such that, despair 
excepted, her burthen has been as heavy as 
mine. Lady Hesketh, by her affectionate be- 
havior, the cheerfulness of her conversation, 
and the constant sweetness of her temper, 
has cheered us both, and Mrs. Unwin not 
less than me. By her help we get change of 
air and of scene, though still resident at Ol- 
ney, and by her means have intercourse with 
some families in this country with whom, but 
for her, we could never have been acquainted. 
tier presence here would, at any time, even 
in my happiest days, have been a comfort to 
me, but in the present day I am doubly sensi- 



ble of its value. She leaves nothing unsaid 
nothing undone, that she thinks will be con 
ducive to our well-being ; and, so far as she 
is concerned, I have nothing to wish but that 
I could believe her sent hither in mercy to 
myself, — then I should be thankful. 

I am, my dear friend, with Mrs. Unwin's 
love to Mrs. N. and yourself, hers and yours, 
as ever, W. C. 

Having so recently considered the peculiar 
circumstances of Cowper's depression, we 
shall not further advert to it than to state, on 
the authority of John Higgins, Esq., of Tur- 
vey, who, at that time, enjoyed frequent oppor- 
tunities of observing his manner and habits, 
that there was no perceptible appearance of 
his laboring under so oppressive a malady. 
On the contrary, his spirits, as far as outward 
appearances testified, were remarkably cheer- 
ful, and sometimes even gay and sportive. 
In a letter to Mrs. King, which will subse- 
quently appear, will be found a remark to the 
same effect. 

. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Aug. 24, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I catch a minute by the 
tail and hold it fast while I write to you. 
The moment it is fled I must go to breakfast. 
I am still occupied in refining and polishing, 
and shall this morning give the finishing hand 

to the seventh book. F does me the honor 

to say that the most difficult and most inter- 
esting parts of the poem are admirably ren- 
dered. But, because he did not express him- 
self equally pleased with the more pedestrian 
parts of it, my labor therefore has been prin- 
cipally given to the dignification of them; 
not but that I have retouched considerably, 
and made better still the best. In short, I 
hope to make it all of a piece, and shall exert 
myself to the utmost to secure that desirable 
point. A story-teller, so very circumstantial 
as Homer, must of necessity present us often 
with much matter in itself capable of no other 
embellishment than purity of diction and har- 
mony of versification can give to it. Hie labor, 
hoc opus est. For our language, unless it be 
very severely chastised, has not the terse- 
ness, nor our measure the music, of the 
Greek. But I shall not fail through want 
of industry. 

We are'likely to be very happy in our con- 
nexion with the Throckmortons. His reserve 
and mine wear off; and he talks with great 
pleasure of the comfort that he proposes to 
himself from our winter evening conversa- 
tions. His purpose seems to be that we 
should spend them alternately with each oth- 
er. Lady Hesketh transcribes for me at 
present. When she is gone, Mrs. Throck- 
morton takes up that business, and will be 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



267 



my lady of the ink-bottle for the rest of the 
winter. She solicited herself that office. 
Believe me, my dear William, 

Truly yours, W. C. 

Mr. Throckmorton will (I doubt not) pro- 
cure Lord Petre's name, if he can, without 
any hint from me. He could not interest 
ftimself more in my success than he seems to 
do. Could he get the Pope to subscribe, I 
should have him, and should be glad of him 
and the whole conclave. 



The following letters are without a date; 
nor do we know to what period they refer. 
We insert them in the order in which we find 
them. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

My dear Friend, — You are my mahogany 
box, with a slip in the lid of it, to which I 
commit my productions of the lyric kind, in 
perfect confidence that they are safe, and will 
go no farther. All who are attached to the 
jingling art have this peculiarity, that they 
would find no pleasure in the exercise, had 
they not one friend at least to whom they 
might publish what they have composed. If 
> ou approve my Latin, and your wife and 
sister my English, this, together with the ap- 
probation of your mother, is fame enough 
for me. 

He who cannot look forward with comfort 
must find what comfort he can in looking 
backward. Upon this principle I the other 
day sent my imagination upon a trip thirty 
years behind me. She was very obedient 
and very swift of foot, presently performed 
her journey, and at last set me down in the 
yixth form at Westminster. I fancied my- 
self once more a school-boy, a period of 
life in which, if I had never tasted true hap- 
piness, I was at least equally unaequ^nted 
with its contrary. No manufacturer of 
waking dreams ever succeeded better ii» his 
employment than I do. I can wyave ^uch a 
piece of tapestry, in a few minute?, a<; rot only 
ha? aU the charms of reality, bv'j is embel- 
lished also with a variety of beauties, which, 
though they never existed, are more captivat- 
ing than any that e^er did : — accordingly, I 
was a school-boy, in high favor with the mas- 
ter, received a silver groat for my exercise, 
and had the pleasure of seeing it sent from 
form to form, for the admiration of all who 
were able to understand it. Do you wish to 
see this highly applauded performance ? It 
"ollows on the other side. 

[Tarn of.]* 

By way ot compensation, we subjoin some 

* This jeu d'esprit has never been found, notwithstand- 
ing the most diligent inquiy. - 



verses addressed to a young lady, at the re* 
quest of Mr. Unwin, to whom he thus 
writes : — 

" I have endeavored to comply with youi 
request, though I am not good at writing 
upon a given subject. Your mother however 
comforts me by her approbation, and I steer 
myself in all that I produce by her judgment 
If she does not understand me at the first 
reading, I am sure the lines are obscure and 
always alter them ; if she laughs, I know it 
is not without reason ; and if she says, 
" That's well, it will do," I have no fear lest 
anybody else should fine fault with it. She 
is my lord chamberlain, who licenses all I 
write. 



to miss c- 



ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 



How many between east and west 
Disgrace their parent earth, 

Whose deeds constrain us to detest 
The day that gave them birth ! 

Not so when Stella's natal morn 

Revolving months restore, 
We can rejoice that she was born, 

And wish her born once more ! 

If you like it, use it : if not, you know the 
remedy. It is serious, yet epigrammatic — 
like a bishop at a ball ! W. C. 

It is remarkable, that the laudable efforts 
which are now making to enforce the bettei 
observance of the Lord's day, to diminish the 
temptations to perjury by the unnecessary 
multiplication of oaths, and to arrest the prog- 
ress of the vice of drunkenness, appear 
from the following letter to have been anti- 
cipated nearly fifty years since, by the Rev. 
William Unwin. Deeply impressed with a 
eense of the extent and enormity of these 
national sins, his conscientious mind (always 
seeking opportunities for doing good) led 
him to urge the employment of Cowper's 
pen in the correction of these evils. What 
he suggested, as we believe, was as follows, 
viz., to draw up a memorial or representation 
on this subject to the bench of bishops, as 
the constituted guardians of public morals, 
and thus to call forth their united exertions ; 
secondly, to awaken the public mind to the 
magnitude of these crimes, and, finally, to 
obtain some legislative enactment for their 
prevention. 

We now insert Cowper's reply to the pro- 
position of his friend Mr. Unwin. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

My dear Friend, — I am sensibly mortified 
at finding myself obliged to disappoint you 
but, though I have had many thoughts upon 
the subjects you propose to my considera- 
tion, I have had none that have been favora- 
ble to the undertaking. I applaud your pur- 



268 



COWPER'S WORKS 



pose, for the sake of the principle from which 
it springs, but I look upon the evils you 
mean to animadvert upon as too obstinate 
and inveterate ever to be expelled by the 
means you mention. The very persons to 
whom you would address your remonstrance 
are themselves sufficiently aware of their 
enormity ; years ago, to my knowledge, they 
were frequently the topics of conversations 
at polite tables ; they have been frequently 
mentioned in both nouses of parliament ; 
and, I suppose, there is hardly a member of 
either who would not immediately assent to 
the necessity of a reformation, were it pro- 
posed to him in a reasonable way. But 
there it stops ; and there it will forever stop, 
till the majority are animated with a zeal in 
which they are at present deplorably defect- 
ive. A religious man is unfeignedly shocked 
when he reflects upon the prevalence of 
such crimes ; a moral man must needs be so 
in a degree, and will affect to be much more 
so than he is. But how many do you sup- 
pose there are among our worthy represent- 
atives that come under either of these de- 
scriptions? If all were such, yet to new 
model the police of the country, which must 
be done in order to make even unavoidable 
perjury less frequent, were a task they would 
hardly undertake, on account of the great 
difficulty that would attend it. Government 
is too much interested in the consumption 
of malt liquor toreducathe number of vend- 
ers. Such plausible pleas may be offered 
in defence of travelling on Sundays, espe- 
cially by the trading part of the world, as 
the whole bench of bishops would- find it 
difficult to overrule. And with respect to 
the violation of oaths, till a certain name is 
more generally respected than it is at present, 
however such persons as yourself may be 
grieved at it, the legislature are never likely 
to lay it to heart. I do not mean, nor would 
by any means attempt, to discourage you in 
so laudable an enterprise, but such is the light 
.n which it appears to me, that I do not feel 
the least spark of ' courage qualifying or 
prompting me to embark in it myself. An 
exhortaticn therefore written by me, by hope- 
less, desponding me, would be flat, insipid, 
and uninteresting ; and disgrace the cause 
instead of serving it. If, after what I have 
said, however, you still retain the same sen- 
timents, Matte esto virtute tua, there is no- 
body better qualiiied than yourself, and may 
your success prove that I despaired of it with- 
out a reason. 

Adieu, 

My dear friend. W. C. 



Cowper, it seems, declined his friend's pro- 
Dosal, and was by no means sanguine in his 
'jopes of a remedy. The reasons he assigns 



are sufficient to deter the generality of man. 
kind. Still there are men always raised up 
by the providence of God, in his own ap- 
pointed time — endowed from above with 
qualifications necessary for great enterprises 
— distinguished too by a perseverance that 
no toil can weary, and which no opposition 
can divert from its purpose, because they 
are inwardly supported by the integrity of 
their motives, and by a deep conviction of 
the importance of their object. To men 
of this ethereal stamp, trials are but an in- 
centive to exertion, because they never fail 
to see through those besetting difficulties, 
which obstruct the progress of all good un- 
dertakings, the final "accomplishment of aL 
their labors. 

Let no man despair of success in a right- 
eous cause. Let him well conceive his plan 
and mature it : let him gain all the aid thai; 
can be derived from the counsel of wise and 
reflecting minds ; and, above all, let him im- 
plore the illuminating influences of that Holy 
Spirit, which can alone impart what all want, 
" the wisdom that is from above," which is 
" pure, peaceable, gentle, and full of good 
fruits ;" let him be simple in his view, holy 
in his purpose, zealous, prudert, and perse- 
vering in his pursuit; and we fee* no hesita- 
tion in saying, that man will be " blessed in 
his deedr There are no difficulties, if his 
object be practicable, and prosecuted in a 
right spirit, that he may not hope to conquer; 
no corrupt passions of men over which he 
may not finally triumph, because there is a 
Divine Power that can level tne highest 
mountains and exalt the lowest valleys, and 
because it is recorded for our consolation 
and instruction : " And the Lord went before 
them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead 
them the way ; and by night in a pillar of 
fire, to give them light, to go by day and 
night. He took not away the pillar of the 
cloud by day, nor the pillar of fire by night, 
from before the people."* 

With respect to the more immediate sub- 
ject of Cowper's letter, so far as it is applica- 
ble to modern times, we. must confess that 
we are sanguine in our hopes of improve- 
ment, founded on the increasing moral spirit 
of the times, and the Divine agency, now so 
visibly interposing in the affairs of men. 
Every abuse will progressively receive its 
appropriate and counteracting remedy. The 
Lord's day will be rescued from gross pro- 
fanation, and the claims of the revenue be 
compelled to yield to the weight and author- 
ity of public feeling. How just and forcible 
is the following portrait drawn by the Muse 
of Cowper ! 

" The excise is fattened with the rich result 
Of all this riot ; and ten thousand casks, 
For ever dribbling out their base contents, 

* Exodus, Kiii. 21, 22. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



261 



Toucn'd by the Midas finger of the state, 
Bleed gold tor ministers to sport away. 
Drink, and be mad then ; 'tis your country bids ! 
Gloriously drunk obey the important call ! 
Her cause demands the assistance of your throats ; 
Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more." 
The Task, Book IV. 



We know not to what event the following 
letter refers, as it is without any date to 
guide us. It may probably relate to the pe- 
riod of Lord George Gordon's riots. We 
insert it as we find it.* 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

Though we live in a nook, and the world 
is quite unconscious that there are any such 
beings in it as ourselves, yet we are not un- 
concerned about what passes in it. The pres- 
ent awful crisis, big with the fate of Eng- 
land, engages much of our attention. The 
action is probably over by this time, and 
though we know it not, the grand question 
is decided, whether the war shall roar in our 
once peaceful fields, or whether we shall still 
only hear of it at a distance. I can compare 
the nation to no similitude more apt than 
that of an ancient castle, that had been for 
days assaulted by the battering-ram. It was 
long before the stroke of that engine made 
any sensible impression, but the continual 
repetition at length communicated a slight 
tremor to the wall ; the next, and the next, 
and the next blow increased it. Another 
shock puts the whole mass in motion, from 
the top to the foundation : it bends forward, 
and is every moment driven farther from the 
perpendicular; till at last the decisive blow 
is given, and down it comes. Every million 
that^has been raised within the last century, 
has had an effect upon the constitution like 
that of a blow from the aforesaid mm upon 
the aforesaid wall. The impulse becomes 
more and more important, and the impres- 
sion it makes is continually augmented ; un- 
less therefore something extraordinary inter- 
venes to prevent it — you will find the conse- 
quence at the end of my simile. 

Yours, W. C. 



The letter which we next insert, is curious 
and interesting, as it contains a critique on 
the works of Churchill, whose style Cow- 
per's is supposed to resemble, in it« nervous 
strength aud pungency. He calls him, " the 
great Churchill."f One of his productions, 

* Men who are of sufficient celebrity to entitle their 
letters to the honor of future publication would do well 
in never omitting to attach a date to them. The neglect 
uf this precaution, on the part of the Rev. Legh Rich- 
mond, led to much perplexity. 

t Cowper was an admirer of Churchill, and is thought 
to have formed his style on the model of that writer. 
But he r 5 now no longer " the great Churchill." The 



not here mentioned, was entitled the Ros- 
ciad, containing strictures on the theat-ical 
performers of that day, who trembled at his 
censures, or were elated by his praise. He 
has passed along the stream, and has ceased 
to be read, though once a popular writer. 
It is much to be lamented that his habits 
were irregular, his domestic duties violated, 
and his life at length shortened by intem- 
perance. The reader may form an estimate 
of his poetical pretensions from the judg> 
ment here passed upon them by Cowper. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

My dear William, — How apt we are to 
deceive ourselves where self is in question ! 
You say I am in your debt, and I accounted 
you in mine : a mistake to which you must 
attribute my arrears, if indeed I owe you 
any, for I am not backward to write where 
the uppermost thought is welcome. 

I am obliged to you for all the books you 
have occasionally furnished me with : I did 
not indeed read many of Johnson's Clas- 
sics — those of established reputation are so 
fresh in my memory, though many years 
have intervened since I made them my com- 
panions, that it was like reading what I read 
yesterday over again ; and, as to the minor 
Classics, I did not think them worth reading 
at all. I tasted most of them, and did not 
like them : it is a great thing to be indeed a 
poet, and does not happen to more than 
one man in a century. Churchill, the great 
Churchill, deserved the name of poet — I 
have read him twice, and some of his pieces 
three times ove^, and the last time with more 
pleasure than the first. The pitiful scribbler 
of his life seems to have undertaken that 
task, for which he was entirely unqualified, 
merely because it afforded him an opportu- 
nity to traduce him. He has inserted in it 
but one anecdote of consequence, for which 
he refers you to a novel, and introduces the 
story with doubts about the truth of it 
But his barrenness as a biographer I could 
forgive, if the simpleton had not thought 
himself a judge of his writings, and, under 
the erroneous influence of that thought in- 
forms his reader that Gotham, Independence, 

causes of his reputation have been the occasion of it 3 
decline. His productions are founded on the popular 
yet evanescent topics of the time, which have ceased to 
create interest. He who wishes to survive in the mem- 
ory of future ages must possess, not only the attribute of 
commanding genius, but be careful to employ it on sub- 
jects of abiding importance His life was characterised 
by singular imprudence, aitd by habits of gross vice and 
intemperance. A preacher by profession, and a rake in 
practice, he abandoned the church, or rather was com- 
pelled to resign its functions. Gifted with a vigorous 
fancy, and superior powers, he prostituted them to the 
purposes of political faction, and became the associate 
and frien I of Wilkes. A bankrupt, at length, both in 
fortune and constitution, he was seized with a fever 
while paying a visit to Mr. Wilkes, at Boulogne : and 
terminated his brilliant but guilty career at the early age 
of thirty-four. 



270 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



and the Times, were catchpennies. Gotham, 
unless I am a greater blockhead than he, 
which I am far from believing, is a noble and 
beautiful poem, and a poem with which I 
make no doubt the author took as much pains 
as with any he ever wrote. Making allow- 
ance (and Dryden, perhaps, in his Absalom 
and Achitophel stands in need of the same 
indulgence) for an unwarrantable use of 
scripture, it appears to me to be a masterly 
performance. Independence is a most ani- 
mated piece, full of strength and spirit, and 
marked with that bold masculine character 
which I think is the great peculiarity of this 
writer. And the Times (except that the sub- 
ject is disgusting to the last degree) stands 
equally high in my opinion. He is indeed a 
careless writer for the most part, but where 
shall we find, in any of those authors who 
finish their works with the exactness of a 
Flemish pencil, those bold and daring strokes 
of fancy, those numbers so hazardously ven- 
tured upon and so happily finished, the mat- 
ter so compressed and yet so clear, and the 
coloring so sparingly laid on and yet with 
such a beautiful effect ? In short, it is not 
his least praise that he is never guilty of 
those faults as a writer which he lays to the 
charge of others: a proof that he did not 
judge by a'borrowed standard, or from rules 
laid down by critics, but that he was quali- 
fied to do it by his own native powers and 
his great superiority of genius : for he, that 
wrote so much and so fast, would, through 
inadvertence and hurry, unavoidably have 
departed from rules which he might have 
found in books, but his own truly poetical 
talent was a guide which could not suffer 
him to err. A race-horse is graceful in his 
swiftest pace, and never makes an awkward 
motion, though he is pushed to his utmost 
speed. A cart-horse might perhaps be taught 
to play tricks in the riding-school, and might 
prance and curvet like his betters, but at 
some unlucky time would be sure to betray 
'the baseness of his original. It is an affair 
of very little consequence perhaps to the 
well-being of mankind, but I cannot help re- 
gretting that he died so soon. Those words 
of Virgil, upon the immature death of Mar- 
ceilua, might serve for his epitaph. 

" Csrendent terris hunc tantum fata ; neque ultra 
Esse sinent." 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 

My dear Friend, — I find the Register in 
afl respects an entertaining medley, but espe- 
cially in this, that it has brought to my view 
V>me long forgotten pieces of my own pro- 
duction. I mean by the way two or three. 
Those I hav^< marked with my own initials, 



and you may be sure I found them peculiarly 
agreeable, as they had not only the grace of 
being mine, but that of novelty likewise to 
recommend them. It is at least twenty 
years since I saw them. You, I think, was 
never a dabbler in rhyme. I have been one 
ever since I was fourteen years of age, when 
I began with translatisg an elegy of Tibul- 
lus. I have no more right to the name of a 
poet than a maker of mouse-traps has to 
that of an engineer; but my little exploits in 
this way have at times amused me so much, 
that I have often wished myself a good one. 
Such a talent in verse as mine is like a 
child's rattle, very entertaining to the trifier 
that uses it and very disagreeable to all be- 
sides. But it has served to rid me of some 
melancholy moments, for I only take it up 
as a gentleman-performer does his fiddle. I 
have this peculiarity belonging to me as a 
rhymist, that though I am charmed to a 
great degree with my own work while it is 
on the anvil, I can seldom bear to look at it 
when it is once finished. The more I con- 
template it the more it loses its value, till I 
am at last disgusted with it. I then throw 
it by, take it up again, perhaps ten years 
after, and am as much delighted with it as 
at the first. 

Few people have the art of being agree- 
able when they talk of themselves ; if you 
are not weary therefore, you pay me* a high 
compliment. 

I dare say Miss S * was much diverted 

with the conjecture of her friends. The 
true key to the pleasure she found at Olney 
was plain enough to be seen, but they chose 
to overlook it. She brought with her a dis- 
position to be pleased, which, whoever does, 
is sure to find a visit agreeable, because the) 
make it so Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olney, August 31, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I began to fear for your 
health, and every day said to myself — I must 
write to Bagot soon, if it be only to ask him 
how he does — a measure that I should cer- 
tainly have pursued long since, had I been 
less absorbed in Homer than I am. But 
such are my engagements in that quarter, 
that they make me, I think, good for little 
else. 

Many thanks, my friend, for the names 
that you have sent me. The Bagots will 
make a most conspicuous figure among my 
subscribers, and I shall not, I hop** soon for* 
get my obligations to them. 

The unacquaintedness of modern ears witt. 
the divine harmony of Milton's numbers,T 

* Miss Shuttleworth. 

t Addison was the first, by his excellent critiques in the 
Spectator, to excite public attention to a more just sense 



LIFIi OF COWPER. 



27 



and the principles upon which he constructed 
them, is the cause of the quarrel that they 
have with elisions in blank verse. But 
where is the remedy? In vain should you 
or I, and a few hundreds more perhaps who 
have studied his versification, tell them of 
the superior majesty of it, and that for that 
majesty it is greatly indebted to those elis- 
ions. In their ears they are discord and 
dissonance, they lengthen the line beyond its 
due limits, and are therefore not to be en- 
dured. There is a whimsical inconsistence 
in the judgment of modern readers in this 
particular. Ask them all round, Whom do 
you account the best writer of blank verse? 
and they will reply, almost to a man, Milton, 
to be sure : Milton against the field ! Yet 
if a writer of the present day should con- 
struct his numbers exactly upon Milton's 
plan, not one in fifty of these professed ad- 
mirers of Milton would endure him. The 
case standing thus, what is to be done ? 
An author must either be contented to give 

of the immortal poem of the Paradise Lost. But it was 
reserved for Johnson (Rambler, Ros. B6, B& 90, 94.) lo 
point out the beauty of Milton's versification. He showed 
that it was formed, as far as our language admits, upon 
the best models of Greece aud Rome, united to the soft- 
ness of the Italian, the most meiliiiuous of all modern 
poetry. To these examples we may add the name of 
Spens-r. who is distinguished for a most melodious flow 
of versirication. Johnson emphatically remarks, that 
Milton's -skill in harmony was not less than his inven- 
tion or his learning." Dr. J. Wharton also observes, that 
his verses vary, and resound as much, and display as 
much majesty and energy, as any that can be found in 
Dry den. 

We subjoin the following passages as illustrating the 
melody of his numbers, the grace and dignity of his 
style, the correspondence of sound with the sentiment, 
the easy flow of his verses into one another, and the 
beauty of his cadences. 

THE DESCENT OF THE ANGEL RAPHAEL INTO PARADISE. 

A seraph wing'd : six wings he wore, to shade 
His lineaments divine ; the pair that clad 
Each shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast 
With regal ornament ; the middle pair 
Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round 
Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold, 
And odors dipt in Heaven ; the third his feet 
Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail, 
Sky tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood, 
And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill'd 
The circuit wide. Book V. 

How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
3f silence, through the empty vaulted night; 
At every fall, smoothing the "raven down 
Of darkness, till it smiled. 

THE BIRTH OF DEATH. 

I fled, and cried out Death : 
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd 
From all her caves, and back resounded Death) 

EVE EATING THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 

So saying, her rash hand in evil hour 
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate. 
Earth felt the wound, and Nature, from her seat 
Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe, 
That ad was Lost. Book IX. 

IDAM PARTICIPATING IN THE GREAT TRANSGRESSION. 

He scrupled not to eat 
Against his better knowledge- 
Earth trembled from her entrails, as as:ain 
In pang ? ; and Nature gave a second groan ; 
Sky lour 1 d ; and, muttering thunder, some sad drops 
Wept at ii| mpleting of the mortal sin — 
Original. Book IX. 



disgust to the generality, or he must humor 
them by sinning against his own judgment. 
This latter cou*se, so far as elisions are con- 
cerned, I have adopted as essential to my 
success. Tn every other respect, I give aa 
much variety in my measure as I can, I be- 
lieve I may say as in ten syllables it is pos- 
sible to give, shifting perpetually the pause 
and cadence, and accounting myself happy 
that modern refinement has not yet enacted 
laws against this also. If it had, I protest to 
you I would have dropped my design of 
translating Homer entirely : and with what 
an indignant stateliness of reluctance I make 
them the concession that I have mentioned, 
Mrs. Unwin can witness, who hears all my 
complaints upon the subject. 

After having lived twenty years at Olney, 
we are on the point of leaving it, but shall 
not migrate far. We have taken a house in 
the village of Weston. Lady Hesketh is 
our good angel, by whose aid we are enabled 
to pass into a better air and a more walkable 
country. The imprisonment that we have 
suffered here for so many winters, has hurt 
us both. That we may suffer it no longer, 
she stoops to Olney, lifts us from our swamp, 
and sets us down on the elevated grounds of 
Weston Underwood. There, my dearfriend, 
I shall be happy to see you, and to thank 
you in person for all your kindness. 

I do not wonder at the judgment that you 
form of — a foreigner; but you may assure 
yourself that, foreigner as he is, he has an 
exquisite taste in English verse. The man 
is all fire, and an enthusiast in the highest 
degree on the subject of Homer, and has 
given me more than once a jog, when I have 
been inclined to nap with my author. No 
cold water is to be feared from him that 
might abate my own fire, rather perhaps too 
much combustible. 

Adieu ! mon ami, 

Yours faithfully, W. C. 



We reserve our remarks on the next letter 
till its close. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Sept. 30, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — No length of separation 
will ever make us indifferent either to your 
pleasures or your pains. We rejoice that 
you have had so agreeable a jaunt and (ex- 
cepting Mrs. Newton's terrible fall, from 
which, however, we are happy to find that 
she received so little injury) a safe return 
We, who live encompassed by rural scenery 
can afford to be stationary ; though we our- 
selves, were I not too closely engaged with 
Homer, should perhaps follow your ex 
ample, and seek a little refreshment from 

* Private correspondence 



272 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



variety and change of place — a course that 
we might find not only agreeable, but, after 
a sameness of thirteen years,*perhaps useful. 
You must, undoubtedly, have found your ex- 
cursion beneficial, who at all other times en- 
dure, if not so close a confinement as we, 
yet a more unhealthy one, in city air and in 
the centre of continual engagements. 

Your letter to Mrs. Unwin, concerning our 
conduct, and the offence taken at it in our 
neighborhood, gave us both a great deal of 
concern; and she is still deeply affected by 
it. Of this you may assure yourself, that, if 
our friends in London have been grieved, 
they have been misinformed; which is the 
more probable, because the bearers of intel- 
ligence hence to London are not always very 
scrupulous concerning the truth of their re- 
ports ; and that, if any of our serious neigh- 
bors have been astonished, they have been so 
without the smallest real occasion. Poor 
">eo^)le are never well employed even when 
.hey judge one another ; but when they un- 
iertake to scan the motives and estimate the 
Dehavior of those whom Providence has ex- 
alted a little above them, they are utterly 
out of their province and their depth. They 
often see us get into Lady Hesketh's car- 
riage, and rather uncharitably suppose that it 
always carries us into a scene of dissipation, 
which, in fact, it never does. We visit, in- 
deed, at Mr. Throckmorton's, and at Gay- 
hurst ; rarely, however, at Gayhurst, on ac- 
count of the greater distance : more fre- 
quently, though not very frequently, at 
Weston, both because it is nearer, and be- 
cause our business in the house that is mak- 
ing ready for us often calls us that way. 
The rest of our journeys are to Bozeat turn- 
pike and back again, or perhaps to the cabi- 
net-maker's at Newport. As Othello says, 

The very head /ind front of my offending 
Hath this extent, no more. 

What good we can get or can do in these 
visits, is another question ; which they, I am 
sure, are not at all qualified to solve. Of 
this we are both sure, that under the guid- 
ance of Providence we have formed these 
connexions; that we should have hurt the 
Christian cause, rather than have served it, 
by a prudish abstinence from them ; and that 
St. Paul himself, conducted to them as we 
have been, would have found it expedient to 
nave done as we have done. It is always 
impossible to conjecture, to much purpose, 
from the beginnings of a providence in what 
it will terminate. If. we have neither re- 
ceived nor communicated any spiritual good 
at present, while conversant with our new 
acquaintance, at least no harm has befallen 
on either side ; and it were too hazardous an 
assertion even for our censorious neighbors 
to make, that, because the cause of the Gos- 



pel does not appear to have been served at 
present, therefore it never can be in any fiv 
ture intercourse that we may have with them. 
In the meantime, I speak a strict truth, and 
as in the sight of God, when I say that we 
are neither of us at all more addicted to gad- 
ding than heretofore. We both naturally 
love seclusion from company, and never go 
into it without putting a force upon our dis- 
position; at the same time I will confess, 
and you will easily conceive that the melan- 
choly incident to such close confinement as 
we have so long endured finds itself a Utile 
relieved by such amusements as a society so 
innocent affords. You may look round the 
Christian world, and find few, I believe, of 
our station, who have so little intercourse as 
we with the world that is not Christian. 

We place all the uneasiness that you have 
felt for us upon this subject to the account 
of that cordial friendship of which you have 
long given us proof. But you may be as- 
sured, that, notwithstanding all rumors to 
the contrary, we are exactly what we were 
when you saw us last : — I, m ; serable on ac- 
count of God's departure from me, which I 
believe to be final ; and she seeking his return 
to me in the path of duty and by continua. 
prayer. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

That the above letter may be fully under- 
stood, it is necessary to state that Mr. New 
ton had received an intimation from Olney 
that the habits of Cowper, since the arrival 
of Lady Ilesketh, had experienced a change ; 
and that an admonitory letter from himself 
might not be without its use. Under these 
circumstances, Newton addressed such a let- 
ter to his friend as the occasion seemed to 
require. The answer of Cowper is already 
before the reader, and in our opinion amounts 
to a full justification of the poet's conduct. 
We know, from various testimonies of un- 
questionable authority, that no change tend- 
ing to impeach the consistency of Mrs. Un- 
win or of Cowper can justly be alleged. If 
Newton should be considered as giving too 
easy a credence to these reports, or too rigid 
and ascetic in his spirit, we conceive that he 
could not, consistently with his own views 
as a faithful minister, and his deep interest 
in the welfare of Cowper, have acted other- 
wise, though he may possibly have expressed 
himself too strongly. As to Newton's own 
spirit and temper, no man was more amiable 
and sociable in his feelings, nor the object of 
more affectionate esteem and regard in the 
circles where he was known. His character 
has been already described by Cowper, as 
that of a man that lived in an atmosphere of 
Chiistian peace and love. "It is therefore," 
observes the poet, " you were beloved at 
Olney, ana if you preached to the Chicksawa 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



273 



and Chactaws t would be equally beloved by 
*heni."* 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Oct. 6, 1786. 

You have not heard, I suppose, that the 
ninth book of my translation is at the bot- 
tom of the Thames. But it is even so. A 
storm overtook it in its way to Kingston, and 
it sunk, together with the whole cargo of the 
boat in which it was a passenger. Not figu- 
ratively foreshowing, I hope, by its submer- 
sion, the fate of. all the rest. My kind and 
generous cousin, who leaves nothing undone 
that she thinks can conduce to my comfort, 
encouragement, or convenience, is my tran- 
scriber also. She wrote the copy, and she 
will have to write it again — hers, tkerefore, 
is the damage. I have a thousand reasons to 
lament that the time approaches when we 
must lose her. She has made a winterly 
summer a most delightful one, but the win- 
ter itself we must spend without her. 

W.C. 



We are at le~ngth arrived at the period 
when Covvper removed to Weston. He 
fixed his residence there Nov. 15th, 1786. 
The first letters addressed from that place 
are to his friends Mr. Bagot and Mr. Newton. 

JL'O THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston Underwood, Nov. 17, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — There are some things 
that do not actually shorten the life of man, 
yet seem to do so, and frequent removals 
from place to place are of that number. For 
my own part, at least, I am apt to think if I 
had been more stationary, I should seem to 
myself to have lived longer. My many 
changes of habitation have divided my time 
into many short periods, and when I look 
back upon them they appear only as the 
stages in a day's journey, the first of which 
is at no very great distance from the last. 

I lived longer at Olney than anywhere. 
There indeed I lived till mouldering walls 
and a tottering house warnecf me to depart. 
I have accordingly taken the hint, and two 
days since arrived, or rather took up ray 
abode, at Weston. You perhaps have never 
made the experiment, but I can assure you 
that the confusion which attends a transmi- 
gration of this kind is infinite, and has a ter- 
rible effect in deranging the intellects. I 
have been obliged to renounce my Homer on 
the occasion, and, though not for many days, 
I yet feel as if study and meditation, so long 
my confirmed habits, were on a sudden be- 
come impracticable, and that I shall certainly 
find them so when I attempt them again. 
* See page 135. 



But, in a scene so much quieter and pleas- 
anter than that which I have just escaped 
from, in a house so much more commodious, 
and with furniture about me so much more 
to my taste, I shall hope to recover my lit- 
erary tendency again, when once the bustle 
of the occasion shall have subsided. 

How glad I should be to receive you under 
a roof where you would find me so much more 
comfortably accommodated than at Olney ! I 
know your warmth of heart toward me, and 
am sure that you would rejoice in my joy. 
At present indeed I have not had time for 
much self-gratulation, but have every reason 
to hope nevertheless that in due time I shall 
derive considerable advantage, both in health 
and spirits, from the alteration made in my 
whereabout. 

I have now the twelfth book of the Iliad 
in hand, having settled the eleven first books 
finally, as I think, or nearly so. The winter 
is the time when I make the greatest rid- 
dance. 

Adieu, my friend Walter ! Let me hear 
from you, and 

Believe me, ever yours, W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston Underwood, Nov. 17, 1786. 
My dear Friend, — My usual time of an 
swering your letters having been unavoida- 
bly engrossed by occasions that would not 
be thrust aside, I have been obliged to post- 
pone the payment of my debt for a whole 
week. Even now it is not without some dif- 
ficulty that I discharge it: which you will 
easily believe, when I tell you that this is 
only the second day that has seen us inhabi- 
tants of our new abode. When God speaks 
to a chaos, it becomes a scene of ord?r and 
harmony in a moment; but when his crea- 
tures have thrown one house into confusion 
by leaving it, and another by tumbling them- 
selves and their goods into it, not less than 
many days' hbor and contrivance is neces- 
sary to give them their proper places. And 
it belongs to furniture of all kinds, however 
convenient it may be in its place, to be a nui- 
sance out of it. We find ourselves here in a 
comfortable dwelling. Such it is in itself; 
and my cousin, who has spared no expense 
in dressing it up for us, has made it a gen- 
teel one. Such, at least, it will be when its 
contents are a little harmonized. She left 
us on Tuesday, and on Wednesday in the 
evening Mrs. Unwin and I took possession. 
I could not help giving a last look to my old 
prison and its precincts ; and, though I cannot 
easily account for it, having been miserable 
there so many years, felt something like a 
heart-ache when I took my last leave of a 
* Private correspondence. 
18 



274 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



scene that certainly in itse.f had nothing to 
engage affection. But I recollected that I 
had once been happy these, and coiild not, 
without tears in my eyes, bid adieu to a place 
in which God had so often found me. The 
human mind is a great mystery; mine, at least, 
appeared to me to be such upon this occasion. 
I found that I had not only had a tenderness 
for that ruinous abode, because it had once 
known me happy in the presence of God; 
but that even the distress I had suffered for 
so long a time, on account of his absence, 
had endeared it to me as much. I was 
weary of every object, had long wished for a 
change, yet could not take leave without a 
pang at parting. What consequences are to 
attend our removal, God only knows. I 
know well that it is not in situation to effect 
a cure of melancholy like mine. The change, 
however, has been entirely a providential 
one ; for, much as I wished it, I never uttered 
that wish, except to Mrs. Unwin. When I 
learned that the house was to be let, and had 
seen it, I had a strong desire that Lady Hes- 
keth should take it for herself, if she should 
happen to like the country. That desire, in- 
deed, is not exactly fulfilled ; and yet, upon 
the whole, is exceeded. We are the tenants ; 
but she assures us that we shall often have 
her for a guest ; and here is room enough for 
us all. You, I hope, my dear friend, and 
Mrs. Newton, will want no assurances to 
convince you that you will always be received 
here with the sincerest welcome. More wel- 
come than you have been you cannot be ; but 
better accommodated you may and will be. 

Adieu, my dear friend. Mrs. Unwin's af- 
fectionate remembrances and mine conclude 
me ever yours, W. C. 



9 TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston Lodge, Nov. 26, 1786. 
It is my birth-day, my beloved cousin, and 
I determine to employ a part of it, that it may 
not be destitute of festivity, in writing to you. 
The dark, thick fog that has obscured it 
would have been a burden to me at Olney, 
but here I have hardly attended to it. The 
neatness and snugness of our abode com- 
pensates all the dreariness of the season, and, 
whether the ways are wet or dry, our house 
at least is always warm and commodious. 
Oh! for you, my cousin, to partake these 
comforts wifli us! I will not begin already 
to tease you upon that subject, but Mrs. Un- 
win remembers to have heard from your own 
lips that you hate London in the spring. 
Perhaps, therefore, by that time, you may be 
glad to escape from a scene which will be 
every day growing more disagreeable, that 
you may enjoy the comforts of the Lodge. 
You well know that the best house has a 
desol ite appearance unfurnished. This house 



accordingly, since it has been occupied by is 
and our meubles, is as much superior to what 
it was when you saw it as you can imagine. 
The parlor is even elegant. When I say that 
the parlor is elegant, I do not mean to in- 
sinuate that the study is not so. It is neat, 
warm, and silent, and a much better study 
than I deserve, if I do not produce in it an 
incomparable translation of Homer. I think 
every day of those lines of Milton, and con- 
gratulate myself on having obtained, before 
I am quite superannuated, what he seerm 
not to have hoped for sooner : 

• " And may at length my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage !" 

For if it is not a hermitage, at least it is a 
much better thing, and you must always un- 
derstand* my dear, that when poets talk of 
cottages, hermitages, and such like things, 
they mean a house with six sashes in front, 
two comfortable parlors, a smart staircase, 
and three bed-chambers, of convenient di- 
mensions ; in short, exactly such a house as 
this. 

The Throckmortons continue the most 
obliging neighbors in the world. One morn- 
>ug last week, they both went with me to the 
cliffs — a scene, my dear, in which you would 
delight beyond measure, but which you can- 
not visit, except in the spring or autumn. 
The heat of summer, and clinging dirt of 
winter, would destroy you. What is called 
the cliff, is no cliff, nOr at all like one, but a 
beautiful terrace, gently sloping down to the 
Ouse, and from the brow of which, though not 
lofty, you have a view of such a valley as 
makes that which you see from the hills near 
Olney, and which I have had the honor to 
celebrate, an affair of no consideration.* 

Wintry as the weather is, do not suspect 
that it confines me. I ramble daily, and every 
day change my ramble. Wherever I go, 1 
find short grass finder my feet, and, when I 
have travelled perhaps five miles, come home 
with shoes not at all too dirty for a drawing- 
Toom. I was pacing yesterday under the 
elms that surround the field in which stands 
the great alcove, when lifting my eyes I saw 
two black genteel figures bolt through a 
hedge into the ■path where I was walking 
You guess already who they were, and that 
they could be nobody but our neighbors. 
They had seen me from a hill at a distance ; 

* " How oft, upon yon eminence, our pace 

Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne 

The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, 

While Admiration, feeding at the eye, 

And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene : 

Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned 

The distant plough slow moving, and, beside 

His laboring team, that swerved not from the track, 

The sturdy swain, diminished to a boy ! 

Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 

Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, 

Conducts the eye along his sin ions course, 

Delighted," &c. &c. The Task; Book 1 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



71 



»nd had traversed a great turnip field to get 
at me. You see, therefore, my dear, that I 
am in some request. Alas ! in too much re- 
quest with some people. The verses of 
Cadwallader have found me at last. 

I am charmed with your account of our 
little cousin* at Kensington. If the world 
does not spoil him hereafter, he will be a 
valuable man. 

^ood night, and may God bless thee ' 

W. C. 

In the midst of the brightening prospects 
that seemed to await Covvper, by a change 
of residence so conducive to his health and 
spirits, his tender and affectionate feelings 
received a severe shock by the unexpected 
intelligence of the death of Mr. Unwin. 
Few events could have made a more sensible 
inroad on his happiness, and on that of Mrs. 
Unwin. This zealous and truly excellent 
•nan had been taking a tour with Mr. Henry 
Thornton, when, on his return, he was seized 
with an attack at Winch ester, which in a few 
days terminated his valuable life. How pre- 
carious are our enjoyments! By what a 
slender tenure do we hold every sublunary 
blessing, and how mysterious are the dispen- 
sations of Providence ! The Rev. William 
Unwin, the endeared friend and correspond- 
ent of Cowper; the possessor of virtues 
that give a charm to domestic life, while di- 
vine grace hallowed their character and ten- 
dency; the devoted minister of Christ, turn- 
ing many to righteousness, by the purity of 
his doctrine and the eminence of his example, 
was cut off in the midst of his career, when 
his continuance was most needed by his 
family, and the influence of his principles 
had begun to be felt beyond the precincts of 
his parish. Happily for himself and his sur- 
viving friends, he died as he lived, supported 
by the hopes and consolations of the gospel, 
and with the assured prospect of a blessed 
immortality. 

u And, behold, I come quickly, and my re- 
ward is with me, to give every man according 
as his work shall be." " He that overcomelh' 
shall inherit all things, and I will be his God, 
and he shall be my son."f 

Cowper thus imparts the painful tidings to 
Lady Hesketh. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1786. 
I sent you, my dear, a melancholy letter, 
and I do not know that I shall now send you 
ane very unlike it. Not that anything occurs 
n consequence of our late loss more afflictive 
,han was to be expected, but the mind does 
*ot perfectly recover its tone after a shock 
ike that which has been felt so lately. This 
* Lord Cowper. t Rev. xxi. 7 ; xxii. 12. 



I observe, that, though my experience haf 
long since taught me that this world is a 
world of shadows, and that it is the more 
prudent as well as the more Christian course 
to possess the comforts that we find in it as 
if/we possessed them not, it is no easy mat- 
ter to reduce this doctrine into practice. We 
forget that that God who gave them may, 
when he pleases, take them away ; and that 
perhaps it may please him to take them at a 
time when we least expect, or are least dis- 
posed to part from them. Thus it has hap- 
pened in the present case. There never was 
a moment in Unwin's life when there seemed 
to be more urgent want of him than the mo- 
ment in which he died. He had attained to 
an age, when, if they are at any time useful, 
men become more useful to their families, 
their friends, and the world. His parish be- 
gan to feel and to be sensible of the advan- 
tages of his ministry. The clergy around 
him were many of them awed by his example. 
His children were thriving under his own 
tuition and management, and his eldest boy 
is likely to feel his loss severely, being by his 
years, in some respect qualified, to understand 
the value of such a parent; by his literary 
proficiency too clever for a school-boy, and 
too young at the same time for the university. 
The removal of a man in the prime of life, of 
such a character, and with such connexions, 
seems to make a void in society that can ne- 
ver be filled. God seemed to have made him 
just what he was, that he might be a blessing 
to others, and, when the influence of his 
character and abilities began to be felt, re- 
moved him. These are mysteries, my dear, 
that we cannot contemplate without astonish- 
ment, but which will nevertheless be ex- 
plained hereafter, and must in the meantime 
be revered in silence. It is well for his 
mother that she has spent her life in the 
practice of an habitual acquiescence in the 
dispensations of Providence, else I know 
that this stroke would have been heavier, after 
all that she has suffered upon another ac- 
count, than she could have borne. She de- 
rives, as she well may, great consolatioD 
from the thought that he lived the life r;d 
died the death of a Christian. The conse- 
quence is, if possible, more unavoidable than 
the most mathematical conclusion that, there- 
fore, he is happy. So farewell, my fr'end 
Unwin ! the first man for whom I .conceived 
a friendship after my removal from St. 
Alban's, and for whom I cannot but still con. 
tinue to feel a friendship, though I shall see 
thee with these eyes no more ! 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, Dec. 9, 178&. 

I am perfectly sure that you are mistaken 



276 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



though I do not wonder at it, considering the 
singular nature of the event, in the judgment 
that you form of poor Unwin's death, as it 
affects the interest of his intended pupil. 
When a tutor was wante*d for him, you sought 
out the wisest and best man for the office 
within the circle of your connexions. It 
pleased God to take him home to himself. 
Men eminently wise and good are very apt 
to die, because they are fit to do so. You 
found in Unwin a man worthy to succeed 
him, and he in whose hands are the issues 
of life and death, seeing no doubt that Unwin 
was ripe for a removal into a better state, 
removed him also. The matter viewed in this 
light seems not so wonderful as to refuse all 
explanation, except such as in a melancholy 
moment you have given to it. And I am so 
convinced that the little boy's destiny had no 
influence at all in hastening the death of his 
tutors elect, that, were it not impossible on 
more accounts than one that I should be able 
to serve him in that capacity, I would without 
the least fear of dying a moment sooner, 
offer myself to that office; I would even do 
it, were I conscious of the same fitness for 
another and a better state that I believe them 
to have been both endowed with. In that 
case, I perhaps might die too, but, if I should, 
it would not be on account of that connexion. 
Neither, my dear, had your interference in 
the business anything to do with the catas- 
trophe. Your whole conduct in it must have 
been acceptable in the sight of God, as it was 
directed by principles of the purest bene- 
volence.* 

I have not touched Homer to-day. Yester- 
day was one of my terrible seasons, and 
when I arose this morning I found that I had 
not sufficiently recovered myself to engage 
in such an occupation. Having letters to 
write, I the more willingly gave myself a dis- 
pensation. Good night. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — We had just begun to 
enjoy the pleasantness of our new situation, 
to find at least as much comfort in it as the 
season of the year would permit, when afflic- 
tion found- us out in our retreat, and the 
news reached us of the death of Mr. Unwin. 
He had taken a western tour with Mr. Henry 
Thornton, and in his return, at Winchester, 
was seized with a putrid fever whick sent 
him to his grave. He is gone to it, however, 
though young, as fit for it as age itself could 

* Lady Hesketh had placed a young friend of hers 
ander a tutor, who died. She then consigned him to the 
care of Mr. Unwin, who also departed. Her mind was 
much afflicted by the singularity of this event, and the 
above letter is Cowper's reasoning upon it. 



have made him. Regretted, indeed, and al. 
ways to be regretted, by those who knew 
him, for he had everything that makes a man 
valuable both in his principles and in hisi 
manners, but leavhfg still this consolation to 
his surviving friends, that he was de'sirable 
in this world chiefly because he was so well 
prepared for a better. 

I find myself here situated exactly to my 
mind. Weston is one of the prettiest vil- 
lages in England, and the walks about it at 
all seasons of the year delightful. I know 
that you will rejoice with me in the change 
that we have made, and for which I am al- 
together indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a 
change as great, as (to compare metropolitan 
things with rural) from St. Giles's to Gros- 
venor Square. Our house is in all respects 
commodious, and in some degree elegant; 
and I cannot give you a better idea of that 
which we have left than by telling you the 
present candidates for it are a publican and 
a shoemaker. W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, Dec. 16, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — The death of one whom 
I valued as I did Mr. Unwin is a subject on 
which could say much, and with much feel- 
ing. But habituated as my mind has been 
these many years to melancholy themes, 1 
am glad to excuse myself the contemplation 
of them as much as possible. I will only ob- 
serve, that the death of so young a man, 
whom I so lately saw in good health, and 
whose life was so desirable on every account, 
has something in it peculiarly distressing. 
I cannot think of the widow and the children 
that he has left, without a heart-ache that I 
remember not to have felt before. We may 
well sa^y, that the ways of God are myste- 
rious : in truth they are so, and to a degree 
that only such events can give us any con- 
ception of. Mrs. Unwin begs me to give her 
love to you, with thanks for your kind letter. 
Hers has been so much a life of affliction, 
that whatever occurs to her in that shape has 
not, at least, the terrors of novelty to embitter 
it, She is supported under this, as she has 
been under a thousand others, with a sub- 
mission of which I never saw her deprived 
for a moment. 

Once, since we left Olney, I had occasion 
to call at our old dwelling; and never did I 
see so forlorn and woeful a spectacle. De 
serted of its inhabitants, it seemed as if it 
could never be dwelt in forever. The cold- 
ness of it, the dreariness, and the dirt, made 
me think it no unapt resemblance of a soul 
that God has forsaken. While ho dwelt in 
it and manifested himself there, he could 
ci sate his own accommodations, and give it 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



27* 



occasionally the appearance of a palace ; but 
the moment he withdraws and takes with 
him all the furniture and embellishment of 
his graces, it becomes what it was before he 
entered it — the habitation of vermin and the 
image of desolation. Sometimes I envy the 
living, but not much or not long ; for, while 
they live, as we call it, they too are liable to 
desertion. But the dead who have died in 
the Lord I envy always ; for they, I take it 
for granted, can be no more forsaken. 

This Babylon, however, that we have left 
behind us, ruinous as it is, the ceilings 
cracked and the wails crumbling, still finds 
some who covet it. A shoemaker and an 
alemonger have proposed themselves as joint 
candidates to succeed us. Some small dif- 
ference between them and the landlord, on 
the subject of rent, has hitherto kept them 
out ; but at last they will probably agree. In 

the meantime Mr. R prophesies its fall, 

and tells them that they will occupy it at the 
hazard of their lives unless it be well propped 
before they enter it. We have not, there- 
fore, left it much too soon ; and this we knew 
before we migrated, though the same prophet 
would never speak out so long as only our 
heads were in danger. 

I wish yon well through your laborious 
task of transcribing. I hope the good lady's 
meditatiens are such as amuse you rather 
more, while you copy them, than meditations 
in general would ; which, for the most part, 
have appeared to me the most labored, insipid, 
and unnatural of all productions. 

Adieu, my dear friend. Our love attends 
vou both. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, Dec. 21, 1786. 

Your welcome letter, my beloved cousin, 
which ought by the date to have arrived on 
Sunday, being by some untoward accident 
delayed, came not till yesterday. It came, 
however, and has relieved me from a thou- 
sand distressing apprehensions on your ac- 
count. 

The dew of your intelligence has refreshed 
my poetical laurels. A little praise now and 
then is very good for your hard-working poet, 
who is apt to grow languid, and perhaps care- 
less, without it. Praise I find affects us as 
money does. . The more a man gets of it, 
ivith the more vigilance he watches over and 
preserves it. Such at least is its effect on 
me, and you may assure yourself that I ivill 
never lose a mite of it for want of care. 

I have already invited the good Padre* in 

general terms, and he shall positively dine 

here next week, whether he will or not. I do 

ot at all suspect that his kindness to Pro- 

* Tht chaplain of John Throckmorton, Esq. 



testants has anything insidious in it, any more 
than I suspect that he transcribes Homer for 
me with a view for my conversion. He would 
find me a tough piece of business, I can tell 
him, for, when 'I had no religion at all, I had 
yet a terrible dread of the Pope. How much 
more now ! 

I should have sent you a longer letter, but 
was obliged to devote my last evening to the 
melancholy employment of composing a Latin 
inscription for the tombstone of poor William, 
two copies of which I wrote out and enclosed, 
one to Henry Thornton, and one to Mr. 
Newton. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Jan. 3, 1787. 

My dear Friend, — You wish to hear from 
me at any calm interval of epic frenzy. An 
interval presents itself, but whether calm or 
not is perhaps* doubtful. Is it possible for a 
man to be calm who for three weeks past has 
been perpetually occupied in slaughter ; let- 
ting out one man's bowels, smiting another 
through the gullet, transfixing the liver of 
another, and lodging an arrow in a fourth ? 
Read the thirteenth book of the Iliad, and 
you will find such amusing incidents as these 
the subject of it, the sole subject. In order 
to interest myself in it and to catch the spirit 
of it, I had need discard all humanity. It ia 
woeful work ; and were the best poet in the 
world to give us at this day such a list of 
killed and wounded, he would not escape 
universal censure, to the praise of»a more en- 
lightened age be it spoken. I have waded 
through much blood, and through much more 
I must wade before I shall have finished. I 
determine in the mean time to account it all 
very sublime, and for two reasons ; — first, be- 
cause all the learned think so, and secondly, 
because I am to translate it. But were I an 
indifferent by-stander, perhaps I should ven- 
ture to wish that Homer had applied his 
wonderful powers to a less disgusting sub- 
ject : he has in the Odyssey, and I long to get 
at it. 

I have not the good fortune to meet with 
any of these fine things that you say are 
printed in my praise. But I learn from cer- 
tain advertisements in the Morning Herald, 
that I make a conspicuous figure in the en- 
tertainments of Freemasons' Hall. I learn 
also that my volumes are out of print, and 
that a third edition is soon to be published. 
But, if I am not gratified with the sight of 
odes composed to my honor and glory, I have 
at least been tickled with some douceurs of a 
very flattering nature by the post. A lady 
unknown addresses the best of men — an un- 
known gentleman has read my inimitable 
poems, and invites me to his seat in Hamp- 
shire — another incognito gives me hopes of a 



278 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



memorial in his garden, and a Welsh attorney 
sends me his verses to revise, and obligingly 
asks 

' Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, 
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale 1" 

If you find me a little vain hereafter, my 
friend, you must excuse it in consideration 
of these powerful incentives, especially the 
latter ; for surely the poet who can charm an 
attorney, especially a Welsh one, must be at 
least an Orpheus, if not something greater. 

Mrs. Unwin is as much delighted as myself 
with our present situation. But it is a sort 
of April weather life that we lead in this 
world. A little sunshine is generally the pre- 
lude to a storm. Hardly had we begun to 
enjoy the change, when the death of her son 
cast a gloom upon everything. He was a 
most exemplary man ; of your order; learned, 
polite, and aimable ; the father of lovely 
children, and the husband of. a wife (very 
much like dear Mrs. Bagot) who adored him. 
Adieu, my friend ! 

Your affectionate, W. C. 

The correspondence of Cowper was very 
limited this year, owing to a severe attack of 
nervous fever, which continued during a pe- 
riod of eight months, and greatly affected his 
health and spirits. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787. 

I have had a little nervous fever lately, my 
dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep ; 
and though I find myself better to-day than I 
have been since it seized me, yet I feel my 
head lightish, and not in the best order for 
writing. You will find me therefore perhaps 
not only less alert in my manner than I 
usually am when my spirits are good, but 
rather shorter. I will however proceed to 
scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and then 
will do as I know you would bid me do were 
you here, shut up my desk and take a walk. 

The good General tells me that in the eight 
first books which I have sent him he still finds 
alterations and amendments necessary, of 
which I myself am equally persuaded ; and 
he asks my leave to lay them before an inti- 
mate friend of his, of whom he gives a char- 
acter that bespeaks him highly deserving such 
a trust. To this I have no objection, desiring 
only to make the translation as perfect as I 
can make it. If God grant me life and 
health, I would spare no labor to secure that 
point. The General's letter is extremely 
kind, and both for matter and manner like all 
the rest of his dealings with his cousin, the 
poet. 

I had a letter also yesterday from Mr. 
Smith, member for Nottingham. Though we 
never saw each other, he writes to me in the 



most friendly terms, and interests himself 
much in my Homer, and in the success of mj 
subscription. Speaking on this latter subject, 
he says, that my poems are read by hundreds 
who know nothing of my proposals, and 
makes no doubt that they would subscribe 
if they did. I have myself always thought 
them imperfectly or rather insufficiently an- 
nounced. 

I could pity the poor woman who has been 
weak enough to claim my song ; such pilfer- 
ings are sure to be detected. I wrote it, I 
know not how long, but 1 suppose four yeara 
ago. The "Rose" in question was a rose 
given to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and 
the incident that suggested the subject oc- 
curred in the room in which you slept at the 
vicarage, which Lady Austen made her dining- 
room. Some time since, Mr. Bull going to 
London, I gave him a copy of it, which he 
undertook to convey to Nichols, the printer 
of the Gentleman's Magazine. He showed it 

to a Mrs. C , who begged to copy it, and 

promised to send it to the printer's by her 
servant. Three or four months afterwards, 
and when I had concluded it was lost, I saw 
it in the Gentleman's Magazine, with my sig- 
nature, " W. C." Poor simpleton ! She will 
find now perhaps that the rose had a thorn, 
and that she has pricked her fingers with it. 
Adieu ! my beloved cousin. W. C. 

Though these verses, of which another 
claimed the authorship, will appear in the 
collection of poems, yet as they are so char- 
acterized by taste and beauty, and the inci- 
dent which gave rise to them is mentioned in 
the above letter, we think the reader will be 
pleased with their insertion. 

The rose had been wash'd, just washed hi a 
shower, 

Which Mary* to Annaf convey'd ; 
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower 

And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were al: 
wet, 

And it seemed to a fanciful view 
To weep for the buds it had left with regret 

On the flourishing bush where it grew. 

I h astily seized it. unfit as it was, 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd-, 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! 
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part 

Some act by the delicate mind ; 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 

Already to sorrow resign'd. 

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile, 

And The tear that is wip'd with a little address 
May be followed perhaps by a smile. 



* Mrs. Unwin. 



f Lady Austen, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



-2*7% 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, Jan. 13, 1787. 

My dear Friend, — It gave me pleasure, 
such as it was, to learn by a letter from Mr. 
H. Thornton, that the inscription for the tomb 
of poor Unwin has been approved of. The 
dead have nothing to do with human praises, 
but if they died in the Lord, they have abun- 
dant praises to render to Him, which is far 
better. The dead, whatever they leave be- 
hind them, have nothing to regret. Good 
Christians are the only creatures in the world 
that are truly good, and them they will see 
again, and see them improved ; therefore them 
they regret not. Regret is for the living: 
what we get, we soon lose, and what we lose, 
we regret. The most obvious consolation 
in this case seems to be, that we who regret 
others shall quickly become objects of regret 
ourselves ; for mankind are continually pass- 
ing off in rapid succession. 

I have many kind friends, who, like your- 
self, wish that, instead of turning my en- 
deavors to a translation of Homer, I had 
proceeded in the way of original poetry. But 
I can truly say that it was ordered otherwise, 
not by me, but by the Providence that gov- 
erns all my thoughts and directs my inten- 
tions as he pleases. It may seem strange, 
but it is true, that after having written a vol- 
ume, in general with great ease to myself, I 
found it impossible to write another page. 
The mind of man is not a fountain, but a 
cistern ; and mine, God knows, a broken one. 
It is my creed, that the intellect depends as 
much, both for the energy and the multitude of 
its exertions, upon the operations of God's 
agency upon it, as the heart, for the exercise 
of its graces, upon the influence of the Holy 
Spirit. According to this persuasion, I may 
rery reasonably affirm, that it was not God's 
pleasure that I should proceed in the same 
track, because he did not enable me to do it. 
A whole year I waited, and waited in circum- 
stances of mind that made a state of non- 
employment peculiarly irksome to me. I 
longed for the pen, as the only remedy, but 
I could find no subject : extreme distress of 
spirit at last drove me, as, if I mistake not, I 
told you some time since, to lay Homer be- 
fore me and translate for amusement. Why 
it pleased God that I should be hunted into 
such a business, of such enormous length 
and labor, by miseries for which He did not 
see good to afford me any other remedy, I 
know not. But so it was: and jejune as the 
consolation may be, and unsuited to the ex- 
igencies of a mind that once was spiritual, 
yet a thousand times have I been glad of it; 
for a thousand times it has served at least to 
JiveH my attention, in some degree, frcm 
•uch terrible tempests as I believe have sel- 

* Private correspondence. 



dom been permitted to beat upon a human 
mind. Let my friends, therefore, who wish 
me some little measure of tranquillity in the 
performance of the most turbulent voyage 
that ever Christian mariner made, be con- 
tented, that, having Homer's- mountains and 
forests to windward, I escape, under their 
shelter, from the force of many a gust that 
would almost overset me ; especially when 
they consider that, not by choice, but by ne- 
cessity, I make them my refuge. As to fame, 
and honor, and glory, that may be acquired 
by poetical feats of any sort : God knows, 
that if I could lay me down in my grave 
with hope at my side, or sit with hope at my 
side in a dungeon all the residue of my days, 
I would cheerfully waive them all. For the 
little fame that I have already earned has 
never saved me from one distressing night, or 
from one despairing day, since I first acquired 
it. For what I am reserved, or to what, is a 
mystery ; I would fain hope, not merely that 
I may amuse others, or only to be a transla- 
tor of Homer. 

Sally Perry's case has given us much con- 
cern. I have no doubt that it is distemper 
But distresses of mind, that are occasioned 
by distemper, are the most difficult o*f all to 
deal with. They refuse all consolation ; they 
will hear no reason. God only, by his own 
immediate impressions, can remove them ; as, 
after an experience of thirteen years' misery 
I can abundantly testify. 

Yours, W C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 18, 1787. 
I have been so much indisposed with the 
fever that I told you had seized me, my nights 
during the whole week may be said to have 
been almost sleepless. The consequence has 
been, that, except the translation of about 
thirty lines at the conclusion of the thirteenth 
book, I have been forced to abandon Homer 
entirely. This was a sensible mortification 
to me, as you may suppose, and felt the 
more, because, my spirits of course failing 
with my strength, I seemed to have peculiar 
need of my old amusement. It seemed hard 
therefore to be forced to resign it just when 
I wanted it most. But Homer's battles can- 
not be fought by a man who does not sleep 
well, and who has not some little degree of 
animation in the daytime. Last night, how- 
ever, quite contrary to my expectations, the 
fever left me entirely, and I slept quietlj 
soundly, and long. If it please God that it 
return not, I shall soon find myself in a con- 
dition to proceed. I walk constantly, that is 
to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together; for at 
these times I keep her continually employed, 
and never suffer her to be absent from me 
many minutes. She gives me all her tiin* 



and all her attention, and forgets that there 
;s another object in the world. 

Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams 
as everybody else does, that is to say, accord- 
ing to her own experience. She has had no 
extraordinary ones, and therefore accounts 
them only the ordinary operations of the 
fancy. Mine are of a texture that will not 
suffer me to ascribe them to so inadequate a 
cause, or to any cause but the operation of 
an exterior agency. I have a mind, my dear, 
(and to" you I will venture to boast of it) as 
free from superstition as any man living, nei- 
ther do I give heed to dreams in general as 
predictive, though particular dreams I believe 
to be so. Some very sensible persons, and, 
I suppose, Mrs. Carter among them, will ac- 
knowledge that in old times God spoke by 
dreams, but affirm with much boldness that 
he has since ceased to do so. If you ask 
them why, they answer, because he has now 
revealed his will in the Scripture, and there 
is no longer any need that he should instruct 
or admonish us by dreams. I grant that with 
respect to doctrines and precepts he has left 
us in want of nothing, but has he thereby 
precluded himself in any of the operations 
of his Providence ? Surely not. It is per- 
fectly a different consideration ; and the same 
need that there ever was of his interference 
in this way there is still, and ever must be, 
while man continues blind and fallible, and 
a creature beset with dangers, which he can 
neither foresee nor obviate. His operations 
however of this kind are, I allow, very rare ; 
and, as to the generality of dreams, they are 
made of such stuff, and are in themselves so 
insignificant, that, though I believe them all 
to be the manufacture of others, not our own, 
I account it not a farthing-matter who manu- 
factures them. So much for dreams ! 

My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes 
seems to leave me. It is altogether of the 
nervous kind, and attended now and then 
with much dejection. 

A young gentleman called here yesterday 
who came six miles out of his way to see me. 
He was on a journey to London from Glas- 
gow, having just left the University there. 
He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own 
curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring 
me the thanks of some of the Scotch profes- 
sors for my two volumes. His name is Rose, 
an Englishman. Your spirits being good, 
you will derive more pleasure from this inci- 
dent than I can at present, therefore I send it.* 
Adieu, very affectionately, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, July 24, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — This is the first time I have 

Written these six months, and nothing but 

* Mr. Rose was the son of Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, who 



the constraint of obligation could induce me 
to write now. I cannot be so wanting to 
myself as not to endeavor, at least, to thank 
you both for the visits with which you have 
favored me, and the poems that you sent rae : 
in my present state of mind I taste nothing, 
nevertheless I read, partly from habit, and 
partly because it is the only thing I am capa- 
ble of. • 

I have therefore read Burns's poems, and 
have read them twice ; and, though they be 
written in a language that is new to me, and 
many of them on subjects much inferior to 
the author's ability, I think them on the 
whole a very extraordinary production. He 
is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms 
have produced in the lower rank of life since 
Shakspeare (I should rather say since Prior) 
who need not be indebted for any part of his 
praise to a charitable consideration of his 
origin and the disadvantages under which he 
has labored. It will be a pity if he should 
not hereafter divest himself of barbarism, and 
content himself with writing pure English, in 
which he appears perfectly qualified to excel. 
He who can command admiration dishonors 
himself if he aims no higher than to raise a 
laugh. 

I am, dear sir, with my best wishes for 
your prosperity, and with Mrs. Unwin's re- 
spects, 

Your obliged and affectionate humble ser 
vant, W. C. 

Burns is one of those instances which the 
annals of literature occasionally furnish of 
genius surmounting every obstacle by its 
own natural powers, and rising to command 
ing eminence. He was a Scottish peasant, 
born in Ayrshire, a native of that land where 
Fingal lived and Ossian sung.* He rose 
from the plough, to take his part in the pol- 
ished and intellectual society of Edinburgh, 
where he was admitted to the intercourse of 
Robertson, Blair, Lord Monboddo, Stewart, 
Alison, and Mackenzie, and found a patron 
in the Earl of Glencairn. 



formerly kept a seminary there. He was at this time a 
young man, distinguished by talent and great amiable- 
ness of character, and won" the regard and esteem of 
Cowper. He soon became one of his favorite correspon- 
dents. 

* The peasantry of Scotland do not resemble the same 
class of men in England, owing to a legal provision 
made by the Parliament of Scotland, in 1C46, whereby a 
school is established in every parish, for the express 
purpose of educating the poor. This statute was re- 
pealed, on the accession of Charles the Second, in 1660, 
but was finally re-established by the Scottish Parliament, 
after the Revolution, in 1696. The consequence of this 
enactment is, that every one, even in the humblest con- 
dition of life, is able to read ; and most persons are more 
or less skilled in writing and arithmetic. The moral 
effects are such, that it has been said, one quarter ses- 
sions for the town of Manchester has sent more felona 
for transportation than all the judges of Scotland consign 
during a whole year. Why is not a similar enactment, 
made for Ireland, where there is more ignorance and 
consequently more demoralization, than in any countr* 
1 of equal extent in Europe ? 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



28, 



His poetry is distinguished by the powers 
of a vivid imagination, a deep acquaintance 
with the recesses of the human heart, and an 
ardent and generous sensibility of feeling. 
It contains beautiful delineations of the scen- 
ery and manners of his country. "Many of 
her rivers and mountains," observes his bio- 
grapher,* " formerly unknown to the muse, 
are now consecrated by his immortal verse; 
the Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and 
the Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, 
the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as 
classic streams, and their borders will be trod 
with new and superior emotions." 

It is to be lamented that, owing to the dia- 
lect in which his poems are for the most part 
written, they are not sufficiently intelligible 
to English readers. His popular songs have 
given him much celebrity in his own coun- 
try.! 

Unhappily the fame of his genius attracted 
around him the gay and social, and his fine 
powers were wasted in midnight orgies ; till 
he ultimately fell a victim to intemperance, in 
the thirty-eighth year of his age ;t_ furnishing 
one more melancholy instance of genius not 
advancing the moral welfare and dignity of 
its possessor, because he rejected the guid- 
ance of prudence, and forgot that it is religion 
alone that can rmxke men truly great or hap- 
py. How often is genius like a comet, ec- 
centric in its course, whieh, after astonishing 
the world by its splendor, suddenly expires 
and vanishes ! 

We think that if a selection could be 
made from his works, excluding what is of- 
fensive, and retaining beauties which all 
must appreciate, an acceptable service might 
be rendered to the British public. Who can 
withhold their admiration from passages like 
these ? 

" Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Speaking of religion, he observes : — 

1 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 

bright, 
'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night, [few ; 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 

skies." 

We would also quote the following beau- 
tiful line? from his Cotter's (or Cottager's) 
Saturday Night, which represents the habits 
*f domestic piety in humble life. 

* Dr. Carrie. 

t The national air of "Sects wha hae wi' Wallace 
Wed," is lamiliar to every one, 
± He died in 1796. 



" Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed , 
How He who bore in heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped : 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw h» the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Babylon doom'd by Heaven's 
command." 

" Then kneeling, unto Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays:* 
Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 

That thus they all shall meet in future days; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear; 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear, 
While time moves round in an eternal sphere." 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Aug. 27, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — I have not yet taken up the pen 
again, except to write to you. The little 
taste that I have had of your company, and 
your kindness in finding me out, make me 
wish that we were nearer neighbors, and that 
there were not so great a disparity in our 
years — that is to say, not that you were old- 
er, but that I were younger. Could we have 
met in early life, I flatter myself that we 
might have been more intimate than now we 
are likely to be. But you shall not find me 
slow to cultivate such a measure of your re- 
gard as your friends of your own age can 
spare me. When your route shall lie through 
this country, I shall hope that the same kind- 
ness which has prompted you twice to call 
on me, will prompt you again, and I shall be 
happy if, on a future occasion, I may be able 
to give you a more cheerful reception than 
can be expected from an invalid. My health 
and spirits are considerably improved, and I 
once more associate with my neighbors. My 
head, however, has been the worst part of 
me, and still continues so ; is subject to gid- 
diness and. pain, maladies very unfavorable to 
poetical employment; but a preparation of 
the bark, which I take regularly, has so lar 
been of service to me in those respects, as to 
encourage in me a hope that, by persever- 
ance in the use of it, I may possibly find 
myself qualified to resume the translation of 
Homer. 

When I cannot walk, I read, and perhaps 
more than is good for me. But I cannot be 
idle. The only mercy that I show myself in 
this respect, is, that I read nothing that re- 
quires much closeness of application. I late- 
ly finished the perusal of a book, whicn rij 
former years I have more than once attacked, 
but never till now conquered; some other. 

* This is said to be a portrait of his own father's do- 
mestic piety. 



282 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



book always interfered before I could finish it. 
The work I mean is Barclay's "Argenis;"* 
and, if ever you allow yourself to read for 
mere amusement, I can recommend it to you 
(provided you have not already perused it) as 
the most amusing romance that ever was 
written. It is the only one, indeed, of an old 
date, that I ever had the patience to go 
through with. It is interesting in a high de- 
gree; richer in incident than can be ima- 
gined; full of surprises, which the reader 
never forestalls; and yet free from all en- 
tanglement and confusion. The style, too, 
appears to be such as would not dishonor 
Tacitus himself. 

Poor Burns loses much of his deserved 
praise in this country, through our ignorance 
of his language. I despair of meeting with 
any Englishman who will take the pains that 
I have taken to understand him. His candle 
is bright, but shut up in a dark lantern. I 
lent him to a very sensible neighbor of mine. 
But his uncouth dialect spoiled all, and, be- 
fore he had half read him through he was. 
quite bamboozled. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKET1I. 

The Lodge, Aug. 30, 1787. 

My dearest Cousin, — Though it costs me 
something to write, it would cost me more to 
be silent. My intercourse with my neighbors 
being renewed, I can no longer seem to forget 
how many reasons there are why you, espe- 
cially, should not be neglected ; no neighbor, 
indeed, but the kindest of my friends, and ere 
long, I hope, an inmate. 

My health and spirits seem to .be mending 
daily. To what end I know not, neither will 
conjecture, but endeavor, as far as I can, to 
be content that they do so. I use exercise, 
and take the air in the park and wilderness. 
I read much, but as yet write not. Our 
friends at the Hall make themselves more 
and more amiable in our account, by treating 
us rather as old friends than as friends newly 
acquired. There are few days in which we 
do not meet, and I am now almost as much 
at home in their house as in our own. Mr. 
Throckmorton, having long since put le in 
possession of all his ground, has no\? given 
me possession of his library. An acquisition 
of great value to me, who never have been 
able to live without books, since I first knew 
my letters, and who have no books of my 
own. By his means I have been so well sup- 
plied, th » 1 1 have not even yet looked at the 

* A LaKtx romance, once celebrated. Barclay was the 
author of two celebrated Latin romances ; the first en- 
titled Euphonnio, a political, satirical work, chiefly 
levelled against the Jesuits, and dedicated to James I. 
His Argenis is a political allegory, descriptive of the 
state of Europe, and especially of France, during the 
League. Sir Walter Scott alludes to the Euphormio in 
bis notes on Marmion, canto 3rd. 



" Lounger," for which, however, I do not for 
get that. I am obliged to you. His tun; 
comes next, and I shall probably begin him 
to-morrow. 

Mr. George Throckmorton is at the Hall, 
I thought I had known these brothers long 
enough to have found out all their talents 
and accomplishments. But I was mistaken. 
The day before yesterday, after having walked 
with us, they carried us up to the library (a 
more accurate writer would have said con. 
ducted xls), and then they showed me the con- 
tents of an immense portfolio, the work of 
their own hands. It was furnished with 
drawings of the architectural kind, executed 
in a most masterly manner, and, among oth- 
ers, contained outside and inside views of 
the Pantheon, I mean the Roman one. They 
were all, I believe, made at Rome. Some 
men may be estimated at a first interview, 
but the Throckmortons must be seen often 
and known long before one can understand 
all their value.* 

They often inquire after you, and ask me 
whether you visit Weston this autumn. I an 
swer, yes ; and I charge you, my dearest cous- 
in, to authenticate my information. Write 
to me, and tell us when we may expect to sec 
you. We were disappointed that we had no 
letter from you this morning. You will find 
me coated and buttoned according to you* 
recommendation. 

I write but little, because writing has be- 
come new to me ; but I shall come on by de- 
grees. Mrs.Unwin begs to be affectionately 
remembered to you. She is in tolerable 
health, which is the chief comfort here that I 
have to boast of. 

Yours, my dearest cousin, as ever, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Sept. 4, 1787. 
My dearest Coz., — Come, when thou canst 
come, secure of being always welcome ! All 
that is here is thine, together with the hearts 
of those who dwell here. I am only sorry 
that your journey hither is necessarily post- 
poned beyond the time when I did hope to 
have seen you; sorry, too, that my uncle's 
infirmities are the occasion of it. But years 
will have their course and their effect ; they 
are happiest, so far as this life is concerned 
who like him escape those effects the longest, 

* With Mr., afterwards Sir John Throckmorton, the 
Editor had not the opportunity of being acquainted ; but 
he would fail in rendering what is due to departed 
worth, if he did not record the high sense which he en- 
tertained of the virtues of his brother, Sir Gecwge Throck- 
morton. To the polished manners of the gentleman ho 
united the accomplishments of the scholar and the man 
of taste and refinement ; while the attention paid to the 
wants, the comforts, and instruction of the poor, in which 
another participated with equal promptness and delight, 
has left behind a memorial that will not soon be for 
gotten. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



28a 



and who do not grow old before their time. 
Trouble and anguish do that for some, which 
only longevity does for others. A few- 
months since I was older than your father is 
now, and, though I have lately recovered, as 
Falstaff says, some smatch of my youth,! have 
but little confidence, in truth none, in so flat- 
tering a change, but expect, when I least ex- 
pect it, to wither again. The past is a pledge 
for the future. # 

Mr. G. is here, Mrs. Throckmorton's un- 
cle. He is lately arrived from Italy, where 
he has resided several years, and is so much 
the gentleman that it is impossible to be 
mere so. Sensible. rclite, obliging; slender 
in Ms figure, and in manners most engaging 
— every way worthy to be related to the 
Tb'-ockinortons.* 

I have read Savary's Travels into Egypt ;f 
Memoires du Baron de Tott ; Fenn's Origi- 
nal Letters ; the letters of Frederick of Bohe- 
mia ; and am now reading Memoires d'Henri 
de Lorraine, Due de Guise. I have also read 
Barclay's Argenis, a Latin romance, and the 
best romance that ever was written — all these, 
together with Madan's Letters to Priestly, 
and several pamphlets, within these two 
months. So I am a great reader. 

W. C. 



±0 LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Sept. 15, 1787. 

My dearest Cousin, — on Monday last I was 

invited to meet your friend, Miss J , at 

the Hall, and there we found her. Her good 
nature, her humorous manner, and her good 
sense, are charming, insomuch that even I, 
who was never much addicted to speech- 
making, and who at present find myself par- 
ticularly indisposed to it, could not help saying 
at .parting, I am glad that I have seen you, and 
sorry that I have seen so little of you. We 
were sometimes many in company ; on Thurs- 
day we were fifteen, but we had not alto- 
gether so much vivacity and cleverness as 
Miss J , whose talent at mirth-making 

* T. Giffard, Esq., is the person here intended, for 
whom the verses were composed, inserted in a separate 
part of this volume. 

t Savary's travels in Egypt and the Levant, from 1776 
to 1780. — They have acquired sufficient popularity to be 
translated into most of the European language's. He 
died in 1788. 

Baron de Tott's memoirs. — The severe reflections in 
which this writer indulged against the Turkish govern- 
ment, and his imprudent expi>s:ire of its political weak- 
ness, subjected him to a series of hardships and im- 
prisonment, which seem almost to exceed the bounds of 
credibility. 

Sir John Fenn's Letters. — Written by various members 
of the Paston family, during the historical period of the 
wars, bet ween the two houses of York and Lancaster. 
He died in 1794. 

Henri de Lorraine, Due de Guise. — This celebrated 
character was the great opponent of the Huguenots, and 
founder of the League in the time of Henry IH., of 
France. He was assassinated at Blois, at the instigation, 
it is sa : d, of his sovereign, to whom his influence had 
become formidable. 



has this rare property to recommend it, that 
nobody suffers by it. 

I am making a gravel-walk for winter use. 
under a warm hedge in the orchard. It shall 
be furnished with a low seat for your accom- 
modation, and if you do but like it I shall be 
sa„sfied. In wet weather, or rather after wet 
weather, when the street is dirty, it will suit 
you well, for, lying on an easy declivity 
through its whole length, it must of course 
be immediately dry. ■ 

You are very much 'wished for by our 
friends at the Hall — how much by me I will 
not tell you till the second week in October. 
Yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Sept. 29, 1787. 

My dear Coz., — I thank you for your politi 
cal intelligence : retired as we are, and seem- 
ingly excluded from the world, we are not 
indifferent to what passes in it ; on the con- 
trary, the arrival of a newspaper, at the pres- 
ent juncture, never fails to furnish us with a 
theme for discussion, short indeed, but satis- 
factory, for we seldom differ in opinion. 

I have received such an impression of the 
Turks, from the Memoirs of Baron de Tott, 
which I read lately, that I can hardly help 
presaging the conquest of that empire "by the 
Russians. The disciples of Mahomet are 
such babies in modern tactics, and so ener 
vated by the use of their favorite drug, so 
fatally secure in their predestinarian dream, 
and so prone to a spirit of mutiny against 
their leaders, that nothing less can be ex 
pected. In fact, they had not been their own 
masters at this day, had but the Russians 
known the weakness of their enemies half so 
well as they undoubtedly know it now. Add 
to this, that there is a popular prophecy current 
in both countries, that Turkey is one day to 
fall under the Russian sceptre. A prophecy 
which, from whatever authority it be derived, 
as it will naturally encourage the Russians, and 
dispirit the Turks, in exact proportion to the 
degree of credit it has obtained on both sides, 
has a direct tendency to effect its own ac- 
complishment* In the meantime, if I wish 
them conquered, it is only because I think it 
will be a blessing to them to be governed by 
any other hand than their own. For under 
heaven has there never been a throne so ex- 
ecrably tyrannical as theirs. The heads of 
the. innocent that have been cut off to gratify 
the humor or caprice of their tyrants, could 
they be all collected and' discharged against 
the walls of their city, would not leave one 
stone on another. 

O that you were here this beautiful day' 
It is too fine by half to be spent in London 
I have a perpetual din in my head, and 



284 



COWPER'S WORKb. 



though I am not deaf, hear nothing aright, 
neither my own voice, nor that of others. I 
am under a tub, from which tub accept my 
best love. 

Yours, W. C. 



The following letter discovers an afflicting 
instance of the delusion under which the in- 
teresting mind of Cowper labored in some 
particular instances. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston Underwood, Oct. 2, 1787. 

My dear Friend, — After a long but neces- 
sary interruption of our correspondence, I re- 
turn to it again, in one respect at least better 
qualified for it than before ; I mean by a be- 
lief of your identity, which for thirteen years 
I did not believe. The acquisition of this 
light, if light it may be called which leaves 
me as much in the dark as ever on the most 
interesting subjects, releases me however 
from the disagreeable suspicion that I am ad- 
dressing myself to you as the friend whom I 
loved and valued so highly in my better days, 
while in fact you are not that friend, but a 
stranger. I can now write to you without 
seeming to act a part, and without having 
any need to charge myself with dissimula- 
tion ; — a charge from which, in that state of 
inind and under such an uncomfortable per- 
suasion, I knew not how to exculpate myself, 
and which, as you will easily conceive, not 
seldom made my correspondence with you a 
burden. Still, indeed, it wants, and is likely 
to want, that best ingredient which can alone 
make it truly pleasant either to myself or 
you — that spirituality which once enlivened 
all our intercourse. You will tell me, no 
doubt, that the knowledge I have gained is 
an earnest of more and more valuable infor- 
mation, and that the dispersion of the clouds, 
in part, promises, in due time, their complete 
dispersion. I should be happy to believe it ; 
but the power to do so is at present far from 
me. Never was the mind of man benighted 
to the degree that mine has been. The 
Btorms that have assailed me would have 
overset the faith Of every man that ever had 
any; and the very remembrance of them, 
even after they have been long passed by, 
makes hope impossible. 

Mrs. Unwin, whose poor bark is still h'M 
together, though shattered by being, tossed 
and agitated so long at the side of mine, does 
not forget yours and Mrs. Newton's kindness 
on this last occasion. Mrs. Newton's offer 
to come to her assistance, and your readiness 
to have rendered us the same service, could 
fou have hoped for any salutary effect of 
rour presence, neither Mrs. Unwin nor my- 
* Private correspondence. 



self undervalue, nor shall presently forget 
But you judged right when you supposed, 
that even your company would have been no 
relief to me ; the company of my father or 
my brother, could they have returned from the 
dead to visit me, would have been none to me. 
We are busied in preparing for the recep- 
tion of Lady Hesketh, whom we expect here 
shortly. We have beds to put up, and fur- 
niture for beds to make; workmen, and 
scouring, and bustle. Mrs. Unwin's time has 
of course been lately occupied to a degree 
that made writing to her impracticable ; and 
she excused herself the rather, knowing my 
intentions to take her office. It does not, 
however, suit me to write much at a time. 
This last tempest has left my nerves in a 
worse condition than it found them ; my 
head especially, though better informed, is 
more infirm than ever. .1 will therefore only 
add our joint love to yourself and Mrs. New 
ton, and that I am, my dear friend, 

Your affectionate W. C* 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 19, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — A summons from Johnston 
which I received yesterday, calls my attention 
once more to the business of translation. 
Before I begin, I am willing to catch though 
but a short opportunity to acknowledge your 
last favor. The necessity of applying my- 
self with all diligence to a long work, that 
has been but too long interrupted, will make 
my opportunities of writing rare in future. 

Air and exercise are necessary to all men 
but particularly so to the man whose mind 
labors, and to him who has been all his lift 
accustomed to much of both they are neces- 
sary in the extreme. My time, rjnee we 
parted, has been devoted entirely to the re- 
covery of health and strength for this service 
and I am willing to hope with g'ood effect. 
Ten months have passed since I discontinued 
my poetical efforts; I do not fxpect to find 
the same readiness as before, till exercise of 
the neglected faculty, such as it is, shall have 
restored it to me. 

You find yourself, I hope, by this time as 
comfortably situated in your new abode as. 
in a new abode one can be. I enter perfectly 
into all your feelings on occasion of the 
change. A sensible mind cannot do violence 
even to a local attachment without much 
pain. When my father died, I was young, 
too young to have reflected much. He was 
Rector of Berkham stead, and there I was 
born. It had never occured to me that a 
parson has no fee-simple in the house and 
glebe he occupies. There was neither tree, 

* This letter was addressed to Mr. Ne^rtou, on the 
writer's recovery from an attack of his gric^u a-nstittt 
tional malady, which lasted eight mouths. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



281 



nor gate, nor sti.e, in all that country, to 
which I did net feel a relation, and the house 
itself I preferred to a palace. I was sent for 
from London to attend him in his last illness, 
and he died just before I arrived. Then, and 
not till then, J felt for the first time that I 
and my native place were disunited forever. 
I sighed a long adieu to fields and woods, 
from which I once thought I should never be 
parted, and was at no time so sensible of their 
beauties as just when I left them all behind 
me, to return no more. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Oct. 20, 1737. 

My dear Friend, — My indisposition could 
not be of a worse kind. Had I been afflicted 
with a fever, or confined by a broken bone, 
neither of these cases would have made it 
impossible that we should meet. I am truly 
sorry that the impediment was insurmounta- 
ble while it lasted, for such in fact it was. 
The sight of any face, except Mrs. Un win's, 
was to me an insupportable grievance ; and 
when it has happened that, by forcing him- 
self into my hiding place, some friend has 
found me out, he has had no great cause to 
exult in his success, as Mr. Bull can tell you. 
From this dreadful condition of mind I 
emerged suddenly; so suddenly, that Mrs. 
Unwin, having no notice of such a change 
herself, could give none to anybody ; and 
when it obtained, how long it might last, or 
how far it was to be depended on, was a mat- 
ter of the greatest uncertainty. It affects me 
on the recollection with the more concern, 
oecause I learn from your last, that I have 
not only lost an interview with you myself, 
but have stood in the way of visits that you 
would have gladly paid to others, r.nd who 
would have been happy to have seen you. 
You should have forgotten (but you are not 
good at forgetting your friends) that such a 
creature as myself existed. 

I rejoice that Mrs. Cowper has been so 
comfortably supported. She must have se- 
verely felt the loss of her son. She has an 
affectionate heart toward her children, and 
could but be sensible of the bitterness of 
such a cup. -But God's presence sweetens 
every bitter. Desertion is the only evil that 
a Christian cannot bear. 

I have done a deed for which I find some 
people thank me little. Perhaps I have only 
burned my fingers, and had better not have 
meddled. Last Sunday se'nnight I drew up 
i petition to Lord Dartmouth, in behalf of 
Mr. Postlecnwaite. We signed it and all 
the principal inhabitants of vVeston followed 
jur examp^e.f What we had done was soon 

* Private correspondence. 

t The living of Olney had become vacant by the death 
of the Rev. Moses Brown, and an attempt was made to 



known in Olney, and an evening or two ago 

Mr. R called here to inform me (for that 

seemed to be his errand) how little the meas- 
ure that I had taken was relished by some 
of his neighbors. I vindicated my proceed- 
ing on the principles of justice and mercy to 
a laborious and well-deserving minister, to 
whom I had the satisfaction to find that none 
could allege one serious objection, and that 
all, except one, who objected at all, are per- 
sons who in reality ought to have no vote 
upon such a question. The affair seems 
still to remain undecided. If lis lordship 
waits, which I a little suspect, till his steward 
shall have taken the sense of those with 
whom he is likely to converse upon the sub- 
ject, and means to be determined by his re- 
port, Mr. Postlethwaite's case is desperate. 

I beg that you will remember me affection- 
ately to Mr. Bacon. We rejoice in Mrs 
Newton's amended health, and when we can 
hear that she is restored, shall rejoice still 
more. The next summer may prove mora 
propitious to us than the past : if it should, 
we shall be happy to receive you and yours 
Mrs. Unwin unites with me in love to you 
all three. She is tolerably welf, and her 
writing was prevented by nothing but her 
expectation that 1 should soon do it myself 
Ever yours, W. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Nov. 10, 17b , 

The parliament, my dearest cousin, plro 
rogued continually, is a meteor dancing be- 
fore my eyes, promising me my wish only to 
disappoint me, and none but the king and his 
ministers can tell when you and I shall come 
together. I hope, however, that the period, 
though so often postponed, is not far distant,- 
and that once more I shall behold you, and 
experience your power to make winter gay 
and sprightly. 

I have a kitten the drollest of all creaturea 
that ever wore a cat's skin. Her gambols are 
not to be described, and would be incredible, 
if they could. In point of size she is likely 
to be a kitten always, being extremely small 
of her age, but time, I suppose, that spoils 
everything, will make her also a cat. You 
will see her, I hope, before that melancholy 
period shall arrive, for no wisdom that she 
may gain by experience and reflection here- 
after will compensate the loss of her pres- 
ent hilarity. She is dressed in a tortoise- 
shell suit, and I know that you will delight 
in her. 

Mrs. Throckmorton carries us to-morrow 
in her chaise to Ohieheley. The event, how- 
ever, must be supposed to depend on ele- 
ments, at least on the state of the atmos. 

secure it for the Rev. Mr. Postlethwaite, the curate. Mi 
Bean was ultimately appointed. 



2b6 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



phere, which is turbulent beyond measure. 
Yesterday it thundered, last night it light- 
ened, and at three this morning I saw the 
sky as red as a city in flames could have 
made it. I have a leech in a bottle that fore- 
tells all these prodigies and convulsions of 
nature. No, not as you will naturally con- 
jecture, by articulate utterance of oracular 
notices, but by a variety of gesticulations, 
which here I have not room to give an ac- 
count of. Suffice it to say, that no change 
of weather surprises him, and that, in point 
of the earliest and most accurate intelligence 
\e is worth all the barometers in the world. 
None of them, all, 



fortable abode where you have paired him 
and because, after so long an imprisonmem 
in London, you, who love the country, and 
have a taste for it, would, of course, b^ glad 
to return to it. For my own part, to me ii 
is ever new, and though I have now bee" a«3 
inhabitant of this village a twelf env •■•■nth, and 
have, during the half of that time, bet.: U 
liberty to expatiate and to make discoveries, 
I am daily finding out fresh scenes and walks 
which you would never be satisfied with en- 
joying — some of them are unapproachable 
by you, either on foot or in your carriage. 
Had you twenty toes (whereas I suppose 
indeed, can make the_ you have but ten) you could not reach them 



least pretence to foretell thunder — a species 
of capacity of which he has given the most, 
unequivocal evidence. I gave but six-pence 
for him, which is a groat more than the mar- 
ket price, though he is in fact, or rather would 
be, if leeches were not found in every ditch, 
an invaluable acquisition. W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Nov. 16, 1787. 

I thank you for the solicitude that you ex- 
press on the subject of my present studies. 
The work is undoubtedly long and laborious, 
but it has an end, and, proceeding leisurely, 
with a due attention to the use of air and ex- 
ercise, it is possible that I may live to finish 
it. Assure yourself of one thing, that, though 
to a by-stander it may seem an occupation 
surpassing the powers of a constitution never 
very athletic, and at present not a little the 
worse for wear, I can invent for myself no 
employment that does not exhaust my spir- 
its more. I will not pretend to account for 
this ; I will only say, that it is not the lan- 
guage of predilection for a favorite amuse- 
ment, but that the fact is really so. I have 
even found that those plaything-avocations 
which one may execute almost without any 
attention, fatigue me, and wear me away, 
while such as engage me much and attach 
me.closely, are rather serviceable to me than 
otherwise. W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Nov. 27, 1787. 
It is the part of wisdom, my dearest cous- 
in, to sit down contented under the demands 
of necessity, because they are such. I am 
sensible that you cannot, in my uncle's pres- 
ent infirm state, and of which it is not possi- 
ble to expect any considerable amendment, 
indulge either us or yourself with a journey 
to Weston. Yourself, I say, both because I 
know it will give you pleasure to see Causi- 
dice mi* once more, especially in the com- 

* The appellation which Sir Thomas Hesketh used to 
jive him la jest, when he was <? A the Temple. 



and coach-wheels have never been seen there 
since the flood. Before it indeed, (as Burnet 
says, that the. earth was then perfectly free 
from all inequalities in its surface,)* they 
might have been seen there every day. We 
have other walks, both upon hill tops and 
in valleys beneath, some of which, by the 
help of your carriage, and many of them 
without its help, would be always at your 
command. 

On Monday morning last, Sam brought 
me word that there was a man in the kitchen 
who desired to speak with me. I ordered 
him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made 
its appearance, and, being desired to sit, 
spoke as follows : " Sir, I am clerk of the 
parish of All-saints in Northampton ; bro- 
ther of Mr. C. the upholsterer. It is custom- 
ary for the person in my office to annex to 
a bill of mortality, which he publishes at 
Christmas, a copy of verses. You will do 
me a great favor, Sir, if you would furnish 
me with one." To this I replied, " Mr. C, 
you have several men of genius in your 
town, why have you not applied to some of 
them? There is a namesake of yours in 
particular, C , the statuary, who,- every- 
body knows, is a first-rate maker of verses. 
He surely is the man of all the world for 
your purpose." — " Alas ! Sir, I have hereto- 
fore borrowed help from him, but he is a 
gentleman of so much reading that the peo 
pie of our town cannot understand him." 1 
confess to you, my dear, I felt all the force 
of the compliment implied in this speech 
and was almost ready to answer, " Perhaps 
my good friend, they may find me unintelli 
gible too for the same reason." But on ask 
ing him whether he had walked over to Wes 
ton on purpose to implore the assistance of 
my muse, and on his replying in the affirma- 
tive, I felt my mortified vanity a little con- 
soled, and, pitying the poor man's distress 
which appeared to be considerable, promised 
to supply him. The wagon has accordingly 
gone this day to Northampton loaded in part 

* See Burnet's Theory of the Earth, in which book, as 
well as by other writers, the formation of mountains u 
attributed to the &' lency of the great deluge. Tho. leposi' 
of marine shells i alleged as favoring th*> tiypothva '= 



LIFE OF COWPER 



287 



witr my effusions in the mortuary style. A 
fv for poets who write epitaphs upon indi- 
•-iduals ! I have written one that serves two 
lundrtd persons.* 

A few days since I received a second very 

obliging letter from Mr. M .f He tells 

me that his own papers, which are by far (he 
is sorry to say it) the most numerous, are 
marked V. I. Z.| Accordingly, my dear, I 
am happy to find that I am engaged in a cor- 
respondence with Mr. Viz, a gentleman for 
whom I have always entertained the profound- 
est veneration. But the serious fact is, that 
the papers distinguished by those signatures 
have ever pleased me "most, and struck me as 
the work of a sensible man, who knows the 
world well, and has more of Addison's deli- 
cate, humor than anybody. 

A poor man begged food at the hall lately. 
The cook gave him some vermicelli soup. He 
ladled it about some time with the spoon, 
and then returned it to her, " I am a poor 
man it is true, and I am very hungry, but yet 
I cannot eat br«th with maggots in it." Once 
more, my dear, a thousand thanks for your 
box full of good things, useful things, and 
beautiful things. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1787. 

I am glad, my dearest coz, that my last 

letter proved so diverting. You may assure 

yourself of the literal truth of the whole 

narration, and that, however droll, it was not 

n the least indebted to any embellishments 

3f mine. 

You say well, my dear, that in Mr. Throck- 
morton we have a peerless neighbor; we 
have so. In point of information upon all 
important subjects, in respect too of expres- 
sion and address, and, in short, everything 
that enters into the idea of a gentleman, I 
have not found his equal (not often) any- 
where. Were I asked, who in my judgment 
approaches nearest to him in all his amiable 
qualities and qualifications, I should certainly 
answer, his brother George, who, if he be 
not his exact counterpart, endued with pre- 
cisely the same measure of the same accom- 
plishments, is nevertheless deficient in none 

* We introduce one stanza from these verses :— 
" Like crowded forest trees we stand, 
And some are marked to fall ; 
The axe will smite at God's command, 
And soon shall smite us^all." 
j" (Henry Mackenzie.) This popular writer first be- 
came know as the author of "The Man of Feeling," 
which was published in 1771, and of other work3 of a 
similar character. He afterwards became a member of 
a literary society, established at Edinburgh, in 1778, 
under the title of the Mirror Club. Here originated the 
Mirror and Lounger, periodical essays written after the 
manner of the Spectator, of which he was the editor and 
principal contributor. He died in 1831. 
4 In a periodical called <•' The Lounger." 



of ihem, and is of a character singula! ly 
agreeable, in respect of a certain manly, I had 
almost said heroic, frankness, with which his 
air strikes one almost immediately. ' So far 
as his Opportunities have gone, lie has ever 
been as friendly and obliging to us as we 
could wish him, and, were he lord of the hall 
to-morrow, would, I dare say, conduct him- 
self towards us in such a manner as to leave 
us as little sensible as possible of the re- 
moval of its present owners. But all this I 
say, my dear, merely for the sake of stating 
the matter as it is ; not in order to obviate or 
to prove the inexpedience of any future plan 
of yours concerning the place of our resi- 
dence. Providence and time shape every- 
thing — I should rather say Providence alone, 
for time has often no hand in the wonderful 
changes that we experience ; they take place 
in a moment. It is not therefore worth 
while perhaps to consider much what we will 
or will not do in years to come, concerning 
which all that I can say with certainty at 
present is, that those years will be the most 
welcome in which I can see the most of you. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

W T eston, Dec. 6, 1787. 

My dear Friend, — A short time since, by 
the help of Mrs. Throckmorton's chaise, Mrs. 
Unwin and I reached Chichely. " Now," 
said 1 to Mrs. Chester, " I shall "write boldly 
to your brother Walter, and will do it imme- 
diately. I have passed the gulf that parted 
us, and he will be glad to hear it." But let 
not the man who translates Homer be so 
presumptuous as to have a will of his own, 
or to promise anything. A fortnight has, I 
suppose, elapsed since I paid this visit, and I 
am only now beginning to fulfil what I then 
undertook to accomplish without delay. The 
old Grecian must answer for it. 

I spent my morning there so agreeably that 
I have ever since regretted more sensibly that 
there are five miles of a dirty country inter- 
posed between us. For the increase of my 
pleasure, I had the good fortune to find your 
brother, the Bishop, there. We had much 
talk about many things, but most, I believe 
about Homer; and great satisfaction it gave 
me to find that on the most important points 
of that subject his Lordship and I were ex- 
actly of one mind. In the course of our con- 
versation, he produced from his pocket-book 
a translation of the first ten or twelve lines 
of the Iliad, and, in order to leave my judg- 
ment free, informed me kindly at the same 
time '.hat they were not his own. I read 
them, and, according to the best of my rec- 
ollection of the original, found them well 
executed. The Bishop indeed acknowledged 
that they were not faultless, neither did I find 



288 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



them so. Had they been such, I should have 
felt their perfection as a discouragement 
hardly to be surmounted ; for at that passage 
I have labored more abundantly than a^t any 
other, and hitherto with the least success. I 
am convinced that Homer placed it at the 
threshold of his work as a scarecrow to all 
translators. Now, Walter, if thou knowest 
the author of this version, and it be not trea- 
son against thy brother's confidence in thy 
secrecy, declare him to me. Had I been so 
happy as to have seen the Bishop again be- 
fore he left this country, I should certainly 
have asked him the question, having a curi- 
osity upon the matter that is extremely trou- 
blesome.* 

The awkward situation in which you found 
yourself on receiving a visit from an author- 
ess, whose works, though presented to you 
long before, you had never read, made me 4 
laugh, and it was no sin against my friend- 
ship for you to do so. It was a ridiculous 
distress, and I can laugh at it even now. I 
hope she catechized you well. How did you 
extricate yourself? — Now laugh at me. The 
clerk of the parish of All Saints, in the town 
o£ Northampton, having occasion for a poet, 
has appointed me to the office-. I found my- 
self obliged to comply. The bell-man comes 
next, and then, I think, though even borne 
upon your swan's quill^I can soar no higher ! 
I am, my dear friend, faithfully vours, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Dec. 10, 1786. 

I thank you for the snip of cloth, com- 
monly called a pattern. At present I have 
two coats, and but one back. If at any time, 
hereafter, I should find myself possessed of 
fewer coats, or more backs, it will be of use 
to me. 

Though I have thought proper never to 
take any notice of the arrival of my MSS. 
together with the other good tilings in the 
box, yet certain it is that I received them. I 
have furbished up the tenth book till it is as 
bright as silver, and am now occupied in be- 
sfowing the same labor upon the eleventh. 
The twelfth and thirteenth are in the hands 

of , and the fourteenth and fifteenth are 

ready to succeed them. This notable job is 
the delight of my heart, and how sorry shall 
I be when it is ended ! 

The smith and the carpenter, my dear, ar^ 
both in the room hanging a bell; if I there- 
fore make a thousand blunders let the- said 
intruders answer for them all. 

I thank you, my dear, for your history of 

the G — — s. What changes in that family! 

And how many thousand families have in the 

same time experienced changes as violent as 

* The author was Lord Bagot. 



theirs! The course of a rapid river is th€ 
justest of all emblems to express the varia- 
bleness of our scene below. Shakspeare 
says, none ever bathed himself twice in the 
same stream, and it is equally true that the 
world upon which we close our eyes at night 
is never the same with that on which we 
open them in the morning. 

I do not always say, give my love to ray 
uncle,* because he knows that I always love 
him. I do not always present Sirs. Un win's 
love to you, partly for the same reason, 
(deuce take the smith and the carpenter,) 
and partly because I forget it. But to pre- 
sent my own, I forget never, for I always 
have to finish my letter, which I know not 
how to do, my dearest Coz, without telling 
you, that 1 am 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 13, 1787. 
Dear Sir, — Unless my memory deceives 
me, I forewarned you that I should prove a 
very unpunctual correspondent. The work 
that lies before me engages unavoidably my 
whole attention. The length of it, the spirit 
of it, and the exactness that is requisite to 
its due performance, are so many most inter- 
esting subjects of consideration to me, who 
find that my best attempts are only intro- 
ductory to others, and that what to-day I 
suppose finished to mOrrow I must begin 
again. Thus it fares with a translator of 
Homer. To exhibit the majesty of such a 
poet in a modern language is a task that no 
man can estimate the difficulty of till he at- 
tempts it. To paraphrase him loosely, to 
hang him with trappings that do not belong 
to him, all this is comparatively easy. But 
to represent him with only his own orna- 
ments, and still to preserve his dignity, is a 
labor that, if I hope in any measure to achieve 
it, I am sensible can only be achieved by the 
most assiduous and most unremitting atten- 
tion. Our studies, however different in them- 
selves, in respect of the.means by which they 
are to be successfully carried on, bear some 
resemblance to each other. A perseverance 
that nothing can discourage, a minuteness of 
observation that suffers nothing to escape* 
and a determination not to be seduced from 
the straight line that lies before us by any 
images with which fancy may present us, are 
essentials that .should be common to us both. 
There are, perha>\ few arduous undertak- 
ings that are not in fact more arduous than 
we at first supposed them. As we proceed, 
difficulties increase upon us, but our hoped 
gather strength also, and we conquer diffi- 
culties which, could we have foreseen thet.-., 
we should never have had the*boldnes« to 
* Ashley Cowper, Esq. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



289 



encounter. May this be your experience, as I 
doubt not that it will. You possess by na- 
ture all that is necessary to success in the 
profession that you have chosen. What re- 
mains is in your own power. They say of 
poets that they must be born sucli : so must 
mathematicians, so must great generals, and 
so must lawyers, and so indeed must men of 
all de lomi nations, or it is not possible that 
they should excel. But, with whatever fac- 
ulties we are born, and to whatever studies 
our genius may direct us, studies they must 
still be. I am persuaded that Milton did not 
write his "Paradise Lost," nor Homer his 
''Iliad," nor Newton his " Principia," without 
immense labor. Nature gave them a bias to 
their respective pursuits, and that strong pro- 
pensity, I suppose, is what we mean by 
genius. The rest they gave themselves. 
" Macte esto," therefore have no fears for 
the issue ! 

I have had a second kind letter from your 

friend, Mr. , which I have just answered. 

I must not, I find, hope to see him here, at 
least, I must not much expect it. He has a 
family that does not permit him to rly south- 
ward. I have also a notion that we three 
could spend a few days comfortably toge- 
ther, especially in a country like this, abound- 
ing in scenes with which I am sure you would 
both be delighted. Having lived till lately 
at some distance from the spot that I now 
inhabit, and having never been master of any 
sort of vehicle whatever, it is but just now 
that I begin myself to be acquainted with 
the beauties of our situation. To you 1 may 
hope one time or other to show them, and 
shall be happy to do it when an opportunity 
offers. 

Yours, most affectionately, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 1, 1788. 
Now for another story almost incredible ! 
A story that would be quite such, if it was 
not certain that you give me credit for any- 
thing. I have read the poem for the sake of 
which you sent the paper, and was much en- 
tertained by it. You think it perhaps, as 
very well you may, the only piece of that 
kind that was ever produced. It is indeed 
original, for I dare say Mr. Merry* never saw 
mine ; but certainly it is not unique. For 
most true it is, my dear, that ten years since, 
having a letter to write to a friend of mine 
to whom I could write anything, I filled a 

* He belonged to what was formerly known by the 
name of the Delia Crusca School, at Florence, whose 
writings were characterised by an affectation of style 
and sentiment, which obtained Us admirers in this coun- 
tiy. The indignant muse of Gifford, in his well-known 
Baviad and Maeviad, at length vindicated the cause of 
*ound taste and judgment ; and such was the effect of 
►lis caustic satire, that this spuri<, ns and corrupt style 
?pi<ll* disappeared. 



whole sheet with a composition, both in meas- 
ure and in manner, precisely similar. I have 
in vain searched for it. It is either burnt or 
lost. Could I have fo and it, you would have 
had double postage iO pay. For that one 
man in Italy and another in England, who 
never saw each other, should stumble on a. 
species of verse, in which no other man ever 
wrote (and I believe that to be the case) and 
upon a style and manner too of which, I sup- 
pose, that neither of them had ever seen an 
example, appears to me so extraordinary a 
fact that I must have sent you mine, what- 
ever it had cost you, and am really vexed that 
I cannot authenticate the story by producing 
a voucher. The measure I recollect to have 
been perfectly the same, and as to the man- 
ner I am equally sure of that, and from this 
circumstance, that Mrs. Unwin and I never 
laughed more at any production of mine, per- 
haps not even at John Gilpin. But for all 
this, my dear, you must, as I said, give me 
credit, for .the thing itself is gone to that 
limbo of vanity where alone, says Milton, 
things lost on earth are to be met with. 
Said limbo is, as you know, in the moon, 
whither I could not at present convey myself 
without a good deal of difficulty and incon 
venience. 

This morning, being the morning of new 
year's day, I sent to the hall a copy of verses, 
addressed to Mrs. Throckmorton, entitled 
" The Wish, or the Poet's New Year's Gift.'* 
We dine there to-morrow, when I suppose 1 
shall hear news of them.* Their kindness is 
so great, and they seize with such eagerness 
every opportunity of doing all they think will 
please us, that I held myself almost in duty 
bound to treat them with this stroke of my 
profession. 

The small-pox has done, I believe, all that 
it has to do at Weston. Old folks, and even 
women with child, have been inoculated. 

* The poet's wish is so expressive of the poet's, taste, 
and there is so beautiful a turn in these complimentary 
verses, that we cannot resist the pleasure of inseiting 
them. 

THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S OIFT 
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 

" Maria ! I have every good 

For thee wish'd many a time, 
Both sad and in a cheerful mood, 
But never yet in rhyme. 

To wish thee fairer is no need, 
More prudent, or more sprightly, 

Or more ingenious, or more freed 
t- rom temper-flaws unsightly. 

What favor then not yet possess'd 

Can I for thee require, 
In wedded love already blest, 

To thy whole heart's desire ? 

None here is happy but in part 

Full bliss is biiss divine; 
There dwells some wish in every heart, 

And doubtless one in thine. 

That wish, on some fair future day, 

Which fate shall brightly gild, 
('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) 

I wish it all fulflli'd." 

19 



290 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



We talk of our freedom, and some of us are 
free enough, but not the poor. Dependent 
as they are upon parish bounty, they are 
sometimes obliged to submit to impositions 
tvhich, perhaps in France itself, could hardly 
be paralleled. Can man or woman be said 
to be free, who is commanded to take a dis- 
temper sometimes, at least, mortal, and in 
circumstances most likely to make it so '? No 
circumstance whatever was permitted to ex- 
empt the inhabitants of Weston. The old 
as well as the young, and the pregnant as 
well as they who had only themselves within 
them, have been inoculated. Were Tasked 
who is the most arbitrary sovereign on earth, 
I should answer, neither the king of France, 
nor the grand signior, but an overseer of the 
poor in England.* 

I am as heretofore occupied with Homer : 
my present occupation is the revisal of all I 
have done, viz., the first fifteen books. I 
stand amazed at my own exceeding dexterity 
in the business, being verily persuaded that, 
as far as I have gone, I have improved the 
work to double its value. 

That you may begin the new year and end 
it in all health and happiness, and many more 
when the present shall have been long an old 
one, is the ardent wish of Mrs. Unwin and of 
yours, my dearest coz., most cordiallv,- 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Jan. 5, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for your in- 
formation concerning the author of the trans- 
lation of those lines.- Had a man of less 
note and ability than Lord Bagot produced 
it, I should have been discouraged. As it is, 
I comfort myself with the thought that even 
Le accounted it an achievement worthy of 
his powers, and that even he found it diffi- 
cult. Though I never had the honor to be 
known to his lordship, I remember him well 
at Westminster, and the reputation in which 
he stood there. Since that time I have never 
seen him except once, many years ago, in the 
House of Commons, when I heard him speak 
on the subject of a drainage bill better than 
any member there. 

My first thirteen books have been criticised 
in London; have been by me accommodated 
to those criticisms, returned to J^ondon in 
their improved state, and sent back to Wes- 
ton with an imprimatur. This would satisfy 
some poets less anxious than myself about 
what they expose in public ; but it has not 
satisfied me. I am now revising them again 
by the light of my own critical taper, and 
make more alterations than at first. But are 

* The discovery of vaccination, since the above period, 
has entitled the name of Jenner to rank among the bene- 
lactors of mankind. 



they improvements? you wili ask. Is not 
the spirit of the work endangered by all this 
attention to correctness ? I think and hope 
that it is not. Being well aware of the pos- 
sibility of such a catastrophe, I guard partic- 
ularly against it. Where I find that a ser- 
vile adherence to the original would render 
the passage less animated than it would be. 
I still, as at the first, allow myself a liberty- 
On all other occasions I prune with an un- 
sparing hand, determined that there shall not 
be found in the whole translation an idea thai 
is not Homer's. My ambition is to produce 
the closest copy possible, and at the same , 
time as harmonious as I know how to makt 
it. This being my object, you will no longer 
think, if indeed you have thought it at all, 
that I am unnecessarily and over-much in- 
dustrious. The original surpasses every- 
thing; it is of an immense length, is com- 
posed in the best language ever used upon 
earth, and deserves, indeed demands, all the 
labor that any translator, be he who he may, 
can possibly bestow on it. Of this I am 
sure; and your brother, the good bishop, is 
of the same mind, that at present mere Eng- 
lish readers know no more of Homer in 
reality than if he had never been translated. 
That consideration indeed it was, which 
mainly induced me to the undertaking ; and 
if, after all, either through idleness or dotage 
upon what I have already done, I leave it 
chargeable with the same incorrectness as 
my predecessors, or indeed with any other 
that I may be able to amend, I had better 
have amused myself otherwise: and you, I 
know, are of my opinion. 

I send you the clerk's verses, of which I 
told you. They are very clerk-like, as you 
will perceive. But plain truth in plain words 
seemed to me to be the ne plus ultra of com- 
position on such an occasion. I might have 
attempted something very fine, but then the 
persons' principally concerned, viz., my read- 
ers, would, not have understood me. If it 
puts them in mind that they are mortal, its 
best end is answered. 

My dear Walter, adieu ! 

Yours faithfully, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 19, 1788. 
When I have prose enough to fill my paper 
which is always the case when I write to you, 
I cannot find in my heart to give a third part 
of it to verse. Yet this I must do, or I must 
make my packets more costly than worship- 
ful, by doubling the postage upon you, which 
I should hold to be unreasonable. See then 
the true reason why I did not send you that 
same scribblement* cill you desired it. The 

* The verses on the new year. 



thought winch naturally present* itself to me 
on nil such occasions is this. — Is not your 
cousin coming? Why are you [Inpatient,'? 

Will it not he time enough to show her 
your line things when she arrives? 

Fine things indeed I have few. He who 
nas Homer to transcribe may well be con- 
tented to do little else. As when an ass, 
being harnessed with ropes to a sand-cart, 
drags with hanging ears his heavy burden, 
neither tilling the long-echoing streets with 
his harmonious bray, nor throwing up his 
heels behind, frolicsome and airy, as asses 
less engaged are wont to do ; so I, satisfied 
to find myself indispensably obliged to ren- 
der into the best possible English metre 
eight-and-forty Greek books, of which the 
two finest poems in the world consist, ac- 
count it quite sufficient if I may at last 
achieve that labor, and seldom allow myself 
those pretty little vagaries in which I should 
otherwise delight, and of which, if I should 
live long enough, I intend hereafter to enjoy 
my fill. 

This is the reason, my dear cousin, if I 
may be permitted to call you so in the same 
breath with which I have uttered this truly 
heroic comparison ; this is the reason why I 
produce at present but few occasional poems, 
and the preceding reason is that which may 
account satisfactorily enough for my with- 
holding the very few that I do produce. A 
thought sometimes strikes me before I rise ; 
if it runs readily into verse, and I can finish 
it before breakfast, it is well; otherwise it 
dies and is forgotten ; for all the subsequent 
hours are devoted to Homer. 

The day before yesterday I saw for the 
first time Bunbury's* new print, the " Propa- 
gation of a Lie." Mr. Throckmorton sent it 
for the amusement of our party. Bunbury 
sells humor by the yard, and is, I suppose, 
the first vender of it who ever did so. He 
cannot therefore be said to have humor with- 
out measure (pardon a pun, my dear, from a 
man who has not made one before these 
forty years) though he may certainly be said 
'o be immeasurably droll. 

The original thought is good, and the ex- 
emplification of it in those very expressive 
figures, admirable. A poem on the same 
subject, displaying all that is displayed in 
those attitudes and in those features (for 
faces they can hardly be called) would be 
most excellent. The affinity of the two arts, 
viz., verse and painting, has been often ob- 
served; possibly the happiest illustration of 
it would be found, if some poet would ally 
himself to some draughtsman, as Bunbury, 
and undertake to write everything he should 
draw. Then let a musician be admitted of 
the party. He should compose the said 
•oeiu adapting notes to it exactly accommo- 
* The celebrated caricaturist. 



dated to the theme ; so should the sister arts 
be proved to be indeed sisters, and the world 
die of laughing. W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Jan. 21, 1788. 

My dear Briend, — Your last letter informed 
u£ that you were likely to be much occupied 
for some time in writing on a subject that 
must be interesting to a person of your feel- 
ings — the slave trode. I was unwilling to 
interrupt your progress in so good a work, 
and have therefore enjoined myself a longer 
silence than I should otherwise have thought 
excusable : though, to say the truth, did not 
our once intimate fellowship in the things of 
God recur to my remembrance, and present 
me with something like a warrant for doing 
it, I should hardly prevail with myself to 
write at all. Letters, such as mine, to a 
person of a character such as yours, are like 
snow in harvest; and you well say, that if T 
will send you a letter that you can answer, 
I shall make your part of the business easier 
than it is. This I would gladly do -but though 
I abhor a vacuum as much as nature herself is 
said to do, yet a vacuum I am bound to feel 
of all such matter as may merit your perusal. 

I expected that before this time 1 should 
have had the pleasure of seeing your friend 
Mr. Bean.f but his stay in this country was 
so short, that it was hardly possible he should 
find an opportunity to call. I have not only 
heard a high character of that gentleman 
from yourself, whose opinion of men, as well 
as of other matters, weighs more with me 
than anybody's ; but from two or three dif- 
ferent persons likewise, not ill qualified to 
judge. From all that I have heard, both 
from you and them. I have every reason to 
expect that I shall find him both an agree- 
able and useful neighbor ; and if he can be 
content with me (tor that seems doubtful, 
poet as I am, and now, alas ! nothing more), 
it seems certain that I shall be highly satis- 
fied with him. 

Here is much shifting and changing of 
ministers. Two are passing away, and two 

are stepping into the places. Mr. B , I 

suppose, whom I know not, is almost upon 

the wing: and Mr. P ,t with whom I 

have not been very much acquainted, is either 
going or gone. A Mr. C is come to oc- 
cupy, for the present at least, the place of 
the former; and if he can possess himself of 
the two curacies of Ravenstone and Weston, 
will, I imagine, take up his abode here. Hav- 
ing, as I understood, no engagements else- 
where, he will doubtless be happy to obtain 
a lasting one in this country. What accept 

* Private correspondence. 

t Formerly Vicar of Olney, and also one of the Libr» 
rians of the "British Museum. 
J Mr. Postlethwaite. 



292 



COWPER'S WORKS 



ance he finds among the people of Raven- 
stone I have not heard, but at Olney, where 
he has preached once, he was hailed us the 
sun by the Greeulanders after half a year of 
lamp-light. 

Providence interposed to preserve me from 
the heaviest affliction that I can now suffer, 
or I had lately lost Mrs. Unwtfn, and in a 
way the most shocking imaginable. Having 
kindled her fire in the room where she dresses 
(an office that she always performs for her- 
self), she placed the candle on the hearth, 
and, kneeling, addressed herself to her devo- 
tions. A thought struck her, while thus 
occupied, that the candle, being short, might 
possibly catch her clothes. She pinched it 
out with the tongs, and set it on the table. 
In a few minutes the chamber was so filled 
with smoke that her eyes watered, and it 
was hardly possible to see across it. Sup- 
posing that it proceeded from the chimney, 
she pushed the billets backward, and, while 
she did so, casting her eye downward, per r 
ceived that her dress was on fire. In fact, 
before she extinguished the candle, the mis- 
chief that she apprehended was begun ; and 
when she related the matter to me, she 
showed me her clothes with a hole burnt in 
them as large as this sheet of paper. It is 
not possible, perhaps, that so tragical a death 
should overtake a person actually engaged 
in prayer, for her escape seems almost a 
miracle. Her presence of mind, by which 
she was enabled, without calling for help 
or waiting for it, to gather up her clothes 
and plunge them, burning as they were, in 
water, seems as wonderful a part of the oc- 
currence as any. The very report of fire, 
though distant, has rendered hundreds tor- 
pid and incapable of self-succor; how much 
more was such a disability to be expected, 
when the fire had not seized a neighbor's 
house, or begun its devastations on our own, 
but was actually consuming the apparel that 
she wore, and seemed in possession of her 
person. 

It draws toward supper-time. I therefore 
heartily wish you a good night; and, with 
our best affections to yourself, Mrs. Newton, 
and Miss Catlett, I remain, my dear friend, 
truly and warmly yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 30, 1788. 
My dearest Coz., — It is a fortnight since I 
heard from you, that is to say, a week 
longer than you have accustomed me to wait 
for a letter. I do not forget that you have 
recommended it to me, on occasions some- 
what similar, to banish all anxiety, and to 
ascribe your silence only to the interruptions 
of company. Good advice, my dear, but not 
easily taken by a man circumstanced as I 



am. I have lean ed in the school li adver 
sity, a school from which I have n.j expecta 
tion that I shall ever be dismissed, to appre- 
hend the worst, and have ever found it the 
only course in which I can indulge myself 
without the least danger of incurring a dis- 
appointment. This kind of experience, con- 
tinued through many years, has given me 
such an habitual bias to the gloomy side of 
everything, that I never have a moments 
ease on any subject to which I am not indif- 
ferent. How then can I be easy when I am 
left afloat upon a sea of endless conjectures, 
of which you furnish the occasion. Write, 
I beseech you, and do not forget that I am 
now a battered actor upon this turbulent 
stage ; that what little vigor of mind I ever 
had, of the self-supporting kind I meajn, has 
long since been broken ; and that, thoughjf 
can bear nothing well, yet anything better 
than a state of ignorance concerning your 
welfare. I have spent hours in the night lean- 
ing upon my elbow, and wondering what your 
silence means. I entreat you once more to 
put an end to these speculations, which cost 
me more animal spirits than I can spare ; if 
you cannot, without great trouble to your- 
self, which in your situation may very pos- 
sibly be the case, contrive opportunities of 
writing so frequently as usual, only say it, 
and I am content. I will wait, if you desire 
it, as long for every letter, but then let them 
arrive at the period once fixed, exactly at the 
time, for my patience will not hold out an 
hour beyond it.* W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb 1, 1788. 
Pardon me, my dearest cousin, the mourn- 
ful ditty that I sent you last. There are 
times when I see everything througn a me- 
dium that distresses me to an insupportable 
degree, and that letter was written in one of 
them. A fog that had for three days oblit- 
erated all the beauties of Weston, and a 
north-east wind, might possibly contribute 
not a little to the melancholy that indited it. 
But my mind is now easy ; your letter has 
made it so, and I feel myself as blithe as a 
bird in comparison. I love you, my cousin, 
and cannot suspect, either with or without 
cause, the least evil in which you may be 
concerned, without being greatly troubled! 
Oh, trouble! The portion of all mortals — . 
but mine in particular ; would ] had never 
known thee, or could bid thee farewell 
forever; for I meet thee at every turn: 
my pillows are stuffed with thee, my very 
roses smell of thee, and even my cousin, who 

* This letter proves how much the sensitive mind of 
Cow per was liable to be rained by external incidents, * 
Life presents too many real sources of anxiety, to Justify 
us in adding those which are imaginary and of our own 
creation. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



293 



would euie Lie of all trouble if she could, is 
Bometinjf.s innocently the cause of trouble 
U me. 

I now see the unreasonableness of my 
late trouble, and would, if I could trust my- 
self so far, promise never again to trouble 
either myself or you in the same manner, 
unless warranted by some more substantial 
ground of apprehension. 

What I said concerning Homer, my dear, 
was spoken, or rather written, merely under 
the influence of a certain jocularity that I 
felt at that moment. I am in reality so far 
from thinking myself an ass, and my trans- 
lation a sand-cart, that I rather seem, in my 
own account of the matter, oue of those 
flaming steeds harnessed to the chariot of 
Apollo, of which we read in the works of the 
ancients. I have lately, I know not how, 
acquired a certain superiority to myself in 
this business, and in this last revisal have 
elevated the expression to a degree far sur- 
passing its former boast. A few evenings 
since, I had an opportunity to try how far I 
might venture to expect such success of my 
labors as can alone repay them, by reading 
the first book of my Iliad to a friend of ours. 
He dined with you once at Olney. His 
name is Greatheed, a man of letters and of 
taste. He dined with us, and, the evening- 
proving dark and dirty, we persuaded him to 
take a bed. I entertained him as I tell you. 
He heard me with great attention, and with 
evident symptoms of the highest satisfaction, 
which, when I had finished the exhibition, 
ne put out of all doubt by expressions which 
I cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. 
Unwin, while I was in another room, that he 
had never entered into the spirit of Homer 
before, nor had anything like a due concep- 
tion of his manner. This I have said, know- 
ing that it will please you, and will now say 
no more. 

Adieu ! my dear, will you never speak of 
eominof to Weston more ? W. C. 



Mrs. King, to whom the following letter is 
addressed, w.-\s the wife of Mr. King, Rector 
of Perten Hall, near.Kimbolton, and a con- 
nexion of the late Professor Martyn, well 
known for his botanical researches. The 
perusal of Cowper's Poems had been the 
means of ronveying impressions of piety 
to her mind ; and it was to record her grat- 
itude, and to cultiyate his acquaintance, that 
ihe wrote a letter, to which this is the reply. 

r MRS. 5-iNG, PERTEN HALL, NEAR KTMBOL- 
TON, HUNTS.* 

Weston Lodge, Feb. 12, 1788. 
Uesi- Madam, — A letter from a lady who 
*as onco intimate with my brother could not 
Private correspondence. 



fail of being most acceptable to me. I lost 
him just in the moment when those truths 
which have recommended my volumes to 
your approbation were become his daily sus- 
tenance, as they had long been mine. But 
the will of God was done. I have sometimes 
thought that had his life been spared, being 
made brothers by a stricter tie than ever in 
the bonds of the same faith, hope, and love, 
we should have been happier in each other 
than it was in the power of mere natural af- 
fection to make us. But it was his blessing 
to be taken from a world in which he had no 
longer any wish to continue, and it will be 
mine, if, while I dwell in it, my time may not 
be altogether wasted. In order to effect that 
good end, I wrote what I am happy to find it 
has given you pleasure to read. But for that 
pleasure, madam, you are indebted neither to 
me, nor to my Muse ; but (as you are well 
aware) to Him who alone can make divine 
truths palatable, in whatever vehicle con- 
veyed. It is an established philosophical 
axiom, that nothing can communicate what it 
has not in itself; but, in the effects of Chris- 
tian communion, a very strong exception is 
found to this general rule, however self-evi. 
dent it may seem. A man himself destitute 
of all spiritual consolation -may, by occasion, 
impart it to others. Thus I, it seems, who 
wrote those very poems to amuse a mind 
oppressed with melancholy, and who have 
myself derived from them no other benefit 
(for mere success in authorship will do me 
no good), have, nevertheless, by so doing, 
comforted others, at the same time that they 
administer to me no consolation. But I will 
proceed no farther in this strain, lest my 
prose should damp a pleasure that my verse 
has happily excited. On the contrary, I will 
endeavor to rejoice in your joy, and especially 
because I have been myself the instrument 
of conveying it. 

Since "the receipt of your obliging letter, 1 
have naturally had recourse to my recollec- 
tion, to try if it would furnish me with the 
name that I find at the bottom of it. At the 
same time I am aware that there is nothing 
more probable than that my brother might be 
honored witii your friendship without men- 
tioning it to me; for, except a very short 
period before his death, we Iked necessarily 
at a considerable distance from each other. 
Ascribe it, madam, not to an impertinent 
curiosity, but to a desire of better acquaint- 
ance with you, if I taRe the liberty to ask 
(since ladies' names, at least, are changea- 
ble) whether yours was at that time the same 
as now. 

Sincerely wishing you all happiness, and 
especially that which I am sure you covet 
most, the happiness which is from above, I 
remain, dear madam — early as it may seem 
to say it, Affectionately vours, W. C. 



294 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Feb. 14, 1788. 

D* ar Sir, — Though it be long since I re- 
ceived your last, I have not yet forgotten the 
impression it made upon me, nor how sensi- 
bly I felt myself obliged by your unreserved 
• and friendly communications. I will not apol- 
ogize for my silence in the interim, because, 
apprized as you are of my present occupa- 
tion, the excuse that I might allege will pre- 
sent itself to you of course, and to dilate upon 
it would therefore be waste of paper. 

You are in possession of the best security 
imaginable fof the due improvement of your 
time, which is a just sense of its value. Had 
I been, when at your age, as much affected by 
that important consideration as I am at pres- 
ent, I should not have devoted, as I did, all the 
earliest parts of my life to amusement only. 
I am now in the predicament into which the 
thoughtlessness of youth betrays nine-tenths 
of mankind, who never discover that the 
health and good spirits which generally ac T 
company it are, in reality, blessings only ac- 
cording to the use we make of them, till ad- 
advanced years begin to threaten them with 
the loss of both. How much wiser would 
thousands have been than now they ever will 
be, had a puny constitution, or some occa- 
sional infirmity, constrained them to devote 
those hours to study and reflection, which for 
want of some such check they had given en- 
tirely to dissipation! I, therefore, account 
you happy, who, young as you are, need not 
be informed that you cannot always be so, and 
who already know that the materials upon 
which age can alone build its comfort should 
be brought together at an earlier period. 
You have, indeed, in losing a father, lost a 
friend, but you have not lost his instructions. 
His example was not buried with him, but 
happily for you (happily because you are de- 
sirous to avail yourself of it), still lives in 
your remembrance, and is cherished in your 
best affections. 

Your last letter was dated from the house 
of a gentleman who was, I believe, my school- 
fellow. For the Mr. C , who lived at Wat- 
ford, while I had any connexion with Hert- 
fordshire, must have been the father of the 
present, and, according to his age and the 
state of his health when I saw him last, must 
have been long dead. I never was acquaint- 
ed with the family further than by report, 
which always spoke honorably of them, 
though, in all my journeys to and from my 
father's, 1 must have passed the door. The 
circumstance, however, reminds me of the 
beautiful reflection of Glaucus in the sixth 
Iliad ; beautiful as well for the affecting na- 
ture of the observation as for the justness of 
the comparison and the incomparable sim- 
plicity of the expression. I feel that I shall 
not be satisfied without transcribing it, and 



yet perhaps my Greek may be difficult U 
decipher. 

Oiri ircp (pvWwv yevsri, roirjie /cat avSpa)v. 
<&v\\a ra jjlcv r' avejxos j^a/iaSts X ££t i ft ^ a ^ £ ^' ^1 
T^Xe^oajo-a (bvsi, sapog 6 eiriyiyvcTui wprj. 
&2s av6po)v yever)) r\ yitv (f>vei, r\ 6 airo\riyci.* 

Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man 
whose Homer is always before him ! What 
would I give that he were living now, and 
within my reach ! I, of all men living, have 
the best excuse for indulging such a wish, 
unreasonable as it may seem : for I have no 
doubt that the fire of his ey^ and the smile 
of hi* lips would put me now and then in 
possession of his full meaning more effectu- 
ally than any commentator. I return you 
many thanks for the elegies which you sent 
me, both which I think deserving of much 
commendation. I should requite you but ill 
by. sending you my mortuary verses, neither 
at present can I prevail on myself to do it, 
having no frank, and being conscious that 
they are not worth carriage without one. 1 
have one copy left, and that copy I will keep 
for you. W. C. 

♦ 

The public mind was, at this time, greatiy 
excited by the slave trade — that nefarious 
system, which was once characterized in the 
House of Lords, by Bishop Horsley, as " the 
greatest moral pestilence that ever withered 
the happiness of mankind." The honor of in- 
troducing this momentous question, in which 
the interest of humanity and justice were so 
deeply involved, was reserved for William 
Wilberforce, Esq. How he executed that 
task, is too well known to require either 
detail or panegyric. The final abolition of 
the slave trade was an era in the history of 
Great Britain, never to be forgotten; and 
the subsequent legislative enactments for 
abolishing slavery itself completed what was 
wanting, in this noble triumph of national 
benevolence. 

The following letter alludes to this inter 
esting subject. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 16, 1788. 
I have now three letters of ycurs, my deal- 
est cousin, before me, all written in the spac« 
of a week; and must be indeed insensible of 
kindness did I not feel yours on this occasion 
I cannot describe to you, neither could you 
comprehend it if I should, the manner in which 

* We insert Pope's translation, as being ;he rr os' 
familiar to the reader. 
" Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, 

Now green in youth, now withering on the ground ; 

Another race the following spring supplies, 
* They fall successive, and successive rise : 

So generations in their course decay, 

So nourish these, when those have-pass'd away." 

Pope's Version, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



29i 



my mind is some-times impressed with mel- 
ancholy on particular subjects. Your late 
silence was such a subject. I heard, saw. and 
felt, a thousand terrible things, which had no 
real existence, and was haunted by them 
night and day, till they at last extorted from 
me the doleful epistle which I have since 
wished had been burned before I sent it. But 
the cloud has passed, and, as far as you are 
concerned, my heart is once more at rest. 

Before you gave me the hint, I had once 
3r twice, as I lay on my bed, watching the 
oreak of day, ruminated on the subject which, 
in your last but one, you recommend to me. 

Slavery, or a release from slavery, such as 
the poor negroes have endured, or perhaps 
both these topics together, appeared to me a 
theme so important at the present juncture, 
and at the same time so susceptible of poetical 
management, that I more than once perceived 
myself ready to start in that career, could I 
have allowed myself to desert Homer for so 
long a time as it would have cost me to do 
them justice. 

While I was pondering these things, the 
public prints informed me that Miss More was 
on the point of publication, having actually 
finished what I had not yet begun.* 

The sight of her advertisement convinced 
me that my best course would be that to 
which I felt myself most inclined, to perse- 
vere without turning aside to attend to any 
other call, however alluring, in the business I 
have in hand. 

It occurred to me likewise, that I have 
already borne my testimony in favor of my 
black brethren, and that I was one of the 
earliest, if not the first, of those, who have in 
the present day expressed their detestation of 
the diabolical traffic in question.f 

* For the gratification of those who are not in posses- 
faion of this poem, we insert the following extract : — 
M Whene'er to Afric's shores I turn my eyes, 
Horrors of deepest-, deadliest guilt arise ; 
I see, by more than Fancy's mirror shown, 
The burning village and the blazing town: 
See the dire victim torn from social life, 
The shrieking babe, the agonizing wife ; 

By felon hands, by one relentless stroke, • 
See the fond links of feeling nature broke ! 
The fibres twisting round a parent's heart 
Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part." 
We add one more passage, as it contains an animated 
ippeal against the injustice of this nefarious traffic. 
• ; What wrongs, what injuries does Oppression plead, 
To smooth the crime, and sanctify the deed? 
What strange offence, what aggravated sin? 
They stand "convicted — of a darker skin! 
Barbarians, ho.d! the opprobrious commerce spare, 
Respect His sacred image which they bear. 
Though dark and savage, ignorant and blind, 
They claim the common privilege of kind ; 
Let malice strip them of each other plea, 
They still are men, and, men should still be free." 

See Miss More'a Poem, entitled The Slave Trade. 
t With respect to the claim of priority, or who first de- 
nounced the injustice and horrors of slavery, we believe 
the following is a correct historical narrative on this im- 
portant subject. 

The celebrated De T.as CasaK (born at Seville in 1474, 
-ind who accompanied Columt us in his voyage in 1493) 



On all these accounts I judged it best to be 
silent, and especially because I cannot doubt 
that some effectual measure will now be taken 
to alleviate the miseries of their condition, 
the whole nation being in possession of the 
case, and it being impossible also to allege an 
argument in behalf of man-merchandise that 
can deserve a hearing. I should be glad to 
see Hannah More's poem ; she is a favorite 
writer with me, and has more nerve and 
energy both in her thoughts and language 
than half the he-rhymers in the kingdom. 
The " Thoughts on the Manners of the Great'" 
will likewise be most acceptable. I want to 
learn as much of the world as I can, but tc 
acquire that learning at a distance ; and a book 
with such a title promises fair to serve the 
purpose effectually. 

I recommend it to you, my dear, by all 
means to embrace the fair occasion, and to 
put yourself in the way of being squeezed 
and incommoded a few hours, for the sake 
of hearing and seeing what you will never 
have an opportunity to see and hear hereafter, 
the trial of a man who has been greater and 
more feared than the great Mogul himself. 
Whatever we are at home, we have certainly 
been tyrants in the East, and if these men 
have, as they are charged, rioted in the 
miseries of the Innocent, and dealt death to 
the guiltless, with an unsparing hand, may 
they receive a retribution that shall in future 
make all governors and judges of ours, in 
those distant regions, tremble. While I speak 
thus, I equally wish them acquitted. They 
were both my school-fellows, and for Hast 
ings I had a particular value. Farewell.* 

W. C. 

was so deeply impressed- with the cruelties and oppres- 
sions of slavery, that he returned to Europe, and pleaded 
the cause of humanity before the Emperor Charles V. 
This prince was so far moved by his representations as 
to pass royal ordinances to mitigate the evil ; but his 
intentions were unhappily defeated. The Rev. Morgan 
Godwyn, a Welshman, is "the next, in order. About the 
middle of the last century, John Woolman and Anthony 
Benezet. belonging to the society of Friends, endeavored 
to rouse the public attention. In 1754, the Society itself 
took up the cause with so much zeal and success, that 
there is not at this day a single slave in the possession 
of any acknowledged Quaker in Pennsylvania. In 1776, 
Granville Sharp addressed to the British public his 
"Just Limitation of Slavery." his -Essay on Slavery," 
ahd his " Law of Retribution, or a Serious Warning to 
Great Britain and her Colonies." The poet Shenstone 
also wrote an elegy on the subject, beginning: — 

>w See the poor native quit the Lybian shores," &c. &c. 
Ramsey and Clarksou bring down the list to the time of 
Cowper, whose indignant muse in 1782 poured forth his 
detestation of this traffic in his poem on Charity, an ex- 
tract of which we shall shortly lay before the reader. 
The distinguished honor was," however, reserved for 
Thomas Clarksou, to be the instrument of first engaging 
the zeal and eloquence of Mr. Wilberforce in the greal 
cause of the abolition of the Slave Trade. The per- 
severing exertions of Mr. Fowell Buxton and those of the 
Anti-slavery Society achieved the final triumph, and led 
to the great legislative enactment which abolished sla- 
very itself in the British colonies ; and nothing now re- 
mains but to associate France, the Brazils, and America, 
in the noble enterprise of proclaiming the blessings oi 
liberty to five remaining millions of this degraded race. 
* -The trial of Warren Hastings excited universal inter 
t^t, from the official rank o& the accused, as Governor 



296 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 22, 1788. 

I do n( t wonder that your ears and feel- 
ings were hurt by Mr. Burke's severe invec- 
tive. But you are to know, my dear,'or prob- 
ably you know it already, that the prosecution 
of public delinquents has always, and in all 
countries, been thus conducted. The style 
of a criminal charge of this kind has been an 
affair settled among orators from the days of 
Tully to the present, and, like all other prac- 
tices that have obtained for ages, this in par- 
ticular seems to have been founded originally 
in reason and in the necessity of the case. 

He who accuses another to the state must 
not appear himself unmoved by the view of 
crimes with which he charges him, lest he 
should be suspected of fiction, or of pre- 
cipitancy, or of a consciousness that, after all 
he shall not be able to prove his allegations. 
On the contrary, in order to impress the minds 
of his hearers with a persuasion that he him- 
self at least is convinced of the criminality of 
the prisoner, he must be vehement, energetic, 
rapid ; must call him tyrant, and traitor, and 
everything else that is odious, and all this to 
his face, because all this, bad as it is, is no 
more than he undertakes to prove in the 
sequel, and if he cannot prove it he must him- 
self appear in a light very little more desirable, 
and at the best to have trifled with the tribunal 
to which he has summoned him. 

Thus Tully, in the very first sentence of 
his oration against Catiline, calls him a 
monster ; a manner of address in which he 
persisted till said monster, unable to support 
the fury of his accuser's eloquence any longer, 
rose from his seat, elbowed for himself a pas- 
sage through the crowd, and at last burst from 
the senate house in an agony, as if the Furies 
themselves had followed him. 

And now, my dear, though I have thus 
spoken, and have seemed to plead the cause 
of that species of eloquence which you, and 
every creature who has your sentiments, must 
necessarily dislike, perhaps lam not alto- 
gether convinced of its propriety. Perhaps, 
at the bottom, I am much more of opinion, 
that if the charge, unaccompanied by any in- 
General of India, the number and magnitude of the ar- 
ticles of impeachment, the splendor of the scene, (which 
was in Westminster Hall,) and the impassioned elo- 
quence of Mr. Burke, who conducted the prosecution. 
The proceedings were protracted for nine successive 
years, when Mr. Hastings was finally acquitted. He is 
said to have incurred an expense of .£30,000 on this occa- 
sion, a painful proof of the costly character and delays 
of British jurisprudence. Some of the highest specimens 
of eloquence that ever adorned any age or country were 
delivered during this trial ; among which ought to be 
specified the address of the celebrated Mr. Sheridan, 
who captivated the attention of the assembly in a speech 
of three hours and a half, distinguished hy all the graces 
and powers of the most finished oratory. At the close 
of this speech, Mr. Pitt rose and proposed an adjourn- 
ment, observing that they were then too much under the 
Influence of the wand of the enchanter to be capable of 
>xercising the functions of a sound and deliberate judg- 
ment. 



flammatory matter, and simply detailed, being 
once delivered into the court, and read aloud, 
the witnesses were immediately examined, 
and sentence pronounced according to the 
evidence, not only the process would be 
shortened, much time and much expense saved, 
but justice would have at least as fair play as 
now she has. Prejudice is of no use in weigh- 
ing the question, guilty or not guilty, and the 
principal aim, end, and effect of such intro- 
ductory harangues is to create as much pre- 
judice as possible. When you and I, therefore, 
shall have the sole management of such a 
business entrusted to us, we will order it 
otherwise. 

I was glad to learn from the papers that 
our cousin Henry shone as he did in reading 
the charge. This must have given much 
pleasure to the General.* 

Thy ever affectionate W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weston, March 1, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — That my letters may not 
be exactly an echo to those which I receive, 1 
seldom read a letter immediately before I 
answer it ; trusting to my memory to suggest 
to me such of its contents as may call foi 
particular notice. Thus I dealt with your last, 
which lay in my desk, while I was writing to 
you. But my memory, or rather my recollec- 
tion failed me, in that instance. I had not 
forgotten Mr. Bean's letter, nor my obligations 
to you for the communication of it ; but they 
did not happen to present themsel res to me 
in the proper moment, nor till seme hours 
after my own had been despatche I. I now 
return it, with many thanks for so favorable 
a specimen of its author? That he is a good 
man, and a wise man, its testimony proves 
sufficiently; and I doubt not, that <vhen he 
shall speak for himself he will be i'cund an 
agreeable one. For it is possible to .V very 
good, and in many respects very wise; yet at 
the same time not the most delightful com- 
panion. Excuse the shortness of ?.n occasicmu 
scratch, which I send in such haste; anc 
believe me, my dear friend, with our unitct 
love to yourself and Mrs. Newton, of whose 
health we hope to hear a more favorable ac- 
count as the year rises, 

Your truly affectionate W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON f 

Weston Lodge, March 3 1788.$ 

My dear Friend, — I had not, as y( i may 

* The poet addressed some complimentary v «es o« 
this occasion to Mr. Henry Cowper, beginning ti «s :— 
" Cowper, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes h ,\ \fc»; 
Henry Cowper, Esq., was reading clerk in the 1 •>,**' 
Lords. 

t Private correspondence. 

t The date having been probably wriuen on t '- *•< 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



29* 



.magine, read more than two or three lines of 
the enclosed, before I perceived that I had 
accidentally come to the possession of another 
man's property ; who, by the same misadven- 
ture, has doubtless occupied mine. I accord- 
ingly folded it again the moment after having 
opened it, and now return it. The bells of 
Olney, both last night and this morning, have 
announced the arrival of Mr. Bean. I under- 
stand that he is now come with his family. It 
will not be long therefore, before we shall be 
acquainted. I rather wish than hope that he 
may find himself comfortably situated ; but 

the parishoners' admiration of Mr. C , 

whatever the bells may say, is no good omen. 
It is hardly to be expected that the same 
people should admire both. 

I have lately been engaged in a corre- 
spondence with a lady whom I never saw. 
She lives at Perten-hall, near Kimbolton, and 
is the wife of a Dr. King, who has the living. 
She is evidently a Christian, and a very gra- 
cious one. 1 would that she had you for a 
correspondent rather than me. One letter 
from you would do her more good than a 
ream of mine. But so it is; and since I 
cannot depute my office to you, and am bound 
by all sorts of considerations to answer her 
this evening, I must necessarily quit you that 
I may have time to do it. 

W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Weston Lodge, March 3, 1788. 
I owe you many acknowledgments, dear 
madam, for that unreserved communication, 
both of your history and of your sentiments, 
with which you favored me in your last. It 
gives me great pleasure to learn that you are 
so happily circumstanced, both in respect of 
situation and frame of mind. With your 
view of religious subjects, you could not, in- 
deed, speaking properly, be pronounced un- 
happy in any circumstances ; but to have 
received from above, not only that faith which 
reconciles the heart to affliction, but many 
outward comforts also, and especially that 
gieatest of all earthly comforts, a comforta- 
ble home, is happiness indeed. May you 
ong enjoy it ! As to health or sickness, you 
have learned already their true value, and 
know well that the former is no blessing, 
unless it be sanctified, and that the latter is 
one of the greatest we can receive, when we 
are enabled to make a proper use of it. 

There is nothing in my story that can pos- 
sibly be worth your knowledge ; yet, lest I 
should seem to treat you with a reserve which 
at your hands I have not experienced, such 
as it is, I will relate it. — I was bred to the 

»alf of this letter, which is torn off, the editor has en- 
leavored to supply it from the following to Mrs. King. 
* Private corrsspondence. 



law ; a profession to which I was never 
much inclined, and in which I engaged rathe* 
because I was desirous to gratify a most in- 
dulgent father, than because I had any hope 
of success in it myself. I spent twelve years 
in the Temple, where I made no progress in 
that science, to cultivate which I was sent 
thither. During this time my father died ; 
not long after him died my mother-in-law : 
and at the expiration of it a melancholy 
seized me, which obliged me to quit London, 
and consequently, to renounce the bar. I 
lived some time at St. Alban's. After hav 
ing suffered in that place long and extreme 
affliction, the storm was suddenly dispelled, 
and the same day-spring from on high which 
has arisen upon you, arose on me also. I 
spent eight years in the enjoyment of it 
and have, ever since the expiration of those 
eight years, been occasionally the prey of 
the same melancholy as at first. In the 
depths of it I wrote " The Task," and the 
volume which preceded it ; and in the same 
deeps I am now translating Homer. But to 
return to St. Alban's. I abode there a year 
and half. Thence I went to Cambridge where 
I spent a short, time with my brother, in 
whose neighborhood I determined, if possi- 
ble, to pass the remainder of my days. He 
soon found a lodging for me at Huntingdon. 
At that place I had not resided long, when I 
was led to an intimate connexion with a 
family of the name of Unwin. I soon quit- 
ted my lodging and took up my abode with 
them. I had not lived long under their roof, 
when Mr. Unwin, as he was riding one Sun- 
day morning to his cure at Gravely, was 
thrown from his horse; of which fall he 
died. Mrs. Unwin, having the same views 
of the gospel as myself, and being desirous 
of attending a purer ministration of it than 
was to be found at Huntingdon, removed to 
Olney, where Mr. Newton was at that time 
the preacher, and I with her. There we 
continued till Mr. Newton, whose family was 
the only one in the place with which we could 
have a connexion, and with whom we lived 
always on the most intimate terms, left it. 
After his departure, finding the situation no 
longer desirable, and our house threatening 
to fall upon our heads, we removed hither. 
Here we have a good house in a most beautiful 
village, and for the greatest part of the year, 
a most agreeable neighborhood. Like you, 
madam, I stay much at home, and have not 
travelled twenty miles from this place and its 
environs more than once these twenty years 

All this I have written, not for the singu 
larity of the matter, as you will perceive, but 
partly for the reason which I gave at the out 
set, and partly that, seeing we are become cor 
respondents, we may know as much of each 
other as we can, and that as soon as possible. 

I beg, madam, that you will present mv 



<J98 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



best respects to Mr. King, whom, together 
with yourself, should you at any time here- 
after take wing for a longer flight than 
usual, we shall be happy to receive at Wes- 
ton ; and believe me, dear madam, his and 
your obliged and affectionate, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 3, 1789. 

One day last week, Mrs. Unwin and I, 
having taken our morning walk, and return- 
ing homeward through the Wilderness, met 
the Throckmortons. A minute after we had 
met, them, we heard the cry of hounds at no 
great distance, and, mounting the broad 
stump of an elm, which had been felled, and 
by the aid of which we were enabled to look 
over the wall, we saw them. They were all 
at that time in our orchard : presently we 
heard a terrier, belonging to Mrs. Throck- 
morton, which you may remember by the 
name of Fury, yelping with much vehemence 
and saw her running through the thickets 
within a few yards of us at her utmost speed, 
as if in pursuit of something which we 
doubted not was the fox. Before we could 
reach the other end of the Wilderness, the 
hounds entered also ; and when we arrived 
at the gate which opens into the grove, there 
we found the whole weary cavalcade assem- 
bled. The huntsman, dismounting, begged 
leave to follow his hounds on foot, for he 
was sure, he said, that they had killed him — 
a conclusion which I suppose he drew from 
their profound silehce. He was accordingly 
admitted, and, with a sagacity that would not 
have dishonored the best hound in the world, 
pursuing precisely the same track which the fox 
and the dogs had taken, though he had never 
had a glimpse at either after their first en- 
trance through the rails, arrived where he 
found the slaughtered prey. He soon pro- 
duced dead reynard, and rejoined us in the 
grove with all his dogs about him. Having 
an opportunity to see a ceremony, which I 
was pretty sure would never fall in my way 
again, I determined to stay, and to notice all 
that passed with the most minute attention. 
The huntsman, having, by the aid of a pitch- 
fork, lodged reynard on the arm of an elm, at 
the height of about nine feet from the ground, 
there left him for a considerable time. The 
gentlemen sat on their horses contemplating 
the fox, for which they had toiled so hard ; 
and the hounds, assembled at the foot of the 
tree, with faces not less expressive of the 
most rational delight, contemplated the same 
object. The huntsman remounted ; cut off a 
foot, and threw it to the hounds — one of them 
swallowed it whole like a bolus. He then 
once more, alighted, and, drawing down the 
fox by the hinder legs, desired the people, 



who by this time were rather numerous, to 
open a lane for him to the right and left 
He was instantly obeyed, when, throwing the 
fox to the distance of some yards, and scream- 
ing like a fiend, " tear him to pieces," at least 
six times repeatedly, he consigned him over 
absolutely to the pack, who in a few minutes 
devoured him completely. Thus, my dear, 
as Virgil says, what none of the gods could 
have ventured to promise me, time itself, pur- 
suing its accustomed course, has of its own 
accord presented me with. I have been in at 
the death of a fox, and you now know as much 
of the matter as I, who am as well informed 
as any sportsman in England. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 12, 1788. 

Slavery, and the Manners of the Great, I 
have read. The former I admired, as I do a? 1 
that Miss More writes, as well for energy of 
expression, as for the tendency of the design. 
I have never yet seen any production of hei 
pen that has not recommended itself by both 
these qualifications. There is likewise much 
good sense in her manner of treating every 
subject, and no mere poetic cant (which is the 
thing that T abhor) in her manner of treating 
any. And this I say, not because you now 
know and visit her, but it has long been my 
avowed opinion of her works, which I have 
both spoken and written, as often as I have 
had occasion to mention them.* 

Mr. Wilberforce's little book (if he was 
the author of it) has also charmed me. It 
must, I should imagine, engage the notice o* 
those to whom it is addressed. In that case 
one may say to them, either answer it or be 
set down by it. They will do neither. They 
will approve, commend and forget it. Such 
has been the fate of all exhortations to re- 
form, whether in prose or verse, and however 
closely pressed upon the conscience, in alJ 
ages: here and there a happy individual,- to 
whom God gives grace and wisdom to profit 
by the admonition, is the better for it. But 
the aggregate body (as Gilbert Cooper used 
to call the multitude) remain, though with a 
very good understanding of the matter, like 
horse and mule who have none. 

* We here beg particularly to recommend the perusa' 
of the Memoirs of Mrs. Hannah More. They are replete 
with peculiar interest, not only in detailing the history 
of her own life, and the incidents connected with hei 
numerous and valuable productions, but as elucidating 
the character of the times in which she lived, and ex- 
hibiting & lively portrait of the distinguished literary per 
sons with whom she associated. The Blue Stocking 
Club, or " Bas bleu," is minutely described— we are pres 
ent at its coteries, introduced to its personages, and 
familiar with its manners and habits. The Montagu9, 
the Boscawens, the Veseys, the Carters, and the Pepyses, 
all pass in review before us ; and prove how conversa* 
tion might be made subservient to the improvement Oj 
the intellect, and the enlargement of the heart, if both 
were cultivated to answer ihese exalted eL Is. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



29S 



We shcill now soon lose our neighbors at 
the Hall. We shall truly miss them and long 
for their return, Mr. Throckmorton said to 
me last night, with sparkling eyes, and a face 
expressive of the highest pleasure — " We 
compared you this morning with Pope ; we 
read your fourth Iliad and his, and I verily 
think we shall beat him. He has many 
superfluous lines, and does not interest one. 
When I read your translation, I am deeply 
affected. I see plainly your advantage, and 
am convinced that Pope spoiled all by at- 
tempting the work in rhyme." His brother 
George, who is my most active amanuensis, 
and who indeed first introduced the subject, 
seconded all he said. More would have 
passed, but, Mrs. Throckmorton having 
seated herself at the harpsichord, and for my 
amusement merely, my attention was of 
course tuined to her. The new vicar of 
Olney is arrived, and we have exchanged 
visits. He is a plain, sensible man, and 
pleases me much. A treasure for Olney, if 
Olney can understand his value. 

W. C. 



The public mind, inflamed by details of the 
most revolting atrocities, which characterised 
the Slave-Trade, became daily more agitated 
on this important subject, and impressed with 
a sense of its cruelty and injustice. To 
strengthen the ardor of these generous feel- 
ings, the relatives of Covvper solicited the 
co-operation of his pen, which was already 
known to have employed its powers in the 
vindication of oppressed' Africa.* General 
Cowper, among others, suggested that the 
composition of songs or ballads written in 
the simplicity peculiar to that style of poetry, 
and adapted to popular airs, might perhaps 
be the most efficient mode of promoting the 
interests of the cause. The poet lost no time 
in complying with this solicitation, and com- 
posed three ballads, one of which he trans- 
mitted to the General, with the following 
letter. 

TO GENERAL COWPER. 

Weston, 1788. 

My dear General, — A letter is not pleasant 
A r hich excites curiosity, but does not gratify 
It. Such a letter was my last, the defects of 
which I therefore take the first opportunity 
to supply. When the condition of our ne- 
groes in the islands was first presented to 
me as a subjeet for songs, I felt myself not 
at all allured to the undertaking; it seemed 
to offer only images of horror, which could 
by no means be accommodated to the style of 
that sort of composition. But having a de- 
sire tc comply, if possible, with the request 
made to me, aftei turning the matter in my 
* See Poem on Charity. 



mind as many ways as I could, I at last, as ] 
told you, produced three, and that which ap. 
pears to myself the best of those three I have 
sent you. Of the other two, one is serious, 
in a strain of thought perhaps rather too 
serious, and I could not help it. The other, 
of which the slave-trader is himself the sub- 
ject, is somewhat ludicrous. If I could think 
them worth your seeing, I would, as oppor- 
tunity should occur, send them also. If this 
amuses you I shall be glad. W. C. 

THE MORNING DREAM, A BALLAD. 

To the tune of " Tweed Side."* 

7 f was in the glad season of spring, 

Asleep at the dawn of the day, / 

I dream'd what I cannot but sing, 

So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
I dream'd that on ocean afloat. 

Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
While the billows high lifted the boat, 

And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. 

In the steerage a woman I saw, 

Such at least was the form that she wore, 
Whose beauty impressed me with awe, 

Ne'er taught .me by woman before : 
She sat. and a shield at her side 

Shed light like a sun on the waves, 
And smiling divinely, she cried — 

" I go to make freemen of slaves." 

Then, raising her voice to a strain, 

The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
She sung of the slave's broken chain 

Wherever her glory appear'd. 
Some clouds which had over us hung 

Fled, chas'd by her melody clear, 
And methought, while she liberty sung, 

'Twas liberty only to hear. 

Thus swiftly dividing the flood, 

To a slave-cultured island we came, 
Where a demon, her enemy, stood, 

Oppression his terrible name : 
In his hand, as a sign of his sway, 

A scourge hung with lashes he bore, 
And stood looking out for his prey, 

From Africa's sorrowful shore. 

But soon as, approaching the land, 

That goddess-like woman he view'd, 
The scourge he let fall from his hand, 

With blood of his subjects imbrued. 
I saw him both sicken and die. . 

And, the moment the monster expir'd, 
Heard shouts that ascended the sky, 

From thousands with rapture inspir'd. 

Awaking, how couLl I but muse 

At what such a dream should betide, 
But soon my ear caught the glad news, 

Which serv'd my weak thought for a guide- 
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves, 

For the hatred she ever has shown 
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, 

Resolves to have none of her own. 

* These verses were set to a popular tune, for the pur 
pose of general circulation, and to aid the efforts the* 
making for the abolition of the slavertrade. 



800 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Few subjects have agitated this country 
more deeply than the important question of 
the abolition of the Slave-Trade ; if we ex- 
sept, what was its final and necessary conse- 
quence, the extinction of Slavery itself. 
The wrongs of injured Africa seemed at 
length to have come up in remembrance be- 
fore God, and the days of mourning to be 
approaching to their end. The strife of pol- 
itics and the passions of contending parties 
gave way to the great cause of humanity, and 
a Pitt and a Fox, supported by many of their 
respective adherents, here met on common 
and neutral ground. The walls of parlia- 
ment re-echoed with the tones of an elo- 
quence the most sublime and impassioned, 
because it is the generous emotions of the 
heart that invigorate the intellect, and give 
to it a persuasive and commanding power. 
In the meantime the mammon of unright- 
( eousness was not inactive ; commercial cu- 
pidity and self-interest raised up a severe and 
determined resistance, which protracted the 
final settlement of this question for nearly, 
twenty years. But its doom was sealed. 
The moral feeling of the country pronounced 
the solemn verdict of condemnation, long be- 
fore the decision of Parliament confirmed 
that verdict by the authority and sanction of 
law. William Wilberforce, Esq., the great 
champion of this cause, who had pleaded its 
rights with an eloquence that had never been 
surpassed, and a perseverance and ardor that 
no opposition could subdue, lived to see the 
traffic in slaves declared illegal by a legis- 
lative enactment; his own country rescued 
from an injurious imputation; and himself 
distinguished by the honorable and nobly 
earned title of The Liberator of Africa* 

We have already stated that Cowper was 
urged to contribute some popular ballads in 
behalf of this benevolent enterprise, and that 
he composed three, one of which is inserted 
in the previous page. We now insert an- 
other production of the same kind, which we 
think possesses more pathos and spirit than 
the former. 

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 

Forced from home and all its pleasures, 

Afric's coast I left forlorn ; 

To increase a stranger's treasures, 

O'er the raging billows borne. 

Men from England bought and sold me, 

Paid my price in paltry gold ; 

But, though slave they have enroll'd me, 

Minds are never to be sol''. 

Still in thought as free as ever, 
What are England's rights. I ask, 
Me from my delights to sever, 
Me to torture, me to task 7 
Fleecy locks and black complexion 
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; 

* The slave trade was abolished in the year 1807 ; de- 
ared to be felony, in 1811 ; and to be piracy, in 1824. 



Skins may differ, but affection 
Dwells in white and black the same. 

Why did all-creating Nature 
Make the plant for which we toil 1 
Sighs must fan it, tears must water, 
Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
Think, ye masters iron-hearted, 
Lolling at your jovial boards, 
Think how many backs have smarted 
For the sweets your cane affords. 

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, 
Is there One who reigns on highl 
Has he bid you buy and sell us. 
Speaking from his throne, the sky 1 
Ask him. if your knotted scourges, 
Matches, blood-extorting screws, 
Are the means that duty urges 
Agents of his will to use 1 

Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes, 
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, 
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 
Are the voice with which he speaks. 
He. foreseeing what vexations 
Afric's sons should undergo, 
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 
Where his whirlwinds answer — No. 

By our blood in Afric wasted, 
Ere our necks received the chain ; 
By the miseries that we tasted, 
Crossing in your barks the main; 
By our sufferings, since ye brought us 
To the man-degrading mart ; 
All sustained by patieftce, taught us 
Only by a broken heart : 

Deem our nation brutes no longer, 
Tfll some reason ye shall find 
Worthier of regard, and stronger, 
Than the color of our kind. 
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 
Tarnish all your boasted powers, 
Prove that you have human feelings, 
Ere you proudly question ours ! 

See Poem*. 

To the Christian and philosophic mind, 
which is accustomed to trace thp origin and 
operation of principles that .powerfully affect 
the moral dignity and happiness of nations, 
it is interesting to enquire what is the rise 
of that high moral feeling, that keen and in- 
dignant sense of wrong and oppression, which 
form so distinguishing a feature in the 
character of this country ? Why, too, when 
the crime and guilt of slavery axtachtd to 
France, to Portugal, to Spain, to Holland, 
and above all to America, not less justly titan 
to ourselves, was Great Britain the first to 
lead the way in this noble career of human- 
ity, and to sacrifice sordid interest to :-!ie 
claims of .public duty ? 

This inquiry is by no means irrelevant, be- 
cause the same question suggested itself to 
the mind of C.owper, and he thus answers 
it— 

The cause, though worth the search, may yet 

elude 
Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



30\ 



They take perhaps a well-directed aim. 
Who seek it in his climate and his frame. 
Liberal in all things else, yet nature here 
With stern severity deals out the year. 
Winter invades the spring, and often pours 
A chilling flood on summer's drooping flowers ; 
Unwelcome vapors quench autumnal beams, 
Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams; 
The peasants urge their harvest ply the fork 
With double toil, and shiver at their work; 
Thus with a rig r, fur his good designed. 
She rears her favorite man of all mankind. 
His form robust and of elastic tone, 
Proportioned well, half muscle and half bone, 
Supplies icith warm activity and force 
A mind well-lodged and masculine of course. 
Hence liberty, sweet liberty inspires. 
And keeps aliv„ his fierce but noble fires* 

Table Talk. 

i'he foundation of this high national feeling 
must evidently be sought in the causes here 
specified. Jo these'may be added the in- 
fluence arising from the constitution of our 
government, the character of our institu- 
tions, and the freedom with which every sub- 
■ect undergoes the severe ordeal of public 
discussion. 

May it always be so wisely directed, as 
never to incur the risk of becoming the 
foaming and heedless torrent ; but rather re- 
semble the majestic river, so beautifully de- 
scribed by the poet Denham : 

* Strong without rage, without overflowing full." 
Cooper's Hill. 

It is due, however, to the venerable name of 
Granville Sharp, to record, more particularly, 
the zeal with which he called forth and fos- 
tered these feelings, and devoted his time, 
his talents, and his labors, in exposing the 
cruelty and injustice of this nefarious traffic. 
He brought it to the test of Scripture. He 
refuted those arguments which pretended to 
justify the practice from the supposed au- 
thority of the Mosaic law, by proving that 

* The following lines from Goldsmith's " Traveller," 
have always been justly admired, and are so much in 
unison with the versesof Cowper, quoted above, that 
we feel persuaded we shall consult the taste of the reader 
by inserting them. 
"Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 

And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 

Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 

And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide ! 

There all .around the gentlest breezes stray, 

There gentle musi; melts on every spray ; 

Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 

Extremes are only in the master's mind. 

Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 

With daring aims irregularly great. 

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye; 

I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 

Intent on high designs, a thoughtful "band, 

By forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature's hand ; 

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 

True to imagined right, above control ; 

While e'en the peasant boasts lhe"se rights to scan, 

And learns to venerate himself as man." 
lie celebrated Dr. Johnson once quoted these lines, 
with so much personal feeling and interest, that the tears, 
are said to have started into his eyes.— See BosweWs Life 
tf Johnson. 



the servitude there mentioned was a limitet 
service, and accompanied by the year of re 
lease* and jubilee. He cited passages from 
that law, expressly prohibiting and condemn 
ing it. " Thou shalt not oppress a stranger 
for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing 
ye were strangers in the land of Egypt." 
Exod. xxiii. 9. " If a stranger sojourn with 
thee, in your land, ye shall not vex the stran- 
ger," &c. &c. a Thou shall love him as thy- 
self.''' Lev. xix. 33. " Love ye therefore tha 
stranger, for ye were strangers in the land of 
Egypt." Deut. x. 17—19. He showed at 
large that slavery was directly opposed to 
the genius and spirit of the Gospel, which 
connects all mankind in the bonds of fellow- 
ship and love. He adduced the beautiful 
and affecting remark of St. Paul, who, in his 
address to Philemon, when he beseeches him 
to take back his servant Onesimus, observes, 
and yet " not now as a servant, but above a 
servant, a brother beloved, specially to me, but 
how much more unto thee, both in the flesh and 
in the Lord" Ver. 16. 

After urging various other arguments, and 
insisting largely, in his " Law of Retribution," 
on the extent and enormity of the national 
sin, and its fearful consequences, he draws 
an affecting picture of the desolation of 
Africa, quoting the following words of his 
illustrious ancestor, Archbishop Sharp : — 
" That Africa, which is now more fruitful of 
monsters, than it was once of excellently 
wise and learned men; that Africa, which 
formerly afforded- us our Clemens, our Origen, 
our Teriullian, our Cyprian, our Augustine, 
and many other extraordinary lights in the 
church of God: that famous Africa, in whose 
soil Christianity did thrive so prodigiously, 
and which could boast of so many flourishing 
churches, alas ! is now a wilderness. ' The 
wild boar out of the wood doth waste it, and 
the wild beast of the field doth devour it,' 
' and it bringeth forth nothing but briars and 
thorns.' " 

Such were the appeals of Granville Sharp 
to the generation that is now swept away by 
the rapid current of time. The grave has 
entombed their prejudices. The great judg- 
ment day will pronounce the final verdict. 
It is a melancholy proof of the slow progress 
of truth, and of the influence of ppejudice 
and error, that De Las Casas pleaded the in- 
justice of slavery, before the Emperor Charles 
V., nearly three hundred years from the pres- 
ent time : and that it required this long and 
protracted period before the* cause of hu- 
manity finally triumphed: and even then, the 
triumph was restricted to the precincts of one 
single kingdom. That kingdom is Great 
Britain ! Five millions are said to be still 



* " In the seventh year thou shalt let him go free fronf 
thee. And when thou sendest him out free from thee 
thou shalt not let him go away empty." Deut. xv. 12, 15 



302 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



reserved in bondage and oppression.* May 
this foul stain be speedily effaced, and civil- 
ized nations learn, that they can never found 
a title to true greatness till the rights of hu- 
manity and justice are publicly recognized 
and respected ! 

We could have dwelt with delight on the 
zeal of Ramsay and Clarkson, but our limits 
do not allow further digression, and the name 
of Cowper demands and merits our attention. 

How much the cause is indebted to his 
zeal and benevolence, may be collected from 
the following extracts. 

Canst thou, and honored with a Christian name, 

Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame; 

Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead 

Expedience as a warrant for the deed 1 

So may the wolf, whom famine has made bold 

To quit the forest and invade the fold : 

So may the ruffian, who with ghostly glide, 

Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; 

Not he, but his emergence forced the door, 

He found it inconvenient to be poor. 

Charity. 

The verses which we next insert unite the 
inspiration of poetry with the manly feelings 
of the Englishman, and the ardor of genuine 
humanity. 

I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me. to fan me while I sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
No : dear as freedom is. and in my heart's 
Just estimation prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave, 
And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home. — Then why abroad 1 
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us. are emancipate and loos'd. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England : if their lungs 
Receive our air. that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall/f 

* It is computed that there are two millions of slaves 
belonging to the United States of America; a similar 
number in the Brazils ; and that the remainder are under 
the control of other governments. 

t The force and beauty of this passage will be best 
understood by the following statement. A slave, of the 
name of Somerset was brought over to England from the 
West Indies, by his master, Mr. Stewart. Shortly after, 
he absented himself, and refused to return. He was pur- 
sued and arrested, and by Mr. Stewart's orders forcibly 
put on board a ship, the captain of which was called 
Knowles. He was there detained in custody, to be car- 
ried out of the kingdom and sold. The case "being made 
known was brought before Lord Chief Justice Mansfield, 
in the Court of King's Bench, .Tune 22, 1772. The judg- 
ment of Lord Mansfield, on this occasion was as fol- 
lows: — "A foreigner cannot be imprisoned here, on the 
authority of any law existing in bis own country. The 
power of a master over bis servant is different in all 
countries, more oriess limited or extensive ; the exercise 
of it therefore must always be regulated by the laws of 
xxe place where exercised. The power claimed by this 
return was never .in use here. No master ever was al- 
lowed here to take a slave by force, to be sold abroad, 
because he had deserted from his service, or for any 
other reason whatever. We cannot say the cause set 
orth by this return is allowed or approved of by the laws 
»/ this" kingdom, and therefore the man must be dis- 
harged." '•'• In other words,'''' says a report of the case, 

a negro slave, coming from the ' 'Ionics into Great Brit- 
in, becomes ipso facto Free." 



That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
And let it circulate through eveiy vein 
Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's powei 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 

The Task — The Timepiece. 

But, highly as we appreciate the manly 
spirit of the Englishman, and the ardor of 
the philanthropist, in the foregoing verses, it 
is the missionary feeling, glowing in the fol- 
lowing passage, that we most admire, as ex- 
pressing the only true mode of requiting in- 
jured Africa. Let us not think that we have 
discharged the debt by an act of emancipa- 
tion.* In conferring the boon of liberty, we 
restore only that of which they ouMit never 
to have been deprived. Restitution is not 
compensation. We have grant _-d compensa- 
tion to the proprietor, but where is the com- 
pensation to the negro? Never will the 
accumulated wrongs of ages be redressed, 
till we say to the sable sons of Africa, Be- 
hold your God ! We have burst the chains 
from the body, let us now convey to them 
the tidings of a nobler freedom, a deliver- 
ance from a worse captivity than even 
African bondage and oppression; Let us 
announce to them that God " hath made of 
one blood all nations of men that dwell on 
the face of the earth." Acts xvii. 26. Let 
their minds be expanded by instruction, and 
the Bible, that great charter of salvation, be 
circulated wherever it can be read, and thus 
Britain may acquire a lasting and an honcr 
able title to their gratitude and love. 

Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day 
Would heal his heart, and melt his chains away. 
" Beauty for ashes" is a gift indeed, 
And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. 

* With what feelings of deep gratitude ought we to re- 
cord the final emancipation of eight hundred thousand 
Negroes, in the West India Colonies, by an act which 
passed the British legislature, in the year 1834, dating 
the commencement of that memorable event from the 
first of August. The sum of twenty millions was voted 
to the proprietors of slaves, as a compensation for any 
loss they might incur. Mr. Wilberforce was at this time 
on his dying bed, as if his life had been protracted to 
witness this noble consummation of all his labors. When 
he heard of this splendid act of national generosity, he 
lifted up his feeble hands to heaven, exclaiming, " Thank 
God, that I have lived to see my country give twenty mil 
lions to abolish slavery.'''' 

The noble grant of the British and Foreign Bible So- 
ciety (to commemorate this great event) of a copy of a 
New Testament and Psalter to every emancipated negro 
that was able to read, deserves to be recorded on this 
occasion. The measure originated in a suggestion of the 
Rev. Hugh Stowell. It was computed that, out of a 
population of eight hundred thousand negroes, one hun- 
dred and fifty thousand were capable of reading, and 
that aj expenditure of twenty thousand pounds would 
bf necessary to supply this demand. Forty tons cubic 
measure of J\ r rw Testaments were destined to Jamaica 
alone. Trie Colonial department was willing to assist in 
the transfer, but th.e Government packets were found to 
be too small for this purpose. It is greatly to the honor 
of some ship-owners, distinguished for their benevolence 
and public spirit, in the city of London, that they offered 
to convey this valuable deposit, free of freightage and 
expense, to its place of destination. The sum of fifteen 
thousand pounds was eventually contributed. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



30A 



Then would he say. submissive at thy feet, 
While gratitude and love made service sweet — 
"My dear deliverer out of hopeless night, 
Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, 
I was a bondman on my native plain. 
Sin forged and ignorance made fast the chain; 
Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew. 
Taught_me what path, to shun and what pursue ; 
Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more 
For Africa's once loved, benighted shore; 
Serving - benefactor. I am free. 
At my best home, if not exiled from thee." 

Charity. 

That Ethiopia shall one day stretch out 
her hands unto God we have the assurance 
of a specific prophecy, as well as the general 
declarations of sacred scripture. "All the 
3nds of the world shall remember and turn 
• .mto the Lord, and all the kindreds of the 
latiolis shall worship before thee." At what 
time or in what manner the prophecy will be 
accomplished, it is not for us to determine. 
But should it please divine providence that 
the light of the g».spel, through the instru- 
mentality of Britain, should first spring forth 
from among that people in our own West 
India colonies, the land of their former servi- 
tude and oppression; should they subse- 
quently, with bowels yearning for their own 
country, see fit to return, seized with a de- 
sire to communicate to the land of their na- 
tivity that gospel, the power of which they 
have previously felt for themselves; and 
should the hitherto inaccessible and unex- 
plored parts of that vast continent thus be- 
come evangelised, such an event will furnish 
one of the most remarkable instances of an 
over-ruling Power, educing good out of posi- 
tive evil, ever recorded in the annals of man- 
Kind. 

We beg to add one more remark. The 
61acks are considered to be the descendants 
Of Ham, who first peopled Africa. It pleased 
God to pronounce an awful curse on him and 
Ms posterity. " Cursed be Canaan, a servant 
of servants shall he be." v For the long period 
f»f four thousand years has that curse impend- 
ed over their heads. They have drunk the cup 
of bitterness to its lowest dregs. We con- 
ceive this terrible interdict to be now ap- 
proaching to its termination. The curse be- 
gan to be repealed, in part, when the aboli- 
tion of slavery was first proclaimed by a 
British parliament. This was the seed-time 
of the future harvest : the example of Brit- 
ain cannot be exhibited in vain: other na- 
tions must follow that example, or surfer the 
sonsequences of their neglect. They must 
concede the liberty which is the great inher- 
ent right of all mankind, or expect to behold 
it wrested from them amidst scenes of car- 
nage and blood. Policy, justice, and human- 
ity, therefore, require the concession. We 
have said that the repeal of the curse had be- 
jun in naH; it will be completed when civil 



privileges shall be considered to be only the 
precursors of that more glorious liberty flow 
ing from the communication of the gospel oi 
peace. Then will Africa be raised up from 
her state of moral degradation, and be ele- 
vated to the rank and order of civilized na- 
tions. Then will she once more boast of 
her Cyprians, her Tertullians, and her Au- 
gustines ; and the voice of the Lord, speak- 
ing from his high and holy place, \\ ill pro- 
claim to her sable and afflicted sons, " Arise, 
shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of 
the Lord hath arisen upon thee." " There is 
neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncir- 
cumcision, barbarian, Scythian, bond, nor free: 
but Christ is all, and in all." Col. iii. 11. 

How sweetly does the muse of Cowper pro- 
claim the blessings of this spiritual liberty ! 

But there is yet a liberty, unsung 

By poets, and by senators unprais'd, 

Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'r? 

Of earth and hell confed'rate take away: 

A liberty which persecution, fraud, 

Oppressions prisons, have no power to bind : 

Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more. 

'Tis liberty of heart deriv'd from heav'n, 

Bought with His blood, who gave it to mankind 

And seal'd with the same token. It is held 

By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 

By th' unimpeachable and awful oath 

And promise of a God. His other gifts 

All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, 

They are august ; but this transcends them aV 

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, 
Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of nature, and though poor perhaps, compar'd 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sigh' 
Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. 
His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy 
W T ith a propriety that none can feel 
But who, with filial confidence inspir'd, 
Can lift to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye 
And smiling say — "My Father made them all!" 
Winter JVloming Walk. 

The interesting nature of the subject, and 
its popularity at the present moment, must 
plead our excuse for these lengthened re- 
marks and extracts. But we were anxious 
to prove how much this great cause of hu- 
manity was indebted, in the earlier stages of 
its progress, to the powerful appeals and re 
presentations of Cowper. 

We now resume the correspondence 

TO MRS. HILL.* 

Weston Lodge, March 17, 1788. 
My dear Madam — A thousand thanks to 
you for your obliging and most acceptable 
present, which I received safe this evening 
* Private correspondence. 



Had you known my occasions, you could 
not possibly have timed it more exactly. 
The Throckmorton family, who live in our 
neighborhood, and who sometimes take a 
dinner with us, were, by engagement made 
with them two or three days ago, appointed 
to dine with us just at the time when your 
turkey will be in perfection. A turkey from 
Wargrave, the residence of my friend, and a 
turkey, as I conclude, of your breeding, stands 
a fair chance, in my account, to excel all other 
turkeys ; and the ham, its companion, will be 
no less welcome. 

I shall be happy to hear that my friend 
Joseph has recovered entirely from his late 
indisposition, which I was informed was 
gout ; a distemper which, however painful in 
itself, brings at least some comfort with it, 
both for the patient and those who love him, 
the hope of length of days, and an exemption 
from numerous other evils. I wish him just 
so much of it as may serve for a confirmation 
of this hope, and not one twinge more. 

Your husband, my dear madam, told me, 
some time since, that a certain library of 
mine, concerning which I have heard no 
other tidings these five-and-twenty years, is 
still in being.* Hue and cry have been made 
after it in Old Palace-yard, but hitherto in 
/ain. If he can inform a bookless student 
in what region, or in what nook, his long- 

<st volumes may be found, he will render 
. e an important service. 

_ am likely to be furnished soon with 
shelves, which my cousin of New Norfolk- 
street is about to send me ; but furniture for 
these shelves I shall not presently procure, 
unless by recovering my stray authors. I 
am not young enough to think of making a 
new collection, and shall probably possess 
myself of few books hereafter but such as I 
may put forth myself, which cost me nothing 
but what I can better spare than money — 
time and consideration. 

I beg, my dear madam, that you will give 
my love to my friend, and believe me, with 
the warmest sense of his and your kindness, 
Your most obliged and affectionate 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTOxN.f 

Weston Lodge, March 17, 1788. 
My dear Friend, — The evening is almost 
^orn away while I have been writing a let- 
ter, to which I was obliged to give immediate 
attention. An application from a lady, and 
backed by you, could not be less than irre- 
sistible. The lady, too, a daughter of Mr. 
Thornton's.! Neither are these words of 
cou#se: since I returned to Homer in good 

* Cowper's books had been lost, owing to his original 
Illness, and his sudden removal to St. Alban's. 

* Private <*nr r espondence. 
t Lady Balgonie. 



earnest, I turn out o^-my way for no consid 
eration that I can possibly put aside. 

With modern tunes I am unacquainted, anq 
have therefore accommodated my verse to an 
old one ; not so old, however, but that there 
will be songsters found old enough to re- 
member it. The song is an admirable one 
for which it was made, and, though political, 
nearly, if not quite, as serious as mine. On 
such a subject as I had before me, it seems 
impossible not to be serious. I shall be 
happy if it meet with your and Lady Bal 
gome's approbation. 

Of Mr. Bean I could say much ; but have 
only time at present to say that I esteem and 
love him. On some future occasion I slid! 
speak of him more at large. 

We rejoice that Mrs. Newton is better, and 
wish nothing more than her complete recov- 
ery. Dr. Ford is to be pitied.* His wife, I 
suppose, is going to heaven ; a journey which 
she can better afford to take than he to part 
with her. 

I am, my dear friend, with our united love 
to you all three, most truly yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

March 19, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — The spring is come, but 
not, I suppose, that spring which our poets 
have celebrated. So I judge at least by the 
extreme severity of the season, sunless skies, 
and freezing blasts, surpassing all that we 
experienced in the depth of winter. How 
do you dispose of yourself in this howling 
month of March ? As for me, I walk daily, 
be the weather what it may, take bark, and 
write verses. By the aid of such means as 
these I combat the north-east wind with some 
measure of success, and look forward, with 
the hope of enjoying it, to the warmth of 
summer. 

Have you seen a little volume, lately pub- 
lished, entitled, "The Manners of the Great V 
It is said to have been written by Mr. Wilber- 
force, but whether actually written by him or 
not, is undoubtedly the worK of some man 
intimately acquainted with the subject, a gen- 
tleman, and a man of letters.f If it makes 
the impression on those to whom it is ad- 
dressed, that may be in some degree expect- 
ed from his arguments, and from his manner 
of pressing them, it will be well. But you 
and I have lived long enough in the world to 
know that the hope of a general reformation 
in any class of men whatever, or of women 
either, may easily be too sanguine. 

I have now given the last revisal to aa 

* Dr. Ford was Vicar of Melton Mowbray, well known 
and respected, and a particular friend of Mr. Newton's. 

t The author of this work proved to bo Miss Hannah 
More. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



30* 



much of my translation as was ready for it, j 
and do not know that I shall bestow another j 
single stroke of my pen on that part of it ! 
before I send it to the press. My business \ 
at present is with the sixteenth book, in | 
which I have made some progress, but have j 
not yet actually sent forth Patroclus to the j 
battle. My first translation lies always be- j 
fore me ; line by line I examine it as I pro- j 
ceed, and line by line reject it, I do not, I 
however, hold myself altogether indebted to 
my critics for the better judgment that I ' 
seem to exercise in this matter now than in j 
the first instance. By long study of him, I 
am in fact become much more familiar with i 
Homer than at any time heretofore, and j 
have possessed myself of such a taste of his j 
manner, as is not to be attained by mere j 
cursory reading for amusement. But, alas! j 
'tis after all a mortifying consideration that j 
the. majority of my judges hereafter, will be 
no judges of this. Grcccum est, non potest 
legi, is a motto that would suit nine in ten 
of those who will give themselves airs about 
it, and pretend to^like or to dislike. No 
matter. I know I shall please you, because 
I know wliat pleases you, and I am sure that 
I have done it, 

Adieu ! my good friend, 

Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 



Cowper alludes in the following letters, to 
the progress of his version, and the obstruc- 
tions to the negro cause. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ., 

Weston, March 29, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you have 
so successfully performed so long a journey 
without the aid of hoofs or wheels. I do 
not know that a journey on foot exposes a 
man to more disasters than a carriage or' a 
horse ; perhaps it may be the safer way of 
travelling, but the novelty of it impressed I 
me with some anxiety on your account. 

It seems almost incredible to myself that 
my company should be at all desirable to 
you, or to any man. I know so little of the 
wc rid as it goes at present, and labor gen- 
erally under such a depression of spirits, es- 
pecially at those tines when I could wish to 
be most cheerful, that my own share in 
every conversation appears to me to be the 
most insipid thing imaginable.' But you say 
you found it otherwise, and I will not for 
my own sake doubt your sincerity : de gusli- 
bus non est dispularuium, and since such is 
votirs^I shall leave you in quiet possession 
of it, wishing indeed both its continuance 
and increase. I shall not find a properer 
place in which to say, accept of Mrs. Un- 
win's acknowledgements, as well as mine, 
for the kindness of your expressions on this 



subject, and be assured of an undissembling 
welcome at all times, when it shall suit you 
to give us your company at Weston. As to 
her, she is one of the sincerest of the human 
race, and if she receives you with the appear- 
ance of pleasure, it is because she feels it. 
Her behavior on such occasions is with her 
an affair of conscience, and she dares nc 
more look a falsehood than utter one. 

It is almost time to tell you, that I have 
received the books safe ; they have not suf- 
fered the least detriment by the way, and I 
am much obliged to you for them. If my 
translation should be a little delayed in con- 
sequence of this favor of yours, you must 
take the blame on yourself. It is impossible 
not to read the notes of a commentator so 
learned, so judicious, and of so fine a taste 
as Dr. Clarke,* having him at one's elbow. 
Though he has been but few hours under my 
roof, I have already peeped at him, and find 
that he will be instar omnium to me. They 
are such notes exactly as I wanted. A trans- 
lator of Homer should ever have somebody 
at hand to say, " That's a beauty," lest he 
should slumber "where his author does not, 
not only depreciating, by such inadvertency, 
the work of his original, but depriving per- 
haps his own of an embellishment, which 
wanted only to be noticed. 

If you hear ballads sung in the streets on 
the hardships of the negroes in the islands, 
they are probably mine.f It must be an 
honor to any man to have given a stroke to 
that chain, however feeble. I fear however 
that the attempt will fail. The tidings which 
have lately reached me from London con- 
cerning it are not the most encouraging. 
While the matter slept, or was but slightly 
adverted to, the English only had their share 
of shame in common with other nations on 
account of it. But, since it has been can- 
vassed and searched to the bottom, since the 
public attention has been riveted to the hor- 
rible scheme, we can no longer plead either 
that we did not know it, or did not think of 
it. Woe be to us if we refuse the poor cap- 
tives the re ress to which they have so clear 
a right, and prove ourselves in the sight of 
God and men, indifferent to all considerations 
but those of gain !| 

Adieu, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 31, 1788. 

My dearest Cousin, — Mrs. Throckmorton 

* Well known for his celebrated works, on the M Being 
and attributes of God," and the " Evidences of Natural 
and Revealed Religion." 

t They were, after all, never appropriated to that pur- 
pose. 

J The interests of commerce were too much at vari 
ance with this great cause of humanity not to oppose a 
long and persevering resistance to its progress in parlia 
ment. Though Mr. Pitt supported the measure, it vrai 
not made a government question. 
20 



30b 



COWPER'S WORKS 



has promised to write to me. I beg that, as 
often as you shall see her, you will give her 
a smart pinch, and say, " Have you written 
to my cousin ?" I build all my hopes of her 
performance on this expedient, and for so 
doing these my letters, not patent, shall be 
your sufficient warrant. You are thus to give 
her the question till she shall .answer, " Yes." 
I have written one more song, and sent it. 
It is called the " Morning Dream," and may 
be sung to the tune of Tweed-Side, or any 
other tune that will suit it, for I am not nice 
on that subject. I would have copied it fqr 
you, had I not almost filled my sheet with- 
out it ; but now, my dear, you must stay till 
the sweet sirens of London shall bring it to 
you, or, if that happy day should never ar- 
rive, I hereby acknowledge myself your 
debtor to that amount. I shall now prob- 
ably cease to sing of tortured negroes, a 
theme which never pleased me, but which, 
in the hope of doing them some little ser- 
vice, I was not unwilling to handle. 

If anything could have raised Miss More 
to a higher place in my opinion than she 
possessed before, it could Qnly be your in- 
formation that, after all, she, and not Mr. 
Wilberforce, is author of that volume. How 
comes it to pass, that she, being a woman, 
writes with a force and 'energy, and a cor- 
rectness hitherto arrogated by the men, and 
not very frequently displayed even by the 
men themselves ? 

Adieu, W. C. 

The object of this valuable treatise is not 
to attack gross delinquencies, but to show 
the danger of resting for acceptance on mere 
outward decorum and general respectability 
of character, while the internal principle, 
which can alone elevate the affections of the 
heart and influence the life, is wanting. We 
select the following passage as powerfully 
illustrating this view. Speaking of the rich 
man, who is represented by our Lord as 
lifting up his eyes in torments, Miss More 
observes, " He committed no enormities, that 
have been transmitted to us; for that he 
dined well and dressed well could hardly 
incur the bitter penalty of eternal misery. 
That his expenses were suitable to his sta-' 
tion, and his splendor proportioned to his 
opulence, does not exhibit any objection to 
his character. Nor are we told that he re- 
fused the crumbs which Lazarus solicited: 
and yet this man, on an authority we are not 
' permitted to question, is represented m a 
future state as lifting up his eyes, being in 
torments. His punishment seems to have 
been the consequence of an irreligious, a 
worldly spirit; a heart corrupted by the 
softnesses and delights of life. It was not 
because he was lich, but because lie trusted 
in riches; or, if even he was charitable, his 



charity wanted that principle which alone could, 
sanctify it. His views terminated here ; this 
world 's good, and this world's applause, were 
the motives and the end of his actions. He for- 
got God; he was destitute af piety; and the 
absence of this great and first principle of hu - 
man actions rendered his shining deeds, how- 
ever they might be admired among men, of nc 
value in the sight of God." 

Admonitory statements like these are in- 
valuable, and demand the earnest attention 
of those to whom they apply. 

Nor is the next passage less important on 
the subject of sins of omission. 

"It is not less against negative than against 
actual evil, that affectionate exhortation, live- 
ly remonstrance, and pointed parable are ex- 
hausted. It is against the tree which bore 
no fruit, the lamp which, had no oil, the un- 
profitable servant who made no use of his 
talent, that the severe sentence is denounced, 
as well as against corrupt fruit, bad oil, and 
talents ill employed. We are led to believe, 
from the same high authority, that omitted 
duties and neglected opportunities will furnish 
no inconsiderable portion of our future con- 
demnation. A very awful part of the de- 
cision, in the great day of account, seems to 
be reserved merely for carelessness, omis- 
sions, and negatives. Ye gave me no meat, 
ye gave me no drink ; ye took me not in, ye 
visited me not. On the punishment attend- 
ing positive crimes, as being more naturally 
obvious, it was not, perhaps, thought so 
necessary to insist."* 

This work was the first important appeal, 
in those days, addressed to the fashionable 
world, and Miss More's previous intercourse 
with it admirably qualified her to write with 
judgment and effect. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

Weston Lodge, April 11, 1788. 
Dear Madam, — The melancholy that I have 
mentioned, and concerning which you are so 
kind as to inquire, is of a kind, so far as I 
know, peculiar to myself. It does not at all 
affect the operations of my mind on any sub- 
ject to which I can attach it, whether serious 
or ludicrous, or whatsoever it may be ; for 
which reason I am almost always employed 
either in reading or writing when I am n?t 
engaged in conversation. *A vacant houi is 
my abhorrence, because when I am not occu- 
pied I suffer under the whole influence of my 
unhappy temperament. I thank you for the 
recommendation of a medicine from which 
you have received benefit yourself; but there 
is hardly anything ihat I hav~ not proved. 
however beneficial it may have been found bv 
others, in my own case utterly nsele: s. I 

* Thoughts on the Manner ol the Gnat, 
t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



3<T 



have, therefore, long air.ee bid adieu to all 
hope from human means, — the means except- 
ed of perpe.ual employment. 

I will not say that we shall never meet, 
because it is not for a creature who knows 
not what shall be to-morrow to assert any- 
thing positively concerning the future. Things 
more unlikely I have yet seen brought to 
pass, and things which, if I had expressed 
myself of them at all, I should have said 
were impossible. But, being respectively 
circumstanced as we are, there seems no pres- 
ent probability of it. You speak of insuper- 
able hindrances ; and I also have hindrances 
that would be equally difficult to surmount. 
One is, that I never ride, that I am not able 
to perform a journey on foot, and that chaises 
do not roll within the sphere of that economy 
which my circumstances oblige me to observe. 
If this were not of itself sufficient to excuse 
me, when I decline so obliging an invitation 
as yours, I could mention yet other obstacles. 
But to what end? One impracticability 
makes as effectual a barrier as a thousand. 
It will be otherwise in other worlds. Either 
we shall not bear about us a body, or it will 
be more easily transportable than this. In the 
meantime, by the help of the post, strangers 
to each ether may cease to be such, as you 
and I have already begun to experience. 

It is indeed, madam, as you say, a foolish 
world, and likely to continue such till the 
Great Teacher shall himself vouchsafe to 
make it wiser. I am persuaded that time 
alone will never mend it. But there is 
doubtless a day appointed when there shall 
be a more general manifestation of the 
beauty of holiness than mankind have ever 
yet beheld. When that period shall arrive 
there will be an end of profane representa- 
tions, whether of heaven or hell, on the 
stage : — the great realities will supercede 
them. 

I have just discovered that I have written 
to you on paper so transparent that it will 
hardly keep the contents a secret. Excuse 
the mistake, and believe me, dear madam, 
with my respects to Mr. King, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



The slow progress of the abolition cause, 
and the nature of the difficulties, are adverted 
to in the following letter. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, April *19, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for your 
last, and for the verses in particular therein 
contained, in which there is not on y rhyme 
but reason. And yet I fear that neither you 
uor I, with all our reasoning and rhyming, 
* Private correspondence. 



shall effect much good in this matter. Sfi 
far as I can learn, and I have had intelligence 
from a quarter within the reach of such as is 
respectable, our governors are not animated 
altogether with such heroic ardor as the ov 
casion might inspire. They consult frequent 
ly indeed in the cabinet about it, but the fre- 
quency of their consultations in a case so 
plain as this would be, did not what Shak- 
speare calls commodity, and what we call 
political expediency, cast a cloud over it, 
rather bespeaks a desire to save appearances 
than to interpose to purpose. Laws will, I 
suppose, be enacted for the more humane 
treatment of the negroes ; but who shall see 
to the execution of them ? The planters will 
not, and the negroes cannot. In fact, we 
know that laws of this tendency have not 
been wanting, enacted even amongst them- 
selves, but there has been always a want of 
prosecutors, or righteous judges ; deficiencies 
which will not be very easily supplied. The 
newspapers have lately told us that these, 
merciful masters have, on this occasion, been 
occupied in passing ordinances, by which the 
lives and limbs of their slaves are to be se- 
cured from wanton cruelty hereafter. But 
who does not immediately detect the artifice 
or can give them a moment's credit for any 
thing more than a design, by this show of 
lenity, to avert the storm which they think 
hangs over them? On the whole, I fear 
there is reason to wish, for the honor of Eng- 
land, that the nuisance had never been troub- 
led, lest we eventually make ourselves justly 
chargeable with the whole otfence by not re- 
moving it. The enormity cannot be palli- 
ated ; we can no longer plead that we were 
not aware of it, or that our attention was 
otherwise engaged, and shall be inexcusable 
therefore ourselves if we leave the least part 
of it unredressed. Such arguments as Pha- 
raoh might have used to justify the de- 
struction of the Israelites, substituting only 
sugar for bricks, may lie ready for our use 
also ; but I think we can find no better. 

We are tolerably well, and shall rejoice to 
hear that, as the year rises, Mrs. Newton's 
health keeps pace with it. Believe me, mv 
dear friend, 

Affectionately and truly yours, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 6, 1788. 

My dearest Cousin,— You ask me how I 
like Smollett's Don Quixote ? I answer, well ; 
perhaps better than anybody's; but, having 
no skill in the original, seme diffidence be- 
comes me : that is to say, I do not know 
whether I ought to prefer it or not. Yet, 
there is so little deviation from other versions 
which I have seen that I do not much hesi- 



»08 



COWPER'S WORKS 



tate, It has made me laugh I know immod- 
erately, and in such a case qa sujjit. 

A thousand thanks, my dear, for the new 
convenience in the way of stowage which you 
are so kind as to intend me. There is noth- 
ing in which I am so deficient as repositories 
for letters, papers, and litter of all sorts. 
Your last present has helped me somewhat, 
but not with respect to such things as require 
lock and key, which are numerous. A box, 
therefore, so secured, will be to me an invalu- 
able acquisition. And, since you leave me 
to my option, what shall be the size thereof, 
I of course prefer a folio. On the back of 
the book-seeming box, some artist expert in 
those matters, may inscribe these words, 

Collectanea curiosa, 

the English of which is, a collection of curi- 
osities. A title which I prefer to all others, 
because if I live, I shall take care that the 
box shall merit it, and because it will operate 
as an incentive to open that which being 
locked cannot be opened : for in these cases 
the greater the baulk the more wit is dis- 
covered by the ingenious contriver of it, viz., 
myself. 

The General, I understand by his last letter, 
is in town. In my last to him I told him 
news, possibly it will give you pleasure, and 
ought for that reason to be made known to 
you as soon as possible. My friend Rowley, 
who I told you has* after twenty-five years' 
silence, renewed his correspondence with me, 
and who now lives in Ireland, where he has 
many and considerable connexions, has sent 
to me for thirty subscription papers.* Row- 
ley is one of the most benevolent and friend- 
ly creatures in the world, and will, I dare say, 
do all in his power to serve me. 

I am just recovered from a violent cold, 
attended by a cough, which split my head 
while it lasted. I escaped these tortures all 
the winter, but whose constitution, or what 
skin, can possibly be proof against our vernal 
breezes in England ? Mine never were, nor 
will be. 

When people are intimate, we say they are 
as great as two inkle-weavers, on which ex- 
pression I have to remark, in the first place, 
that the word great is here used in a sense 
which the corresponding term has not, so far 
as I know, in any other language, and second- 
ly, that inkle-weavers contract intimacies with 
each other sooner than other people on ac- 
count of their juxtaposition in weaving of 
inkle. Hence it is that Mr. Gregson and I 
emulate those happy weavers in the close- 
ness of our connexion.! We live near to each 
other, and while the Hall is empty are each 
other's only extraforaneous comfort. 

Most truly thine, W. C. 

* For his version of Homer. 

\ Mr. Gregson was chaplain to Mr. Throckmorton. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, May 8, 1788. ■ 
. Alas ! n y library — T must now give it up 
for a lost thing forever. The only consols- 
tion belonging to the circumstance is, o? 
seems to be, that no such loss did ever befall 
any other man, or can ever befall me again 
As far as books are concerned I am 

Totus teres atque rotundus, 

and may set fortune at defiance. The books, 
which had been my father's, had, most of 
them, his arms on the inside cover, but the 
rest no mark, neither his name nor mine. I 
could mourn for them like Sancho for his 
Dapple, but it would avail me nothing. 

You will oblige me much by sending me 
"Crazy Kate." A gentleman" last winter 
promised me both her and the " Lace-maker," 
but he went to London, that place in which, 
as in the grave, "all things are forgotten," and 
1 have never seen either of them.* 

I begin to find some prospect of a con- 
elusion, of the Iliad at least, now opening 
upon me, having reached the eighteenth book. 
Your letter found me yesterday in the very 
fact of dispersing the whole host of Troy, by 
the voice only of Achilles. There is nothing 
extravagant in the idea, for you have wit- 
nessed a similar effect attending even such a 
voice as mine, at midnight, from a garret 
window, on the dogs of a whole parish, whom 
I have put to flight in a moment. 

W. C. 



His high sense of the character and quali- 
fications of Lady Hesketh is pleasingly ex- 
pressed in the following letter, where Mrs. 
Montagu's coteries in Portman-square are 
also alluded to, 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 12, 1788. 
. It is probable, my dearest coz., that I shall 
not be able to write much, but as much as I 
can I will. The time, between rising and 
breakfast is all that I can at present find, and 
this morning I lay longer than usual. 

In the style of the lady's note to you, I 
can easily perceive a smatch of her charac- 
ter.! Neither men nor women write with 
such neatness of expression, who have not 
given a good deal of attention to language, 
and qualified themselves by study. At the 
same time it gave me much more pleasure to 
observe, that my coz., though not standing 
on the pinnacle of renown quite so elevated 

* He alludes to engravings of these two characters, 
which had acquired much popularity with the public, 
especially Crazy Kate, beginning, 
" There often wanders one, whom better days," &c. &c 

t Mrs. Montagu. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



30! 



as that which lifts Mrs. Montagu to the 
rjljuds, falls in no degree short of her in this 
particular ; so that, should she make you a 
member of her academy,* she will do it honor. 
Suspefct me not of flattering you, for I abhor 
the thought; neither ivitt you suspect it. 
Recollect that it is an invariable rule with 
me never to pay compliments to those I love. 

Two days, en suite, I have walked to Gay- 
hurst,! a longer journey than I have walked 
on foot these seventeen years. The first day 
I went alone, designing merely to make the 
experiment, and choosing to oe at liberty to 
return at whatsoever point of my pilgrimage 
I should find myself fatigued. For I was 
not without suspicion that years, and some 
other things no less injurious than years, 
viz., melancholy and distress of mind, might 
by this time have unfitted me for such achieve- 
ments. But I found it otherwise. I reached 
the church, which stands, as you know, in 
the garden, in fifty-five minutes, and returned 
in ditto time to Weston. The next day I 
took the same walk with Mr. Powley, having 
a desire to show him the prettiest place in 
the country.J I not only performed these 
two excursions without injury to my health, 
but have by means of them gained indisput- 
able proof that my ambulatory faculty is not 
yet impaired ; a discovery which, considering 
that to my feet alone I am likely, as I have 
ever been, to be indebted always for my 
transportation from place to place, I find very 
delectable. 

You will find in the last Gentleman's Mag- 
azine a sonnet, addressed to Henry Cowper, 
signed T. H. I am the writer of it. No 
creature knows this but yourself; you will 
make what use of the intelligence you shall 
see good. W. C. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

The Lodge, May 24, 1788. 
My dear Friend, — For two excellent prints 
I return you my sincere acknowledgments. 

* The Blue-stocking Club, or Bas bleu. 

The following is the account of the origin of the Blue- 
stocking Club, extracted from BoswelFs " Life of John- 
Bon:" "About this time (1781) it was much the fashion 
for several Indira io *s=n"t> evening assemblies, where the 
fair sex might particii^to in conversation with literary 
and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. 
These societies were dc.ip»miiated Blue-stocking Clubs, 
the origin of which title being little known, it may be 
worth while to relate it. One of Lhe most eminent mem- 
bers of these societies, when they first commenced, was 
Mr. Benjamin Stillingfteet, (author of tracts relating to 
natural history, &c.) whose dress was remarkably grave, 
and in particular it w;ts observed that he wore blue stock- 
ings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that 
his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be 
9aid. 'We can do nothing without the blue stockings? 
and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss 
Hannah More has admirably described a Blue-stocking 
Club, in her ' Bas Bleu,'' a poem in which many of the 
persons who were most conspicuous there are men- 
tioned." 

T A large mansion near Newport Paguel, formerly be- 
Ongisig to ?»!iss Wright. 

1 The Re--* Mr. Powley married Mrs Unwin's daugh >r. 



I cannot s,ay that poor Kate resembles mucb 
the original, who was neither so young not 
so handsome as the pencil has represented 
her ; but she has a figure well suited to the 
account given of her in " The Task," and 
has a face exceedingly expressive of despair- 
ing melancholy. The Lace-maker is acci- 
dentally a good likeness of a young woman 
once our neighbor, who was hardly less hand 
some than the picture twenty years ago ; 
but the loss of one husband, and the acqui- 
sition of another, have, since that time, im- 
' paired her much ; yet she might still be sup- 
1 posed to have sat to the artist.* 

We dined yesterday with your friend and 
mine, the most companionable and domestic 

Mr. C .f The whole kingdom can hardly 

furnish a spectacle more pleasing to a man 
who has a taste for true happiness, than him- 
self, Mrs. C , and their multitudinous 

family. Seven long miles are interposed 
between us, or perhaps I should oftener have 
an opportunity of declaiming on this subject. 

I am now in the nineteenth book of the 
Iliad, and on the point of displaying such 
feats of heroism performed by Achilles as 
make all other achievements trivial. I may 
well exclaim, " O for a Muse of fire !" es- 
pecially having not only a great host to cope 
with, but a great river also ; much, however, 
may be done when Homer leads the way. 
I should not have chosen to have been the 
original author of such a business even 
though all the Nine had stood at my elbow. 
Time has wonderful effects. We admire 
that in an ancient, for which we should send 
a modern bard to Bedlam. 

I saw at Mr. C — ; — 's a great curiosity — an 
antique bust of Paris, in Parian marble. 
You will conclude that it interested me ex- 
ceedingly. I pleased myself with supposing 
that it once stood in Helen's chamber. It 
was in fact brought from the Levant, and, 
though not well mended, (for it had suffered 
much by time,) is an admirable performance. 

W. C. 



Mr. Bull had urged Cowper once more to 
employ the powers of his pen, in what he so 
eminently excelled, the composition of hymns 
expressive of resignation to the will of God. 
It is much to be lamented that he here de- 
clines what would so essentially have pro- 
moted the interests of true religion. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULLf. 

Weston, May 25, 1788. 
My dear Friend, — Ask possibilities and 
they shall be performed ; but ask not hymns 

* Poor Kate and the Lace-maker were portraits draw* 
from real life. 
t Mr. Chester, of Chicheley, near Newport P(«neL 
i Private correspondence. 



510 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



from a man suffering by despair as I do. I 
could not sing the Lord's song were it to 
save my life, banished as I am, not to a 
strange "land, but to a remoteness from his 
presence, in comparison with which the dis- 
tance fiom east to west is no distance, is 
vicinity and cohesion. I dare not, either in 
prose or verse, allow myself to express a 
frame of mind which I am conscious does 
not belong to me * least of all can I venture 
to use the language of absolute resignation, 
lest, only counterfeiting, I should for that 
very reason be taken strictly at my word, 
and lose all my remaining comfort. Can 
there not be found among those translations 
of Madame Guion somewhat that might 
serve the purpose? I should think there 
might. Submission to the will of Christ, 
my memory tells me, is a theme that pervades 
rhem all. If so, your request is performed 
already ; and if any alteration in them should 
be necessary, I will with all my heart make 
it. I have no objection to giving the graces 
of the foreigner an English dress, but insu- 
perable ones to all false pretences and affected 
exhibitions of what I do not feel. 

Hoping that you will have the grace to be 
resigned most perfectly to this disappoint- 
ment, which you should not have suffered 
had it been in my power to prevent it, I 
remain, with our best remembrances to Mr. 
Thornton, 

Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 27, 1788. 

My dear Coz., — The General, in a letter 
which came yesterday, sent me inclosed a 
copy of my sonnet ; thus introducing it. 

"I send a copy of verses somebody has 
written for the Gentleman's Magazine for 
April last. Independent of my partiality 
towards the subject. I think the lines them- 
selves are good." 

Thus it appears that my poetical adven- 
ture has succeeded to my wish, and I write 
to him by this post, on purpose to inform 
him that the somebody in question is my- 
self.* 

I no longer wonder that Mrs. Montagu 
stands at the head of all that is called learned, 
and that every critic vails his bonnet to her 

* Mr. Henry Cowper, who was reading-clerk in the 
House of Lords, was remarkable for the clearness and 
melody of his voice. This qualification is happily al- 
luded to by the poet, in the following lines :— 
"Thou art not voice alone, but hast besides 
Both heart and head, and couldst with music sweet 
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, 
Like thy renown'd forefathers,* far and wide 
Thy fame diffuse, praised, not for utterance meet 
Of others' speech, but magic' of thy own." 



* Lord-( Chancellor Ccw >er, and Spencer Cowper, Chief- 
of Chester. 



superior judgment; I am now reading, an<? 
have reached the middle of her Essay on tbfi 
Genius of Shakspeare; a book of which, 
strange as it may seem, though I must have 
read it formerly, I had absolutely forgbt the 
existence.* 

The learning, the good £?nse, the sound 
judgment, and the wit displayed in it, fully 
justify not only my compliment, but all com- 
pliments that either have been already paid 
to her talents, or shall be paid hereafter. 
Voltaire, I doubt not, rejoiced that his antag 
onist wrote in English, and that his country, 
men could not possibly be judges of the dis 
pute. Could they have kn©wn how much 
she was in the right, and by how many thou- 
sand miles the bard of Avon is superior to 
all their dramatists, the French critic would 
have lost half his fame among them. 

I saw at 'Mr. Chester's a head of Paris ; an 
antique of Parian marble. His uncle, who 
left him, the estate, brought it, as I under- 
stand, from the Levant : you may suppose 
I viewed it with all the enthusiasm that 
belongs to a translator of Homer. It is in 
reality a great curiosity, and highly valuable. 

Our friend Sephusf has sent me two 
prints; the Lace-maker and Crazy Kate. 
These also I have contemplated with pleas- 
ure, having, as you know, a particular inter-, 
est in them. The former is not more beau- 
tiful than a lace-maker once our neighbor at 
Olney; though the artist has assembled as 
many charms in her countenance as I ever 
saw in any countenance, one excepted. Kate 
is both younger and handsomer than the 
original from which I drew, but she is in 
good style, and as mad as need be. 

How does this hot weather suit thee, my 
dear, in London? as for me, with all my 
colonnades and bowers, I am quite oppressed 
by it. W, C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 3, 1788. 

My dearest Cousin, — The excessive heat 
of these last few days was indeed oppressive , 
but, excepting the languor that is occasioned 
both in my mind and body, it was far from 
being prejudicial to rae. It opened ten thou- 
sand pores, by which as many mischiefs, the 
effects of long obstructions, began to breathe 
themselves forth abundantly. Then came an 
east wind, baneful to me at all times, but fol- 

* This essay contributed very much to establish the 
literary character of Mrs. Montagu, as a woman of taste 
and learning ; and to vindicate Shakspeare from th6 
sallies of the wit of Voltaire, who comprehended his 
genius as little as the immortal poem of the " Paradise 
Lost." It is well known how Young replied to hit 
frivolous raillery on the latter work :— 
"Thou art so witty, profligate. ,and thin, 
At once we think thee Milton s I>eath and Sin M 

t Mr. Hill. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



311 



owing so closely such a sultry season, un- 
commonly noxious. To speak in the seaman's 
ohrase, not entirelj' strr nge to you, I xoas 
taken all aback ; and the humors which would 
have escaped, if old Eurus would have given 
them leave, finding every door shut, have 
fallen into my eyes. But, in a country like 
this, poor miserable mortals must be content 
to suffer all that sudden and violent changes 
nan inllict ; and if they are quit for about half 
the plagues that Caliban calls down on Pros- 
pero, they may say, " We are well off," and 
dance for joy, if the rheumatism or cramp will 
let them. 

Did you ever see an advertisement by one 
Fowle, a dancing-master of Newport-Pagnel ? 
If not, I will contrive to send it to you for 
your amusement. It is the most extravagantly 
ludicrous affair of the kind I ever saw. The 
author of it had the good hap to be crazed, 
or he had never produced anything half so 
clever ; for you will ever observe, that they 
who are said to have lost their wits have more 
than other people. It is therefore only a 
slander, with which envy prompts the malig- 
nity of persons in their senses to asperse those 
wittier'than themselves. But there are coun- 
tries in the world where the mad have justice 
done them, where they are revered as the sub- 
jects of inspiration, and consulted as oracles. 
Poor Fowle would have made a figure there. 

W. C. 



In the next letter Cowper declines writing 
further on the subject of the slave trade : the 
horrors connected with it are the reasons as- 
signed. for this refusal. His past efforts in 
that cause are the best evidence of his ability 
to write upon it with powerful effect. The 
sensitive mind of Cowper shrunk with terror 
from these appalling atrocities. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston Lodge, June 5, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — It is a comfort to me 
that you are so kind as to make allowance 
for me, in consideration of my being so busy 
a man. The truth is that, could I write with 
both hands, and with both at the same time, 
verse with one and prose with the other, I 
should not even so be able to despatch both 
my poetry and my arrears of correspondence- 
faster than I have need. The only opportu- 
nities that I can find for conversing with 
distant friends are in the early hour (and that 
sometimes reduced to half a one) before 
breakfast. Neither am I exempt from hind- 
rances, which, while they last, are insurmount- 
able ; especially one, by which I have been 
occasionally a sufferer all my life. I mean 
a.\\ inflammation of the eyes ; a malady under 
v/hich I have 'lately labored, and from which 
i am at this moment only in a small degree 
* Private correspondence. 



relieved. The last sudden change of the 
weather, from heat almost insupportable to a 
cold as severe as is commonly felt in midwin- 
ter, would have disabled me entirely for all 
sorts of scribbling, had I not favoreo. Hit, *,*;ak 
part a little, and given my eyes a respite. 

It is certain that we do not live far from 
Olney, but small as the distance is, it has too 
often the effect of a separation between the 
Beans and us. He is a man with whom, 
when I can converse at all, I can converse on 
terms perfectly agreeable to myself; who 
does not distress me with forms, nor yet dis- 
gust me by the neglect of them; whose 
manners are easy and natural, and his obser- 
vations always sensible. I often, therefore. 
wish them nearer neighbors. 

We have heard nothing of the Powleys 
since they left us, a fortnight ago, and should 
be uneasy at their silence on such an occasion, 
did we not know that she cannot write, and 
that he, on his first return to his parish after 
a long absence, may possibly find it difficult. 
Her we found much improved in her health and 
spirits, and him, as always, affectionate and 
obliging. It was an agreeable visit, and, as 
it was ordered for me, I happened to have 
better spirits than I have enjoyed at any time 
since. 

I shall rejoice if your friend Mr. Philips, 
influenced by what you told him of my present 
engagements, shall waive his applicatoin to 
me for a poem on the slave-trade. I account 
myself honored by his intention to solicit me 
on the subject, and it would give me pain to 
refuse him, which inevitably I shall be con- 
strained to do. The more I have considered 
it, the more I have convinced myself that it 
is not a promising theme for verse. General 
censure on the iniquity of the practice will 
avail nothing. The world has been over- 
whelmed with such remarks already, and to 
particularize all the horrors of it were an em- 
ployment for the mind both of the poet and 
his readers, of which they would necessarily 
soon grow weary. For my own part, I cannot 
contemplate the subject very nearly, without 
a degree of abhorrence that affects my spirits, 
and sinks them below the pitch requisite for 
success in verse. Lady Hesketh recom- 
mended it to me some months since, and then 
I declined it for these reasons, and for others 
which need not be mentioned here. 

I return you many thanks for all your in- 
telligence concerning the success of the gospel 
in far countries, and shall rejoice in a sight 
of Mr. Van Lier's letter* which, being so vo- 
luminous, I think you should bring with you, 
when you take your flight to Weston, rather 
than commit to any other conveyance. 

Remember that it is now summer, and that 

* Mr. Van Lier was a Dutch minister, to whom the 
perusal of Mr. Newton's works had been made eminently 
useful. We shall have occasion to allude to this subjecl 
in its proper place. 



the summer flies fast, and that we shall be 
happy to see you and yours as speedily and 
for as long a time as you can afford. We are 
sorry, truly so, that Mrs. Newton is so fre- 
quently and so much indisposed. Accept our 
best love to you both, and believe me, my 
dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

After what I have said on the subject of 
my writing engagements, I doubt not but you 
will excuse my transcribing the verses to Mrs. 
Montagu,* especially considering that my 
eyes are weary with what I have written this 
morning already. I feel somewhat like an 
impropriety in referring you to the next 
" Gentleman's Magazine," but at the present 
juncture I know not how to do better. 



The death of Ashley Cowper, the father of 
Lady Hesketh and of Miss Theodora Cowper, 
the object of the poet's fond and early attach- 
ment, occurred at this period, and is the sub- 
ject of the following letters. His reflections 
on this occasion are interesting and edifying. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, June 8, 1788. 
My dear Friend, — Your letter brought me 
the very first intelligence of the event it men- 
tions. My last letter from Lady Hesketh 
gave me reason enough to expect it, but the 
certainty of it was unknown to me till I 
learned it by your information. If gradual 
decline, the consequence of great age, be a 
sufficient preparation of the mind to encounter 
such a loss, our minds were certainly prepared 
to meet it ; yet to you I need not say, that no 
preparation can supersede the feelings of the 
heart on such occasions. While our friends 
yet live inhabitants of the same world with 

* These verses, " On Mrs. Montagu's Feather Hang- 
*ngs," are characterized by elegant taste and a delicate 
turn of compliment. We insert an extract from them, 
is descriptive of her evening parties in Port man-square, 
the resort of cultivated wit and fashion, and so frequently 
fclluded to in the interesting Memoirs of Mrs. More. 

To the same patroness resort, 

Secure of favor at her court, 

Strong genius, from whose forge of thought 

Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, 

Which, though new-born, with vigor move. 

Like Pallas, springing armed from Jove — 

Imagination, scattering round 

Wild roses over furrow'd ground, 

Which Labor of his frowns beguile, 

And teach Philosophy a smile — 

Wit, flashing on Religion's side, 

Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, 

The gem, though luminous before, 

Obtrude on huma/i notice more, 

Like sun-beams, on the golden height 

Of some tall temple playing bright— 

Well-tutored Learning, from his books 

Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks, 

Their order, on his shelves exact, 

Not more harmonious or compact 

Than that, to which he keeps confined 

The various treasures of his mind — 

All these to Montagu's repair, 

Ambitious ri a shelter there. 



ourselves, they seem still to live to us ; Wv 
are sure that they sometimes think of us ; and, 
however improbable it may seem, it is nevel 
impossible that we may see each other once 
again. But the grave, like a great gulf, swal 
lows all such expectations, and, in the moment 
when a beloved friend sinks into it, a thou- 
sand tender recollections awaken a regret thai 
will be felt in spite of all reasonings, and let 
our warnings have been what they may. Thus 
it is I take my last leave of poor Ashley 
whose heart towards me was ever truly paren- 
tal, and to whose memory I owe a tenderness 
and respect that will never leave me. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 10, 1788. 
My dear Coz., — Your kind letter of pre- 
caution to Mr. Gregson, sent him hither as 
soon as chapel service was ended in the 
j evening. But he found me already apprized 
I df the event that occasioned it, by a line from 
j'Sephus, received a few hours before. My 
dear uncle's death awakened in me many re- 
flections, which for a time sunk my spirits. 
| A man like him would have been . mourned 
I had he doubled the age he reached. At any 
j age his death would have been felt as a loss, 
I that no survivor could repair. And though it 
! was not probable that, for my own part, I 
j should ever see him more, yet the conscious- 
j ness that he still lived was a comfort to me. 
J Let it comfort us now, that we have lost him 
i only at a time when nature could afford him 
| to us no longer; that, as his life was blame- 
i less, so was his death without anguish, and 
! that he is gone to heaven. 1 know not that 
! human life, in its most prosperous state, can 
| present anything to our wishes half so desir- 
; able as such a close of it. 

Not to mingle this subject with others that 
! would ill suit with it, I will add no more at 
present than a warm hope, that you and your 
sister* will be able effectually to avail your- 
selves of all the consolatory matter with which 
il abounds. You gave yourselves, while he 
lived, to a father, whose life was doubtless 
prolonged by your attentions, and whose ten- 
derness of disposition made him always 
deeply sensible of your kindness in this re- 
spect, as well as in many others. His old age 
was the happiest that I have ever known, and 
I give you both joy of having had so fair an 
opportunity, and of having so well used it, U 
approve yourselves equal to the calls of such 
a duty in the sight of God and man. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 15, 1788 
Although 1 know that you must be vem 
* Miss Theodora Cowper. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



31d 



touch occupied on the present most affecting 
occasion, yet, not hearing from you, I began 
to be very uneasy on your account, and to 
fear that your health might have suffered by 
the fatigue both of body and spirits that you 
must have undergone, till a letter that reached 
me yesterday from the General* set my heart 
at rest, so far as that cause of anxiety was in 
question. He speaks of my uncle in the ten- 
derest terms, such as show how truly sensi- 
ble he was of the amiableness and excellence 
of his character, and how deeply he regrets 
his loss. We have indeed lost one who has 
not left his lika in the present generation of 
our family, and whose equal, in all respects, 
no future of it will probably produce. My 
memory retains so perfect an impression of 
him, that, had I been painter instead of poet, 
I could from those faithful traces have per- 
petuated his face and form with the most 
minute exactness ; and this I the rather won- 
der at, because some with whom I was equal- 
ly conversant five-and-twenty-years ago have 
almost faded out of all recollection with me. 
But he made impressions not soon to be 
effaced, and was in figure, in temper, in man- 
nerj and in numerous other respects, such as 
I shall never behold again. I often think 
what a joyful interview there has been be- 
tween him and some of his contemporaries 
who went before him. The truth of the 
matter is, my dear, that they are the happy 
ones, and that we shall never be such our- 
selves till we have joined the party. Can 
there be anything so worthy of our warmest 
wishes as to enter on an eternal, unchange- 
able state, in blessed fellowship and com- 
munion with those whose society we valued 
most, and for the best reasons, while they 
continued with us? A few steps more 
through a vain, foolish world, and this hap- 
piness will be yours. But be not hasty, my 
dear, to accomplish thy journey ! For of all 
that live thou art one whom I can least spare ; 
for thou also art one, who shalt not leave thy 
equal behind thee. W. C. 



The contrast between the awful scenes in 
nature, and those produced by the passions of 
men, is finely drawn in the following letter. 

TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, June 17, 1788. 

My dear Walter, — You think me, no doubt, 
a tardy correspondent, and such I am, but not 
willingly. Many hindrances have intervened, 
and the most difficult to surmount have been 
those which the east and north-east winds 
nave occasioned, breathing winter upon the 
»oses of June, and inflaming my eyes, ten 
times more sensible of the inconvenience 
than they. The vegetables of England seem, 

* General Cowper was nephew to Ashley Cowper. 



like our animals, of a hardier and bolder na- 
ture than those of other countries. In France 
and Italy flowers blow because it is warm, 
but here in spite of the cold. The season 
however is somewhat mended at present, and 
my eyes with it. Finding myself this morn- 
ing in perfect ease of body, I seize the wel- 
come opportunity to do something at least 
towards the discharge of my arrears to you. 

I am glad that you liked my song, and, if 
I liked the others myself so well as that I 
sent you, I would transcribe for you them 
also. But I sent that, because I accounted 
it the best. Slavery, and especially negro 
slavery, because the cruellest, is an odious 
and disgusting subject. Twice or thrice I 
have been assailed with entreaties to write a 
poem on that theme. But, besides that it 
would be in some sort treason against Homer 
to abandon him for any other matter, I felt 
myself so much hurt in my spirits the mo- 
ment I entered on the contemplation of it, 
that I have at last determined absolutely to 
have nothing more to do with it. There are 
some scenes of horror on which my imagina 
tion can dwell not without 'some compla- 
cence. But, then, they are such scenes as» 
God, not man, produces. In earthquakes, 
high winds, tempestuous seas, there is the 
grand as well as the terrible. But, when 
man is active to disturb, there is such mean- 
ness in the design and such cruelty* in the 
execution, that I both hate and despise the 
whole operation, and feel it a degradation of 
Poetry to employ her in the description of 
it. I hope also that the generality of my 
countrymen have more generosity in their 
nature than to want the fiddle of verse to go 
before them in the performance of an act to 
which they are invited by the loudest calls 
of humanity. 

Breakfast calls, and then Homer. 

Ever yours, W. C. 

Erratum. — Instead of Mr. Wilberforce as 
author of "Manners of the Great," read 
Hannah More. 

My paper mourns, and my seal. It is for 
the death of a venerable uncle, Ashley Cow 
per, at the age of eighty-seven. 



Cowper's description of the variations of 
climate, and their influence on the nervea 
and constitution, is what most of his readers 
probably know from frequent experience of 
their effects. 

TO MRS. KING.* 

The Lodg >, June 19, 1788. 

My dear Madam, — You must think me a 
tardy correspondent, unless you have had 
* Private corr'^ondeuc* 



814 



COV/PER'S WORKS. 



jjharity enough for me to suppose that I have 
met with other hindrances than those of in- 
dolence and inattention. With these I can- 
not charge myself, for I am never idle by 
choice; and inattentive to you I certainly 
have not been, but, on the contrary, can 
safely affirm that every day I have thought 
on you. My silence has been occasioned by 
a malady to which I have all my life been 
subject — an inflammation of the eyes. The 
Jast sudden change of weather from exces- 
sive heat to a wintry degree of cold occa- 
sioned it, and at the same time gave me a 
pinch of the rheumatic kind ; from both which 
disorders I have but just recovered. I do not 
suppose that our climate has been much al- 
tered since the days of our forefathers, the 
Picts;* but certainly the human constitution 
in this country has been altered much. Inured 
as we are from our cradles to every vicissi- 
tude in a climate more various than any 
other, and in possession of all that modern 
refinement has been able to contrive for our 
security, we are yet as subject to blights as 
the tenderest blossoms of spring; and are 
so well admonished of every change in the 
atmosphere by our bodily feelings as hardly 
to have any need of a weather-glass to mark 
them. For this we are, no doubt, indebted 
to the multitude of our accommodations ; for 
it was not possible to retain the hardiness 
that originally belonged to our race, under 
the delicate management to which for many 
years we have now been accustomed. I can 
hardly doubt that a bull-dog or a game-cock 
might be made just as susceptible of injuries 
from weather as myself, were he dieted and 
in all respects accommodated as I am. Or, 
if the project did not succeed in the first in- 
stance, (for we ourselves did not become 
what we are at once,) in process of time, 
however, and in a course of many genera- 
tions, it would certainly take effect. Let 
such a dog be fed in his infancy with pap, 
Naples biscuit, and boiled chicken; let him 
be wrapt in flannel at night, sleep on a good 
feather-bed, and ride out in a coach for an 
airing; and if his posterity do not become 
slight-limbed, puny, and valetudinarian, it 
will be a wonder. Thus our parents, and 
their parents, and the parents of both were 
managed ; and thus ourselves ; and the con- 
sequence is, that instead of being weather- 
proof, even without clothing, furs and flan- 
nels are not warm enough to defend us. It 
is observable, however, that though we have 
by these means lost much of our pristine 
rigor, our days are not fewer. We live as 
long as those whom, on account of the sturdi- 
ness of their frame, the poets supposed to 
aave been the progeny of oaks. Perhaps 
too they had little feelihg, and for that rea- 
son also might be imagined to be so de- 
* The Picts were not our ancestors. 



scended. For a very robust athletic habil 
seems inconsistent with much sensibility 
But sensibility is the sine qua non of rea 
happiness. If, therefore, our lives have not 
been shortened, and if our feelings have been 
rendered more exquisite as our habit of body 
has become more delicate, on the whole per- 
haps we have no cause to complain, but are 
rather gainers by our degeneracy. . 

Do you consider what you do when you. 
ask one poet his opinion of another ? Yet ] 
think I can give you an honest answer to 
your question, and without the least wish to 
nibble. Thomson w T as admirable in descrip- 
tion : but it always seemed to me that there 
was somewhat of affectation in his style, and 
that his numbers are sometimes not well har- 
monized. I could wish too, with Dr. John- 
son, that he had confined himself to this 
country; for, when he describes what he 
never saw, one is forced to read him with 
some allowance for possible misrepresenta- 
tion. He was, however, a true poet, and his 
lasting fame has proved it. Believe me, my 
dear madam, with my best respects to Mr. 
King, most truly yours, W. C. 

P. S. — I am extremely sorry that you have 
been so much indisposed, and hope that your 
next will bring me a more favorable account 
of your health. I know not why, but I rath- 
er suspect that you do not allow yourself 
sufficient air and exercise. The physicians 
call them non-naturals, I suppose to deter 
their patients from the use of them. 



The providence of God and the brevity of 
human life are subjects of profitable remark 
in the following letter. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, June 23, 1788. 
When I tell you that an unanswered letter 
troubles my conscience in some degree like 
a crime, you will think me endued with a 
most heroic patience, who have so long sub- 
mitted to that trouble on account of yours 
not answered yet. But the truth is, that I 
have been much engaged. Homer (you 
know) affords me constant employment; 
besides which, I have rather what may be 
called, considering the privacy with which I 
have long lived, a numerous correspondence : 
to one of my friends, in particular, a near and 
much loved relation, I write weekly, and 
sometimes twice in a week ; nor are these my 
only excuses: the sudden changes of the 
weather have much affected me, and especial 
ly with a disorder most unfavorable to let- 
ter-writing, an inflammation in my eyes 
With all these apologies, I approach you 
once more, not altogether despairing of for. 
giveness. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



31> 



It has pleased God to give us rain, with- 
out which this part of the country at least 
must soon have become a desert. The mea- 
dows have been parched to a January brown, 
and we have foddered our cattle for some 
time, as in the winter. The goodness and 
power of God are never (I believe) so uni- 
versally acknowledged as at the end of a long 
drought. Man is naturally a self-sufficient 
animal, and, in all concerns that seem to lie 
within the sphere of his own ability, thinks 
little or not at all of the need he always has 
of protection and furtherance from above. 
But he is sensible that the clouds will not 
assemble at his bidding, and that, though the 
clouds assemble, they will not fall down in 
showers, because he commands them. When 
therefore at last the blessing descends, you 
shall hear even in the streets the most irre- 
ligious and thoughtless with one voice ex- 
claim, "Thank God!" — confessing themselves 
indebted to his favor, and willing, at least so 
far as words go, to give him the glory. I 
can hardly doubt, therefore, that the earth is 
sometimes parched, and the crops endangered 
in order that the multitude may not want a 
memento to whom they owe them, nor abso- 
lutely forget the power on which all depend 
for all things. 

Our solitary part of the year is over. Mrs. 
Unwin's daughter and son-in-law have lately 
spent some time with us. We shall shortly 
receive from London our old friends the New- 
tons (he was once minister of Olney), and 
when they leave us, we expect that Lady 
Hesketh will succeed them, perhaps to spend 
the summer here, and possibly the winter 
also. The summer indeed is leaving us at 
a rapid rate, as do all the seasons ; and though 
I have marked their flight so often, I know 
not which is the swiftest. Man is never so 
deluded as when he dreams of his own du- 
ration. The answer of the old patriarch to 
Pharaoh may be adopted by every man at 
the close of the longest life : " Few and evil 
have been the days of the years of my pil- 
grimage." Whether we look back from fifty, 
or from twice fifty, the past appears equally 
a dream : and we can only be said truly to 
have lived, while we have been profitably 
employed. Alas! then, making the neces- 
sary deductions, how short is life ! Were 
men in general to save themselves all the 
steps they take to no purpose, or to a bad 
one, what numbers, who are now active, 
would become sedentary ! 

Thus I have sermonized through my pa- 
per. Living where you live, you can bear 
with me the better. I always follow the 
leading of my unconstrained thoughts, when 
( write to a friend, be they grave or other- 
wise. Homer remindstne of you every day. 

am now in the twenty-first Iliad. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

June 24, 1788. 

My dear Friend,— I rejoice that my lettei 
found you at all points so well prepared to 
answer it according to our wishes. I have 
written to Lady Hesketh to apprise her of 
your intended journey hither, and she, hav- 
ing as yet made no assignation with us her- 
self, will easily adjust her measures to the 
occasion. 

I have not lately had an opportunity of 
seeing Mr. Bean. The late rains, which have 
revived the hopes of the farmers, have inter- 
cepted our communication. I hear, how 
ever, that he meets with not a little trouble 
in his progress towards a reformation of Ol- 
ney manners ; and that the Sabbath, which 
he wishes to have hallowed by a stricter and 
more general observation of it, is, through 
the brutality of the lowest order, a day of 
more turbulence and riot than any other. 
At the latter end of last week he found him- 
self obliged to make another trip to the jus- 
tice, in company with two or three of the 
principal inhabitants. What passed I have 
not learned ; but I understand their errand 
to have been, partly at least, to efface the 
evil impressions made on his worship's mind, 
by a man who had applied a day or two be- 
fore for a warrant against the constable ; 
which, however, he did not obtain. I rather 
fear that the constables are not altogether 
judicious in the exercise either of their jus- 
tice or their mercy. Some, who may havti 
seemed proper objects of punishment, they 
have released, on a promise of better beha- 
vior ; and others, whose offence has been 
personal against themselves, though in other 
respects less guilty, they have set in the 
stocks. The ladies, however, and of course 
the ladies of Silver-End in particular, give 
them most trouble, being always' active on 
these occasions, as well as clamorous, and 
both with impunity. For the sex are priv- 
ileged in the free use of their tongues and 
of their nails, the parliament having never 
yet laid them under any penal restrictions ; 
and they employ them accordingly. Johnson, 
the constable, lost much of his skin, and 
still more of his coat, in one of those Sun- 
day battles; and had not Ashburner hast- 
ened to his aid, had probably been complete- 
ly stripped of both. With such a zeal are 
these fair ones animated, though, unfortu 
nately for all parties, rather erroneously. 

What you tell me of the effect that the 
limitation of numbers to tonnage is likely to 
have on the slave trade, gives me the great- 
est pleasure.! Should it amount, in the 
issue, to an abolition of the traffic, I shall 

* Private correspondence. 

t The credit of having introduced this regulation ii 
due to the late much respected Sir William Dolben, 



816 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



account it indeed an argument of great wis- 
dom in our youthful minister. A silent and 
indirect way of doing it, is, I suppose the 
only safe one. At the same, time, in how 
horrid a light does it place the trade itself, 
when it comes to be proved by consequences 
that the mere article of a little elbow-room 
for the poor creatures in their passage to the 
islands could not be secured by an order of 
parliament, without the utter annihilation of 
it ! If so it prove, no man deserving to be 
called a man, can say that it ought to subsist 
a moment longer. My writing time is ex- 
pended, and breakfast is at hand. With our 
joint love to the trio, and our best wishes for 
your good journey to Weston, I remain, my 
dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



The next letter contains an interesting in- 
cident, recorded of his dog Beau, and the 
verses composed on the occasion. 



TO LADY IIESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 27, 1788. 

For the sake of a longer visit, my dearest 
Coz, I can be well content to wait. The 
country, this country at least, is pleasant at 
all times, a«d when winter is come, or near 
at hand, we shall have the better chance for 
being snug. I know your passion for retire- 
ment indeed, or for what we call deedy re- 
tirement, and, the F s intending to return 

to Bath with their mother, when her visit 
at the Hall is over, you will then find here 
exactly the retirement in question. I have 
made in the orchard the best winter-walk in 
all the parish, sheltered from the east and 
from the north-east, and open to the sun, ex- 
cept at his rising, all the day. Then we will 
have Homer and Don Quixote ; and then we 
will have saunter and chat and one laugh 
more before we die. Our orchard is alive 
with creatures of all kinds ; poultry of every 
denomination swarms in it, and pigs, the 
drollest in the world ! 

I rejoice that we have a cousin Charles 
also, as well as a cousin Henry, who has had 
tne address to win the good likings of the 
Chancellor. May he fare the better for it. 
As to myself, I have long since ceased to 
have any expectations from that quarter. 
Yet, if he were indeed mortified as you say 
(and no doubt you have particular reasons 
for thinking so), and repented to that degreei 
of his hasty exertions in favor of the present 
occupant, who can tell % He wants neither 
means nor management, but can easily at 
Borne future period redress the evil, if he 
chooses to do it. But in the meantime life 
Iteals away, and shortly neither he will be 
jo. circuni stances to do m e a kindness, nor I 



to receive one at his hands. Let him make 
haste, therefore, or he will die a promise in 
my debt, which he will never be able to per- 
form.* Your; communications on this sub- 
ject are as safe as you can wish them. We 
divulge nothing but what might appear ir 
the magazine, nor that without great consid- 
eration. 

I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. 
Walking by the river-side, I observed some 
water-lilies floating at a little distance from 
the bank. They are a large white flower, 
with an orange-colored eye, very beautiful. 
I had a desire to gather one, and, having 
your long cane in my hand, by the help of it 
endeavored to bring one of them within my 
reach. But the attempt proved vain, and I 
walked forward. Beau had all the while ob- 
served me very attentively. ' Returning soon 
after toward the same place, I observed him 
plunge into the river, while I was about forty 
yards distant from him; and, when I had 
nearly reached the spot, he swam to land 
with a lily in his mouth, which he came and 
laid at my foot. 

, Mr. Rose, whom I have mentioned to you 
as a visitor of mine for the first time soon 
after you left us, writes me word that he has 
seen my ballads against the slave-mongers, 
but not in print.f Where he met with them 
I know not. Mr. Bull begged hard for leave 
to print them at Newport-Pagnel, and I re- 
fused, thinking that it would be wrong to 
anticipate the nobility, gentry, and others, at 
whose pressing instance I composed them, 
in their designs to print them. But perhaps 
I need not have been so squeamish : for the 
opportunity to publish them in London 
seems now not only ripe, but rotten. I am 
well content. There is but one of them 
with v/hich I am myself satisfied, though I 
have heard them all well spoken of. But 
there are very few things of my own com- 
position that I can endure to read, when they 
have been written a month, though at first 
they seem to me to be all perfection. 

Mrs. Unwin, who has been much the hap- 
pier since the time of your return hither h:is 
been in some sort settled, begs me to make 
her kindest remembrance. 

Yours, my dear, most truly, W. C. 

The following verses are so singularly 
beautiful, and interesting from the incident 
which gave rise to them, that, though they 
are inserted in the Poems, we cannot refrain 
from introducing them, in connexion with 
the letter which records the occasion of their 
being written. 



* Lord Thurlow, it will be remembered, pledged him 
self to make some provision for Cowper, if he became 
Lord Chancellor. 

f We have elsewhere observed that they never were 
printed ib ballads, but were inserted in his works. 



ItFE OF COWPER. 



3^ 



THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. 

No Fable. 

The noon was shady, and soft airs 

Swept Ouse's silent tide. 
When, 'scaped from literary cares, 

I wandered on his side. 

My spaniel, prettiest of his race, 

And high in pedigree, — 
Two nymphs* adorned with every grace 

That spaniel found for me, — 

Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds. 

Now starting into sight, 
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads 

With scarce a slower flight. 

It was the time when Ouse displayed 

His lilies newly blown ; 
Their beauties I intent surveyed, 

And one I wished my own. 

With cane extended far I sought 

To steer it close to land ; 
But still the prize, though nearly caught 

Escaped my eager hand. 

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains 

With fixed considerate face, 
And. puzzling, set his puppy brains 

To comprehend the case. 

But, with a chirrup clear and strong, 

Dispersing all his dream, 
[ thence withdrew, and followed lcng 

The windings of the stream. 

My ramble ended, I returned, 

Beau, trotting far before, 
The floating wreath again discerned, 

And plunging left the shore. 

I saw him, with that lily cropped, 

Impatient swim, to meet 
My quick approach, and soon he dropped 

The treasure at my feet. 

Charmed with the sight, " The world," I cried, 

<: Shall hear of this thy deed; 
My dog shall mortify the pride 

Of man's superior breed. 

' But chief myself I will enjoin — 

Awake at duty's call, 
To show a love as prompt as thine 

To Him who gives me all." 



TC JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

July 6, 1788. 

My dear Iriend, — "Bitter constraint and 
sad occasion de< r T " have compelled me to 
iraw on you for the sum of twenty pounds, 
payable to John Higgins, Esq.. or order. 
The draft bears date July 5th. You will 
excuse my giving you this trouble, in con- 
sideration that I am a poet, and can conse- 
quently draw for money much easier than 
'. can earn it. 

I heard of you a few days since, from 

* The Miss Gunnings, the daughters of Sir Robert Gun- 
ning, Bart. 
< Private correspondence. 



Walter Bagot, who called here and told me 
that you were gone, I think, into Rutland- 
shire, to settle the accounts of a large estate 
unliquidated many years. Intricacies that 
would turn my brains are play to you. But 1 
give you joy of a long vacation at hand, when 
I suppose that even you will find it pleasant, 
if not to be idle, at least not to be hemmed 
around by business. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, July 28, 1788. 

It is in vain that you tell me that you 
have no talent at description, while in fact 
you describe better than anybody. You 
have given me a most complete idea of your 
mansion and its situation; and I doubt not 
that, with your letter in my hand by way of 
map, could I be set down on the spot in a 
moment, I should find myself qualified to 
take my walks and my pastime in whatever 
quarter of your paradise it should please me 
the most to visit. We also, as you know, 
have scenes at Weston worthy of descrip- 
tion; but, because you know them well, I 
will only say, that one of them has, within 
these few days been much improved ; I mean 
the lime-walk. By the help of the axe and 
the wood-bill, which have of late been con- 
stantly employed in cutting out all strag- 
gling branches that intercepted the arch, Mr. 
Throckmorton has now defined it with such 
exactness that no cathedral in the world can 
show one of more magnificence or beauty. 
I bless myself that I live so near it ; for, 
were it distant several miles, it would be 
well worth while to visit it, merely as an ob- 
ject of taste; not to mention the refresh- 
ment of such a gloom both to the eyes and 
spirits. And these are the things which our 
modern improvers of parks and pleasure- 
grounds have displaced without mercy ; be- 
cause, forsooth, they are rectilinear. It is a 
wonder that they do not quarrel with the 
^sunbeams for the same reason. 

Have you seen the account of five hundred 
celebrated authors now living?* I am one 
of them ; but stand charged with the high 
crime and misdemeanor of totally neglecting 
method ; an accusation, which, if the gentle- 
man would take the pains to read me, he 
would find sufficiently refuted. I am con- 
scious at least myself of having labored 
much in the arrangement of my matter, and 
of having given to the several parts of every 
book of " The Task," as well as to each 
poem in the first volume, that sort of slight 
connexion which poetiy demands; for in 
poetry (except professedly of the didactk 
kind) a logical precision would be stiff, pe- 

* A book full of blunders and scandal, and destitute 
both of information and interest. 



318 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



dantie, and ridiculous. But there is no pleas- 
ing some critics ; the comfort is, that I am 
contented whether they be pleased or not. 
At the same time, to my honor be it spoken 
the chronicler of us five hundred prodigies 
bestows on me, for aught I know, more 
commendations than on any other of my 
confraternity. May he live to write the his- 
tories of as many thousand poets, and find 
me the very best among them ! Amen ! 

I join with you, my dearest coz, in wish- 
ing that I owned the fee simple of all the 
beautiful scenes around you, but such emol- 
uments were never designed for poets. Am 
I not happier than ever poet was in having 
thee for my cousin, and in the expectation 
of thy arrival here whenever Strawberry-hill* 
shall lose thee. 

Ever thine, W C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Aug. 9, 1788. 

The Newtons are still here, and continue 
with us, I believe, until the 15th of the month. 
Here is also my friend, Mr. Rose, a valuable 
young man, who, attracted by the effluvia of 
my. genius, found me out in my retirement last 
January twelvemonth. I have not permitted 
him to be idle, but have made him transcribe 
for me the twelfth book of the Iliad. He 
brings me the compliments of several of the 
literati, with whom he is acquainted in town, 
and tells me, that from Dr. Maclain,f whom 
he saw lately, he learns that my book is in the 
hands of sixty different persons at the Hague, 
who are all enchanted with it; not forget- 
ting the said Dr. Maclain himself, who tells 
him that he reads it every day, and is always 
the better for it. O rare we ! 

I have been employed this morning in 
composing a Latin motto for the king's 
clock, the embellishments of which are by 
Mr. Bacon. That gentleman breakfasted 
with us on Wednesday, having come thirty- 
seven miles out of his way on purpose to 
see your cousin. At his request I have done 
it, and have made two, he will choose that 
which liketh him best. Mr. Bacon is a most 
excellent man, and a most agreeable com- 
panion ; I would that he lived not so remote, 
or that he had more opportunity of travelling. 

There is not, so far as I know, a syllable 
of the rhyming correspondence between me 
and my poor brother left, save and except 
the six l^nes of it quoted in yours. I had 
the whole of it, but it perished in the wreck 
of a thousand other things when I left the 
Temple. 

Breakfast calls. Adieu ! W. C. 

* The celebrated seat of Lord Orford, near Richmond, 
Vhere Lady Hesketh was then visiting. 

The WPil-known translator of Mosheim's Ecclesias- 
tical Histor f, 



TO SAMUEL EOSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Aug. 18, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I left you with a sensi 
ble regret, alleviated only by the consider 
ation, that I shall see you again in October, 
I was under some concern also, lest, not 
being able to give you any certain direc- 
tions myself, nor knowing where you might 
find a guide, should you wander and fatigue 
yourself, good walker as you are, before you 
could reach Northampton. Perhaps you 
heard me whistle just after our separation ; 
it was to call back Beau, who was running 
after you with all speed to entreat you tc 
return with me. For my part, I took my 
own time to return, and did not reach home 
till after one, and then so weary that I was 
glad of my great chair ; to the comforts of 
which I added a crust, and a glass of rum 
and water, not without great occasion. Such 
a foot-traveller am I. 

I am writing on Monday, but whether I 
shall finish ray letter this morning depends 
on Mrs. Un win's coming* sooner or later 
down to breakfast. Something tells me that 
you set off to-day for Birmingham ; and 
though it be a sort of Irishism to say here, I 
beseech you take care of yourself, for the 
day threatens great heat, I cannot help it ; 
the weather may be cold enough at the time 
when that good advice shall reach you, but, 
be it hot or be it cold, to a man who travels 
as you travel, take care of yourself can never 
be an unseasonable caution. I am some- 
times distressed on this account, for though 
you are young, and well made' for such ex- 
ploits, those very circumstances are more 
likely than anything to betray you into dan- 
ger. 

Consule quid valeant plants, quid ferre re- 
cuse nt. 

The Newtons left us on Friday. We fre 
quently talked about you after your depart- 
ure, and everything that was spoken was to 
your advantage. I know they will be glad to 
see you in London, and perhaps, when your 
summer and autumn rambles are over, you 
will afford them that pleasure. The Throck- 
mortons are equally well disposed to you, 
and them also I recommend to you as a valu- 
able connexion, the rather because you can 
only cultivate it at Weston. 

I have not been idle since you went, having 
not only labored as usual at the Iliad, but 
composed a spick and span new piece, called 
" The Dog. and the Water-Lily ," which you 
shall see when we meet again. I believe 1 
related to 'you the incident which is the sub- 
ject of it. I have also read most of Lavater's 
Aphorisms: they appear to me some of them 
wise, many of them whimsical, a few of them 
false, and not a few of them extravagant 
Nil illi medium. If he fir q s in a mar fch« 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



319 



feature or quality that he approves, he deifies 
him ; if the contrary, lie is a devil. His ver- 
dict is in neither case, I suppose, a just one.* 

W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

August 28, 1788. 

My dear Madam, — Should you discard me 
from the number of your correspondents, you 
would treat me as I seem to deserve, though 
I do not actually deserve it. I have lately 
been engaged with company at our house, 
who resided with us five weeks, and have had 
much of the rheumatism into the bargain. 
Not in my fingers, you will say — True. But 
you know as well as I, that pain, be it where 
it may, indisposes us to writing. 
• You express some degree of wonder that 
I found you out to be sedentary, at least 
much a stayer within doors, without any suf- 
ficient data for my direction. Now, if I 
should guess your figure and stature with 
equal success, you will deem me not only a 
poet but a conjurer. Yet in fact I have no 
pretensions of that sort. I have only formed 
a picture of you in my own imagination, as 
,ve ever do of a person of whom we think 
much, though we have never seen that person. 
Your height I conceive to be about rive feet 
five inches, which, though it would make a 
short man, is yet height enough for a woman. 
If you insist on an inch or two more, I have 
no objection. You are not very fat, but 

* Cowper's strictures on Lavater are rather severe ; in 
a subsequent letter we shall find that he expresses him- 
self almost in the language of a disciple. We believe 
all men to be physiognomists, that is, they are guided iu 
their estimate of one another by external impressions, 
until they are furnished with better data to determine 
their judgment. The countenance is often the faithful 
mirror of the inward emotions of the soul, in jhe same 
manner as the light and shade on the mountain's side 
exhibit the variations of the atmosphere. In the curious 
and valuable cabinet of Denon, in Paris, which was sold 
in 18'27, two casts taken from Robespierre and Marat 
were singularly expressive of the atrocity of their charac- 
ter. The cast of an idiot, in the same collection, denoted 
the total absence of intellect. But, whatever may be our 
sentiments on this subject, there is one noble act of bene- 
volence which has justly endeared the name of Lavater 
to his country. We allude to the celebrated Orphan In- 
stitution at Zurich, of which he was the founder. It is 
a handsome and commodious establishment, where these 
interesting objects of humanity receive a suitable educa- 
tion, and are fitted for future usefulness. The church is 
shown where John Gaspar Lavater officiated, surrounded 
by his youthful auditory ; and an humble stone in the 
churchyard briefly records his name and virtues. His 
own Orphan-house is the most honorable monument of 
his fame. It is in visiting scenes like these that we feel 
the moral dignity of our nature, that the heart becomes 
expanded with generous emotions, and that we learn to 
imitate that Divine Master, who went about doing sood. 
The Editor could not avoid regretting that, in his own 
country, where charity assumes almost every possible 
form, the Orphan-house is of rare occurrence, though 
abounding in most of the cities of Switzerland. Where 
are the philanthropists of Bristol, Birmingham, Liver- 
pool, Manchester, Norwich, and of our other great 
towns"? Surely, to wipe away the tear from the cheek 
of the orphan, to rescue want from destitution and un- 
protected innocence from exposure to vice and ruin, 
must ever b< - considered to be one of the noblest efforts 
»f ("hristiaL benevolence. 

t Privale correspondence. 



somewhat inclined to be fat, and unless you 
allow yourself a little more air and exercise 
will incur some danger of exceeding in your 
dimensions before you die. Let me, there- 
fore, once more recommend to you to walk a 
little more, at least in. your garden, and to 
amuse yourself occasionally with pulling up 
here and there a weed, for it will be an incon- 
venience to you to be much fatter than you 
are, at a time of life when your strength will 
be naturally on the decline. I have given 
you a fair complexion, a slight tinge of the 
rose in your cheeks, dark brown hair, and, if 
the fashion would give you leave to show it, 
an open and well-formed forehead. To all 
this I add a pair of eyes not quite black, but 
nearly approaching to that hue, and very an- 
imated. I have not absolutely determined 
on the shape of your nose, or the form of 
your mouth ; but should you tell me that I 
have in other respects drawn a tolerable like- 
ness, have no doubt but I can describe them 
too. I assure you that though I have a great 
desire to read him, I have never seen Lava- 
ter, nor have availed myself in the least of 
any of his rules on this occasion. Ah, 
madam ! if with all that sensibility of yours, 
which exposes you to^so much sorrow, and 
necessarily must expose you to it, i» a world 
like this, I have had the good fortune to make 
you smile, I have then painted you, whether 
with a strong resemblance, or with none at 
all, to very good purpose.* 

I had intended to have sent you a little 
poem, which I have lately finished, but have 
no room to transcribe it.f You shall have it 
by another opportunity. Breakfast is on the 
table, and my time also fails, as well as my 
paper. I rejoice that a cousin of yours found 
my volumes agreeable to him, for, being your 
cousin, I will be answerable for his good 
taste and judgment. 

When I wrote last, I was in mourning for 
a dear and much-valued uncle, Ashley Cow- 
per. He died at the age of eighty-six. My' 
best respects attend Mr. King: and I am, 
dear madam, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J 

Weston Lodge, Sept. 2, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you and 
yours reached London safe, especially when 
I reflect that you performed the journey on a 
day so fatal, as I understand, to others trav- 
elling the same road. I found those com. 
forts in your visit which have formerly sweet 
ened all our interviews, in part restored. ] 
knew you ; knew you for the same shepherd 

* Cowper's fancy was never more erroneously em 
ployed. The portrait he here draws of Mrs. King- poa 
sessed no resemblance to the original. 

t The Dog and the Water-Lilv, 

j Private correspondence. 



320 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



who was sent to lead me out of the wilder- 
ness into the pasture where the chief Shep- 
herd feeds his flock, and felt my sentiments 
of affectionate friendship for you the same as 
ever.* But one thing was still wanting, and 
that thing the crown of all. I shall find it 
in God's time, if it be not lost forever. 
When I say this, I say it trembling ; for at 
what time soever comfort shall come, it will 
not come without its attendant evil; and, 
whatever good thing may occur in the inter- 
val, I have sad forebodings of the event, 
having learned by experience that I was born 
to be persecuted with peculiar fury, and as- 
suredly believing, that, such as my lot has 
been, it will be so to the end. This belief is 
connected in my mind wLh an observation I 
have often made, and is pt rhaps founded in 
great part upon it : that there is a certain 
style of dispensations maintained by Provi- 
dence in the dealings of God with every man, 
which, however the incidents of his life may 
t/ary, and though he may be thrown into many 
different situations, is never exchanged for 
another. The style of dispensation peculiar 
to myself has hitherto been that of sudden, 
violent, unlooked-for change. When I have 
thought myself falling into ^he abyss, I have 
been caught up again ; when I have thought 
myself on the threshold of a happy eternity, 
I have been thrust down to hell. The rough 
and the smooth of such a lot, taken together, 
should perhaps have taught me never to de- 
spair ; but, through an unhappy propensity in 
my nature to forebode the worst, they have 
on the contrary operated as an admonition to 
me never to hope. A firm persuasion that I 
can never durably enjoy a comfortable state 
of mind, but must be depressed in proportion 
as I have been elevated, withers my joys in 
the bud, and, in a manner, entombs them be- 
fore they are born ; for I have no expectation 
but of sad vicissitude, and ever believe that 
the last shock of all will be fatal. 

Mr. Bean has still some trouble with his 
parishioners. The suppression of five public- 
houses is the occasion.f He called on me 
yesterday morning for advice : though, dis- 
creet as he is himself, he has little need of 

such council as I can give him. , who 

is subtle as a dozen foxes, met him on Sun- 
day, exactly at his descent from the pulpit, 
and proposed to him a general meeting of the 

* It was a singular delusion under which Cowper 
labored, and seems to be inexplicable ; but it is not less 
true that for many years, he doubtei the identity of Mr. 
Newton. When we see the powers of a great mind liable 
to such instances of delusion, and occasionally suffering 
an entire eclipse, how irresistibly are we led to ex- 
claim, " Lord, what is man !" 

t The late Rev. H. Colbourne Ridley, the excellent 
vicar of Hambleden, near Henley-on-Thames, distin- 
guished for his parochial plan? and general devotedness 
to his professional duties, once observed that the fruit of 
all his labors, during a residence of five-and-twenty years, 
was destroyed in one single year by the introduction of 
beer-houses, and their demoralizing effects. 



parish in vestry on the subject. Mr. Bean 
'attacked so suddenly, consented, but after- 
wards repented that he had done so, assured 
■as he was that he should be out-voted. 
There seemed no remedy but to apprise them 
beforehand that he would meet them indeed, 
but not with a view to have the question de- 
cided by a majority : that he would take that 
opportunity to make his allegations against 
each of the houses in question, which if they 
could refute, well : if not, they could no 
longer reasonably oppose his measures. — 
This was what he came to submit to my 
opinion. I could do no less than approve it; 
and he left me with a purpose to declare his 
mind to them immediately. 

I beg that you will give m'y affectionate 
respects to Mr. Bacon, and assure him of my 
sincere desire that he should think himself 
perfectly at liberty respecting the mottoes, to 
choose one or to reject both, as likes him 
best. I wish also to be remembered with 
much affection to Mrs. Cowper, and always 
rejoice to hear of her well-being. 

Believe me, as I truly am, my dear friend, 
most affectionately yours, 

W. C 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Sept. 11, 178b. 

My dear Friend, — Since your departure 1 
have twice visited the oak, and with an inten- 
tion to push my inquiries a mile beyond it, 
where it seems I should have found another 
oak, much larger and much more respectable 
than the former : but once I was hindered b) 
the rain, and once by the sultriness of the 
day. This latter oak has been known by the 
name of Judith many ages, and is said to 
have been an oak at the time of the Con- 
quest.* If I have not an opportunity to 
reach it before your arrival here, we will at- 
tempt that exploit together, and even if I 
should have been able to visit it ere you come, 
I shall yet be glad to do so, for the pleasure 
of extraordinary sights, like all other pleas- 
ures, is doubled by the participation of a 
friend. 

You wish for a copy of my little dog's eulo- 

* This celebrated oak, which is situated in Yardley 
Chase, near Lord Northampton's residence at Castle 
Ashby, has furnished the muse of Cowper with an occa- 
sion for displaying all the graces of his rich poetica. 
fancy. The poem will be inserted in a subsequent part 
of the work. In the meantime we extract the following 
lines from "The Task," to show how the descriptive 
powers of Cowper were awakened by this favorite and 
inspiring subject. 

« The oak 

Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm : 

He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 

The impression of the blast with proud disdain. 

Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 

He held the thunder ; but the monarch owes 

His firm stability to what he scorns, 

More fixed below, the more disturb'd above." 

The Soft 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



321 



gium, which I will therefore transcribe, but 
by so doing I shall leave myself but scanty 
room for prose. 

I shall be sorry if our neighbors at the Hall 
should have left it, when we have the pleasure 
of seeing you. I want you to see them soon 
again, that a little consueludo may wear off 
restraint ; and you may be able to improve 
the advantage you have already gained in that 
quarter. I pitied you for the fears which de- 
prived you of your uncle's company, and the 
more having suffered so much by those fears 
myself. Fight against that vicious fear, for 
such it is, as strenuously as you can. It is 
the worst enemy that can attack a man de- 
stined to the forum — it ruined me. To asso- 
ciate as much as possible with the most re- 
spectable company, for good sense and good 
breeding is, I believe the only, at least T am 
sure it is the best remedy. The society of 
men of pleasure will not cure it, but rather 
leaves us more exposed to its influence in 
company of better persons. 

Now for the " Dog and the Water-Lily."* 

W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

Weston Lodge, Sept. 25, 1788. 

My dearest Madam, — How surprised was I 
this moment to meet a servant at the gate, 
who told me that he came from you. He 
2ould not have been more welcome unless 
he had announced yourself. I am charmed 
with your kindness, and with all your elegant 
presents ; so is Mrs. Unwin, who begs me in 
particular to thank you warmly for the house- 
wife, the very thing she had just begun to 
want. In the firescreen you have sent me an 
enigma which at present I have not the inge- 
nuity to expound ; but some muse will help 
me, or I shall meet with somebody able to 
instruct me. In all that I have seen besides, 
for that I have not yet seen, I admire both 
the taste and the execution. A toothpick 
case I had ; but one so large, that no modern 
waistcoat pocket could possibly contain it. 
It was some years since the Dean of Dur- 
ham's, for whose sake I valued it, though to 
me useless. Yours is come opportunely to 
supply the deficiency, and shall be my con- 
stant companion to its last thread. The 
cakes and apples ve will eat, remembering 
who sent them, anil when I say this, I will 
add also, that when we have neither apples 
nor cakes to eat, w«- will still remember yon. 
What the MS. poem can be, that you sup- 
pose to have been written by me, I am not 
able to guess ; and since you will not allow 
that I have guessed your person well, am be- 
come shy of exercising conjecture on any 
meaner subject. Perhaps they may be some 

* This has already been inserted. 
t Private correspondence. 



mortuary verses, which I wrote last year, at 
the request of a certain parish-clerk. If not, 
and you have never seen them, I will send 
you them hereafter. 

You have been at Bedford. Bedford lei but 
twelve miles from Weston. When you are 
at home, we are but eighteen miles asunder. 
Is it possible that such a paltry interval can 
separate us always ? I will never believe it. 
Our house is going to be filled by a cousin 
of mine and her train, who will, I hope, spend 
the winter with us. I cannot, therefore, re- 
peat my invitation at present, but expect me 
to be very troublesome on that theme nexf 
summer. I could almost scold you for no 
making Weston in your way home from Bed- 
ford. Though I am neither a relation, nor 
quite eighty-six years of age,* believe me, I 
should as much rejoice to see you and Mr. 
King, as if I were both. 

I send you, my dear madam, the poem I 
promised you, and shall be g^d to send you 
anything and everything I write, as fast as 
it flows. Behold my two volumes ! which, 
though your old acquaintance, I thought 
might receive an additional recommendation 
in the shape of a present from myself. 

What I have written I know not, for all 
has been scribbled in haste. I will not tempt 
your servant's honesty, who seems by his 
countenance to have a great deal, being equal- 
ly watchful to preserve uncorrupted the hon- 
esty of my own. 

I am, my dearest madam, with a thousand 
thanks for this stroke of friendship, which I 
feel at my heart, and with Mrs. Unwin's verv 
best respects, most sincerely yours, 

W. C. 

P. S. My two hares died little more than 
two years since, one of them aged ten years, 
the other eleven years and eleven months.f 

Our compliments attend Mr. King 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Sept. 25, 17,88. 

My near Friend, — 

Say what is the thing, by my nddle design'd. 
Which you carried to London, and vet left behind. 

I expect your answer, and without a fee. — 
The half hour next before breakfast I devote 
to yod. The moment Mrs. Unwin arrives in 
the study, be what I have written much or 
little, I shall make my bow, and take leave. 
If you live to be a judge, as, if I augur right, 
you will, I shall expect to hear of a walking 
circuit. 

1 was shocked at what you tell me of • 

* Mrs. Battison, a relative of Mrs. King's, and at tbia 
advanced age, was in a very declining state of health. 

t There is a little memoir of Cowper's hares, written 
by himself, which will be inserted in his works. 
21 



&22 



COWPER'S WORKS 



superior talents, it seems, give no security 
for propriety of conduct ; on the contrary, 
having- a natural tendency" to nourish pride, 
they often betray the possessor into such 
mistakes as men more moderately gifted nev- 
er commit. Ability, therefore, is not wis- 
dom, and an ounce of grace is a better guard 
against gross absurdity than the brightest 
talents in the world. 

I rejoice that you are prepared for tran- 
script work: here will be plenty for you. 
The day on which you shall receive this, I 
beg you will remember to drink one glass at 
least to the success of the Iliad, which I fin- 
ished the day before yesterday, and yesterday 
began the Odyssey. It will be some time 
before I shall perceive myself travelling in 
anotKrtrroad; the objects around me are at 
present so much the same ; Olympus, and a 
council of gods, meet me at my first entrance. 
To tell you the truth, I am weary of heroes 
and deities, and, with reverence be it spoken, 
shall be glad for variety's sake, to exchange 
their company tor that of a Cyclops. 

Weston has not been without its tragedies 
since you left us ; Mrs. Throckmorton's piping 
bullfinch has been eaten by a rat, and the 
villain left nothing but poor Bully's beak be- 
hind him. It will be a wonder if this event 
does not at some convenient time employ my 
versifying passion. Did ever fair lady, from 
the Lesbia of Catullus to the present day, 
lose her bird, and find no poet to commem- 
orate the loss? W. C. 



Cowper here gives an amusing account 
of the manner in which he employed his 
nours of recreation, at different periods of his 
life. 

TO MRS. KING * 

Weston Lodge, Oct. 11, 1788. 
My dear Madam, — You are perfectly secure 
from all danger of being overwhelmed with 
presents from me. It is not much that a 
poet can possibly have it in his power to 
give. When he has presented his own 
works, he may be supposed to have exhaust- 
ed all means of donation. They are his only 
superfluity. There was a time, but that time 
was before ] commenced writer for the press, 
when I amused myself in a way somewhat 
similar to yours ; allowing, I mean, for the 
difference between masculine and female op- 
erations. The scissors and the needle are 
your chief implements ; mine were the chisel 
and the saw. In those days you might have 
been in some danger of too plentiful a return 
for your favors. Tables, such as they were, 
and joint-stools, such as never were, might 
have travelled to Perten-hall in most incon- 
venient abundance. But I have long since 
* Private correspondence. 



discontinued this practice, and many other* 
which I found it necessary to adopt that I 
might escape the worst of all evils, both" in 
itself and in its consequences — an idle life. 
Many arts I have exercised with this view, for 
which nature never designed me; though 
among them were some in which I arrived at 
considerable proficiency, by mere dint of the 
most heroic perseverance. There is not a 
'squire. in all this country who can boast of 
having made better squirrel-houses, hutches 
for rabbits, or bird-cages, than myself; and in 
the article of cabbage-nets I had no superior. 
I even had the hardiness to take in hand the 
pencil, and studied a whole year the art of 
drawing. Many figures were the fruit of my 
labors, which had, at least, the merit of being 
unparalleled by any production either of art 
or nature. But, before the year was ended, 
I had occasion to wonder at the progress that 
may be made, in despite of natural deficiency, 
by dint alone of practice ; for I actually pro- 
duced three landscapes, which a lady thought 
worthy to be framed and glazed. I then 
judged it high time to exchange this occupa- 
tion for another, lest, by any subsequent pro- 
ductions of inferior merit, I should forfeit the 
honor I had so' fortunately acquired. But 
gardening was, of all employments, that in 
which I succeeded best; though even in this 
I did not suddenly attain perfection. I began 
with lettuces and cauliflowers : from them I 
proceded to cucumbers ; next to melons. I 
then purchased an orange tree, to which, in 
due time, I added two or three myrtles. 
These served me day and night with employ- 
ment during a whole severe winter. To de- 
fend them from the frost, in a situation that 
exposed them to its severity, cost me much 
ingenuity and much attendance. I contrived 
to give them a fire heat; and have waded 
night after night through the snow, with 
the bellows under my arm, just before go- 
ing to bed, to give the latest possible puff* 
to the embers, lest the frost should seize 
them before the morning. Very minute be- 
ginnings have sometimes important conse- 
quences. From nursing two or three little 
evergreens, I became ambitious of a green- 
house, and accordingly built one ; which, 
verse excepted, afforded me amusement for a 
longer time than any expedient of all the 
many to which I have "fled for i efuge from the 
misery of having nothing to (Jo. When I left 
Olney for Weston, I could no longer have a 
greenhouse of my own ; but in a neighbor's 
garden I find a better, of which the sole man- 
agement is confined to me. 

I had need take care, when I begin a letter 
that the subject with which I set off be of 
some importance; for before I can exhaust it, 
be it what it may, I have generally filled my 
piper. But self is a subject inexhaustible, 
which is the reason that though I have said 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



32ft 



»fttle, and nothing, I am afraid, worth your 
hearing, I have only room to add that I am, 
my dear madam, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

The Lodge, Nov. 29, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — Not to fill my paper with 
apologies, I will only say that you know my 
occupation, and how little time it leaves me 
for other employments ; in which, had I leis- 
ure for them, I could take much pleasure. 
Letter- writing could be one of the most 
agreeable, and especially writing to you. 

Poor Jenny Raban is declining fast to- 
wards the grave, and as fast aspiring to the 
skies. I expected to have heard yesterday 
of her death ; but learned, on inquiry, that 
she was better. Dr. Kerr has seen her, and, 
by virtue I suppose of his prescriptions, her 
fits, with which she was frequently troubled, 
are become less frequent. But there is no 
reason, I believe, to look for her recovery. 
Her case is a consumption, into which I saw 
her sliding swiftly in the spring. There is 
not much to be lamented, or that ought to 
be so, in the death of those that go to glory. 

If you find many blots, and my writing 
illegible, you must pardon them, in consider- 
ation of the cause. Lady Hesketh and Mrs. 
(Jnwin are both talking as if they designed 
to make themselves amends for the silence 
they are enjoined while I sit translating 
Homer. Mrs. Unwin is preparing the break- 
fast, and, not having seen each other since 
they parted to go to bed, they have conse- 
quently a deal to communicate. 

I have seen Mr. Greatheed, both in his 
own house and here.f Prosperity sits well 
on him, and 1 cannot find that this advan- 
tageous change in his condition has made 
anv alteration either in his view T s or his be- 
havior. The winter is gliding merrily away, 
while my cousin is with us. She annihilates 
the difference between cold and heat, gloomy 
skies and cloudless. I have written I know 
not what, and with the despatch of legerde- 
main ; but with the utmost truth and con- 
sciousness of what I say, assure you, my 
dear friend, that I am 

Ever yours, W. C. 



10 SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 30, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — Your letter accompany- 
ing the books with which you have favored 
me, and for which I return you a thousand 
thanks, did not arrive till yesterday. I shall 
have great pleasure in taking now and then 

* Private correspondence. 

, Mr. Greatheed was now residing at Newport-Pagnel, 
ind exercising his ministry there. 



a peep at my old friend Vincent Bourne ; th« 
neatest of all men in his versification, though, 
when I was under his ushership at West- 
minster, the most slovenly in his person 
He was so inattentive to his boys, and so in 
different whether they brought him good or 
bad exercises, or none at all, that he seemed 
determined, as he was the best, so to be the 
last Latin poet of the Westminster line ; a 
plot which, I believe, he executed very suc- 
cessfully, for I have not heard of any who 
has deserved to be compared with him*. 

We Have had hardly any rain or snow since 
you left us ; the roads are accordingly as dry 
as in the middle of summer, and the opportu- 
nity of walking much more favorable. We 
have no season, in my mind, so pleasant as 
such a winter ; and I account it particularly 
fortunate, that such it proves, my cousin be- 
ing with us. She is in good health, and 
cheerful, so are we all ; and this I say, know- 
ing you will be glad to hear it, for you have 
seen the time when this could not be said of 
all your friends at Weston. We shall re- 
joice to see you here at Christmas; but I 
recollect, when I hinted such an excursion by 
word of mouth, you gave me no great en- 
couragement to expect you. Minds alter, 
and yours may be of the number of those 
that do so ; and, if it should, you will be en- 
tirely welcome to us all. Were there no 
other reason for your coming than merely the 
pleasure it will afford to us, that reason alone 
would be sufficient : but, after so many toils, 
and with so many more in prospect, it seems 
essential to your well-being that you should 
allow yourself a respite, which perhaps you 
can take as comfortably (I am sure as quietly) 
here as anywhere. 

The ladies beg to be remembered to you 
with all ' possible esteem and regard ; they 
are just come down to breakfast, and. being 
at this moment extremely talkative, oblige 
me to put an end to my letter. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

The Lodge, Dec. 6, 1788. 

My dear Madam, — It must, if you please. 
be a point agreed between us, that we will 
not make punctuality in writing the test of 
our regard for each other, lest we should incur 
the danger of pronouncing and suffeiing by 
an unjust sentence, and this mutually. I 
have told you, I believe, that the half hour 
before breakfast is my only letter- writing 
opportunity. In summer I rise rather early 
and consequently at that season can fine 
more time for scribbling than at present. If 
I enter my study now before nine, I find al, 
at sixes and sevens ; for servants will take, 
in part at least, the liberty claimed by thei 
* Private con espondence. 



324 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



toasters. That you may not suppose us all 
sluggard alike, it is necessary, however, that 
I should add a word or two on this subject, 
in justification of Mrs. Unwin, who, because 
the days are too short for the important con- 
cerns of knitting stockings and mending 
them, rises generally by candle-light; a prac- 
tice so much in the. style of all the ladies of 
antiquity who were good for anything, that 
it is impossible not to applaud it. 

Mrs. Battison being dead, I began to fear 
that you would have no more calls to Bedford; 
but the marriage so near at hand, of the 
young lady you mention with a gentleman of 
that place, gives me hope again that you may 
occasionally approach us as heretofore, and 
that on some of those occasions you will 
perhaps find your way to Weston. The 
deaths of some and the marriages of others 
make a new world of it every thirty years. 
Within that space of time, the majority are 
displaced, and a new generation has suc- 
ceeded. Here and there one is permitted to 
stay a little longer, that there may not be 
wanting a few grave Dons like myself, to 
make the observation. This thought struck 
me very forcibly, the other day, on reading a 
paper called the County Chronicle, which 
came hither in the package of some books 
from London. It contained news from 
Hertfordshire, and informed me, among other 
things, that at Great Berkhamstead, the place 
of my birth, there is hardly a family left of 
all those with whom, in my early days, I was 
so familiar. The houses, no doubt, remain, 
but the inhabitants are only to be found now 
by their grave-stones ; and it is certain that 
I might pass through a town, in which I was 
once a sort of principal figure^, unknowing 
and unknown. They are happy who have 
not taken up their rest in a world fluctuat- 
ing as the sea, and passing away with the 
rapidity of a river. I wish to my heart that 
yourself and Mr. King may long continue, as 
you have already long continued, exceptions 
from the general truth of this remark. You 
doubtless married early, and the thirty-six 
years elapsed may have yet other years to 
succeed them. I do not forget that your re- 
lation Mrs. Battison lived to the age of 
eighty-six. I am glad of her longevity, be- 
cause it seems to afford some assurance of 
yours ; and I hope to know you better yet 
before you die. 

I have never seen the Observer, but am 
pleased with being handsomely spoken of by 
an old school-fellow. Cumberland* and I 
boarded together in the same house at West- 
minster. He was at that time clever, and I 
suppose has given proof sufficient to the 
world that he is still clever : but of all that 
he has written, it has never fallen in my way 

* Autbor cf the "Observer," "the West Indian," and 
•£ beveral dramatic pieces. 



to read a syllable, except perhaps in a ma^a. 
zine or review, the sole sources, at present, 
of all my intelligence. Addison speaks of 
persons who grow dumb in the study of elo- 
quence, and I have actually studied Homer 
till I am become a mere ignoramus in every 
other province of literature. 

My letter-writing time is spent, and I must 
now to Homer. With my best respects to 
Mr. King, I remain, dear madam, 

Most affectionately yours, 

W. C. 

P. S. When I wrote last, I told you, 1 
believe, that Lady Hesketh was with us. 
She is with us now, making a cheerful winter 
for us at Weston. The acquisition of a new 
friend, and, at a late day, the recovery of the 
friend of our youth, are two of the chief 
comforts of which this life is susceptible. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.^ 

The Lodge, Dec. 9, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — That I may return you 
the Latin manuscript as soon as possible,! I 
take a short opportunity to scratch a few 
hasty lines, that it may not arrive alone. J 
have made here and there an alteration, 
which appeared to me for the better ; but on 
the whole, I cannot but wonder at your 
adroitness in a business to which you have 
been probably at no time much accustomed, 
and which, for many years, you have not at 
all practised. If, when you shall have writ- 
ten the whole, you shall wish for a corrector 
of the rest, so far as my own skill in the 
matter goes, it is entirely at your service. 

Lady Hesketh is obliged to you for the 
part of your letter in which she is mentioned, 
and returns her compliments. She loves all 
my friends, and consequently cannot be in- 
different to you. The Throckmortons are 
gone into Norfolk, on a visit to Lord Petre. 
They will probably return this day fortnight, 

Mr. F is now preacher at Ravenstone. 

Mr. C still preaches here. The latter is 

warmly attended. The former has heard 
him, having, I suppose, a curiosity to know 
by what charm he held his popularity ; but 
whether he has heard him to his own edifi- 
cation, or not, is more than I can say. Prob- 
ably he wonders, for I have heard that he is 
a sensible man. His successful competitor 

* Private correspondence. 

t We have already alluded to Mr. Van Lier, a Dutch 
minister of the Reformed Church, to whom the perusal 
of Mr. Newton's writings was made instrumental in lead- 
ing his mind to clear and saving impressions of divine 
truth. He communicated to Mr. Newton an interesting 
account of this spiritual change of mind, in the Latin 
manuscript here mentioned, which was transmitted to 
Cowper, and afterward translated by him, and published 
by Mr. Newton. It is entitled " The Power of Grace Illus- 
trated," and will be more particularly adverted tc in a 
subsequent part of this book. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



321 



is wise in nothing but his knowledge of the 
gospel. 

I am summoned to breakfast, and am, my 
dear friend, with our best love to Mrs. New- 
ton, Miss Catlett, and yourself, 

Most affectionately yours, W. C. 

I have not the assurance to call this an 
answer to your letter, in which were many 
things deserving much notice ; but it is the 
best that, in the present moment, I am able 
to send you. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Jan. 13, 1789. 

Dear Sir, — I have taken since you went 
away many of the walks which we have taken 
together, and. none of them, I believe, with- 
out thoughts of you. I have, though not a 
good memory in general, yet a good local 
memory, and can recollect, by the help of a 
tree or stile, what you said on that particular 
spot. For this reason I purpose, when the 
summer is come, to walk with a book in my 
pockets : what I read at my fireside I forget, 
but what I read under a hedge, or at the side 
of a pond, that pond and that hedge will al- 
ways bring to my remembrance ; and this is 
a sort of memoria technica, which I would 
recommend to you, if I did not know that 
you have no occasion for it. 

I am reading Sir John Hawkins, and still 
hold the same opinion of his book as when 
you were here.* There are in it undoubt- 
edly some awkwardnesses of phrase, and 
which is worse, here and there, some unequi- 
vocal indications of a vanity not easily par- 
donable in a man of his years ; but on the 
whole I find it amusing, and to me at least, 
to whom everything that has passed in the 
literary world, within these five-and-twenty 
years, is new, sufficiently replete with infor- 
mation. Mr. Throckmorton told me, about 
three days since, that it was lately recom- 
mended to him by a sensible man, as a book 
that would give him great insight into the 
history of modern literature, and modern 
men of letters, a commendation which I 
really think it merits. Fifty years hence, 
perhaps, the world will feel itself obliged to 
him. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Jan. 24, 1789. 

My dear Sir, — We have heard from my 
cousin in Norfolk-street ; she reached home 
safely, and in good time. An observation 
suggests itself, which, though I have but 
little time for observation making, I must al- 

* Sir John Hawkins is known as the author of four 
quarto volumes on the general History of Music, and by 
t Life of Johnson. The former is now superseded by 
Burney's, and the latter by Boswell's. 



low myself time to mention. Accidents, as 
we call them, generally occur when ther# 
seems least reason to expect them; if I 
friend of ours travels far in different roads 
and at an unfavorable season, we are reason- 
ably alarmed for the safety of one in whom 
we take so much interest, yet how seldom 
do we hear a tragical account of such a jour- 
ney ! " It is, on the contrary, at home, in our 
yard, or garden, perhaps in our parlor, that 
disaster finds us; in any place, in short, 
where we seem perfectly out of the reach of 
danger. The lesson inculcated by such a 
procedure on the part of Providence towards 
us seems to be that of perpetual dependence. 
Having preached this sermon, I must 
hasten to a close ; you know that I am not 
idle, nor can I afford to be so; I would 
gladly spend more time with you, but, by 
some means or other, this day has hitherto 
proved a day of hindrance and confusion. 

W. C 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Jan. 29, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — I shall be a better, at 
least a more frequent correspondent, when I 
have done with Homer. I am not forgetful 
of any letters that I owe, and least of all 
forgetful of my debts m that way to you; 
on the contrary, I live in a continual state ot 
self-reproach for not writing more punctually ; 
but the old Grecian, whom I charge my sell 
never to neglect, lest I should never finish 
him, has, at present, a voice that seems to 
drown all other demands, and many to which 
I could listen with more pleasure than even 
to his Os rotundum. I am ' now in the 
eleventh book of the Odyssey, conversing 
with the dead. Invoke the muse in my be- 
half, that I may roll the stone of Sisyphus 
with some success. To do it as Homer has 
done it is, I suppose, in our verse and lan- 
guage, impossible ; but I will hope not to 
labor altogether to as little purpose as Sisy- 
phus himself did. 

Though I meddle little with politics, and 
can find but little leisure to do so, the pres- 
ent state of things unavoidably engages a 
share of my attention. But, as they say, 
Archimides, when Syracuse was taken, was 
found busy in the solution of a problem, so, 
come what may, I shall be found translating 
Homer. 

Sincerely yours, W. C. # 



TO MRS. KING.* 

The Lodge, Jan. 29, 1789. 

My dear Madam, — This morning I saH U 
Mrs. Unwin, "I must write to Mrs. King 
her long silence alarms me — something ha 
* Private correspc ndence. 



326 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



nappened." These words of mine proved 
only a prelude to the arrival of your mes- 
senger with his most welcome charge, for 
which I return you my sincerest thanks. 
You have sent me the very things I wanted, 
and which I should have continued to want, 
had not you sent them. As often as the 
wine is set on the table, I have said to my- 
self, " This is all very well ; but I have no 
bottle-stands ;" and myself as often replied, 
"No matter; you can make shift without 
them." Thus I and myself have conferred 
together many a day ; and you, as if you had 
been .privy to the conference, have kindly 
supplied the deficiency, and put an end to the 
debate forever. 

When your messenger arrived, I was be- 
ginning to dress for dinner, being engaged to 
dine with my neighbor, Mr. Throckmorton, 
from whose house I am just returned, and 
snatch a few moments before supper to tell 
you how much I am obliged to you. You 
will not, therefore, find me very prolix at 
present; but it shall not be long before you 
shall hear further from me. Your honest 
old neighbor sleeps under our roof, and will 
be gone in the morning before I shall have 
seen him. 

I have more items than one by which to 
vemember the late frost: it has cost me the 
bitterest uneasiness. Mrs. Unwin got a fall 
on the gravel-walk covered with ice, which 
has confined, her to an upper chamber ever 
since. She neither broke nor dislocated any 
bones ; but received such a contusion below 
the hip, as crippled her completely. She 
now begins to recover, after having been 
helpless as a child for a whole fortnight, but 
so slowly at present, that her amendment is 
even now almost imperceptible. 

Engaged, however, as 1 am with my own 
private anxieties, I yet find leisure to interest 
myself not a little in the distresses of the 
royal family, especially in those of the 
Queen* The Lord-Chancellor called the 
other morning on Lord Stafford: entering 
the room, he threw his hat into a sofa at the 
fireside, and, clasping his hands, said, " I have 
heard of distress, and I have read of it; but 
[ never saw distress equal to that of the 

* The unfortunate malady of George III. is here alluded 
(O, which first occurred after a previous indisposition, 
October 22nd, 1788. The nation was plunged in grief by 
-his calamitous event, and a regency appointed, to the 
axclusion of the Prince of Wales, which occasioned much 
discussion in Parliament at that time. Happily the 
King's illness was only of a few month's duration : his 
^covery was announced to be complete, Feb. 27, 1789. 
Few monarchs have been more justly venerated than 
George the Third, or have left behind them more un- 
questionable evidences of real personal piety. The fol- 
lowing lines written to commemorate his recovery, merit 
> be recorded. 

Not with more arrief did Adam first survey, 
With doubts perplext, the setting orb of day ; 
Nor more his joy, th' ensuing morn, to view 
fhat splendid orb its glorious course renew ; 
"•"nan was. thy joy, Britannia, and thy pain, 
AT hen set thy sun, and when he rose again. 



Queen." This I know from particular and 

certain authority. 

My dear madam, I have not time to en- 
large at present on this subject, or to touch 
any other. Once more, therefore, thanking 
you for your kindness, of which I am truly 
sensible ; and thanking, too, Mr. King for the 
f-ivor he has done me in subscribing to my 
Homer, and at the same time begging you to 
make my best compliments to him, I con- 
clude myself, with Mrs. Unwin's acknowledge 
ments of your most acceptable present tc 
her, 

Your obliged and affectionate W. C. 



TO MRS. KING* 

March 12, 17€9 

My dear Madam, — I feel myself in n< 
small degree unworthy of the kind solicitude 
which you express concerning me and my 
welfare, after. a silence so much longer than 
I gave you reason to expect. I should in- 
deed account myself inexcusable, had I not 
to allege, in my defence, perpetual engage- 
ments of such a kind as would by no means 
be dispensed with. Had Homer alone been 
in question, Homer should have made room 
for you: but I have had other work in hand 
at the same time, equally pressing and more 
laborious. Let it suffice to say, that I have 
not wilfully neglected you for a moment, and 
that you have never been out of my thoughts 
a day together. But I begin to perceive that, 
if a man will be an author, he must live nei- 
ther to himself nor to his friends ( so much as 
to others, whom he never saw, nor shall see. 

My promise to follow my last letter with 
another speedily, which promise I kept so 
ill, is not the only one which I am conscious 
of having made to you, and but very indif- 
ferently performed. I promised you all the 
smaller pieces that I should produce, as fast 
as occasion called them forth, and leisure 
occurred to write them. Now the fact is, 
that I have produced several since I made 
that fair profession, of which I have sent you 
hardly any- The reason i.s that, transcribed 
into the body of a letter, they would leave 
me no room for prose ; and that other con- 
veyance than by the post I cannot find, even 
after inquiry made among all my neighbors 
for a traveller to Kimbolton. Well, we 
shall see you, I hope, in the summer; and 
then I will show you all. I will transcribe 
one for you every morning before breakfast, 
as long as they last ; and when you come 
down, you shall' find it laid on your n: pkin. 
I sent one last week to London, whii h by 
some kind body or another, I know not 
whom, is to be presented to the Queen. 
The subject, as you may guess, is the King's 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



a2T 



recovery; a theme that might make a bad 
f oet a good one, and a good one excel him- 
self. This, too, you shall see when we meet, 
unless it should bounce upon you before, 
from some periodical register of all such 
matters. 

T shall commission my cousin, who lately 
left us, to procure for me the book you men- 
tion. Being, and having long been, so deep 
in the business of translation, it was natural 
that I should have many thoughts on that 
subject. I have accordingly had as many as 
would of themselves, perhaps, make a vol- 
ume, and shall be glad to compare them with 
those of any other writer recommended by 
Mr. Martyn. When you write next to that 
gentleman, I beg you, madam, to present my 
compliments to him, with thanks both for 
the mention of Mr. Twining's* book, and 
for the honor of his name among my sub- 
scribers. 

I remain always, n\v dear madam, 

Your affectionate W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

The Lodge, April 22, 1789. 

My dear Madam, — Having waited hitherto 
m expectation of the messenger whom, in 
your last, you mentioned a design to send, I 
have at length sagaciously surmised that you 
delay to send him, in expectation of hearing 
first from me. I would that his errand hither 
were better worthy the journey. I shall 
have no very voluminous packet to charge 
him with when he comes. Such, however, 
as it is, it is ready ; and has received an ad- 
dition in the interim of one copy, which 
would not have made a part of it, had your 
Mercury arrived here sooner. It is on the 
subject of the Queen's visit to London on 
the night of the illuminations. Mrs. Unwin, 
knowing the burden that lies on my back 
too heavy for any but Atlantean shoulders, 
has kindly performed the copyist's part, and 
transcribed all that I had to send you. Ob- 
serve, madam, I do not write this to hasten 
your messenger hither, but merely to account 
for my own silence. It is probable that the 
'ater he arrives, the more he will receive 
when he comes; for I never fail to write 
tvhen I think I have found a favorable sub- 
ject. { 

* The author of the translation of Aristotle, 
t Private correspondence. 

t We insert *these verses, as expressive of the loyal 
feel jigs of Cowper. 

ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON. 

The Night of the Tenth of March, 17S9. 

When, long sequester'd from his throne, 

George took his seat again, 
By right of worth, not blood alone, 

Entitled here to reign ! 



Then Loyalty, with all her lamps, 
New trimm'd, a gallant show, 



We mourn that we must give up the hope 
of seeing you and Mr. King at Weston. 
Had our correspondence commenced sooner, 
we had certainly found the means of meet, 
ing ; but it seems that we were doomed tc 



Chasing the darkness and the damps, 
Set London in a glow. 

'Twas hard to tell, of streets, of squares, 
Which form'd the chief display, 

These most resembling cluster'd stars, 
Those the long milky way. 

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, 

And rockets flew, self-driven, 
To hang their momentary fires 

Amid the vault of heaven. 

So, fire with water to compare, 

The ocean serves on high, 
Up-sponted by a whale in air, 

To express unwieldy joy. 

Had all the pageants of the world 

In one procession join'd, 
And all the banners been unfurl'd 

That heralds e'er design'd, 

For no such sight had England's Queen 

Forsaken her retreat, 
Where George recover'd made a scene 

Sweet always, doubly sweet. 

Yet glad she came that night to prove, 

A witness undescried, 
How much the object of her love 

Was lov'd by all beside. 

Darkness the skies had mantled o'er 

In aid of her design — 
Darkness, O Queen ! ne'er call'd before 

To veil a deed of thine ! 

On borrow'd wheels away she flies, 

Resolved to be unknown, 
And gratify no curious eyes 

That night except her "own. 

Arriv'd, a night like noon she sees, 

And hears the million hum ; 
As all by instinct like the bees, 

Had known their sov'reign come. 

Pleas'd she beheld aloft portray'd, 

On many a splendid wall, 
Emblems of health and heav'nly aid, 

And George the theme of all. 

Unlike the enigmatic line, 

So difficult to spell, 
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine, 

The night his city fell. 

Soon- watery grew her eyes, and dim, 

But with a joyful tear ! 
None else, except in prayer for him, 

George ever drew from her. 

It was a scene in every part 

Like that in fable feign'd, 
And seem'd by some magician's art 

Created and* sustain'd. ' 

But other magic there she knew 

Had been exerted none, 
To raise such wonders to her view, 

Save love to George alone. 
That cordial thought her spirit cheer'6 

And, through the cumb'rous throng 
Not else unworthy to be fear'd, 

Convey'd her calm along. 

So, ancient poets say, serene 

The sea-maid rides the waves, 
And, fearless of the billowy scene, 

Her peaceful bosom laves. 

With more than astronomic eyes 
She viewed the sparkling show; 

One Georgian star adorns the skies, 
She myriads found below. 

Yet let the glories of a night 

Like that, onoe seen, suffice ! 
Heaven grant us no such fumre sighv- 

Such precious woe the price '. 



328 



COWPJER'S WORKS, 



know each other too late for a meeting in 
this world. May a better world make us 
amends, as it certainly will, if I ever reach a 
better! Our interviews here are but imper- 
fect pleasures at the best; and generally 
from such as promise us most gratification 
we receive the most disappointment. But 
disappointment is, I suppose, confined to the 
planet on which we dwell, the only one in 
the universe, probably, that is inhabited by 
sinners. 

I did not know, or even suspect, that when 
I received your last messenger, I received so 
eminent a disciple of Hippocrates ; a physi- 
cian of such absolute control over disease 
and the human constitution, as to be able to 
put a pestilence into his pocket, confine it 
there, and let it loose at his pleasure. We 
are much indebted to him that he did not 
give us here a stroke of his ability. 

I must not forget to mention that I have 
received (probably not without your privity) 
Mr. Twining's valuable volume.* For a 
long time I supposed it to have come from 
my bookseller , who now and then sends 
me a new publication ; but I find, on inquiry, 
that it came not from him. I beg, madam, 
if you are aware that Mr. Twining himself 
sent it, or your friend Mr. Martyn, that you 
will negotiate for me on the occasion, and 
contrive to convey to the obliging donor my 
very warmest thanks. I am impatient till 
he receives them. I have not yet had time 
to do justice to a writer so sensible, elegant, 
and entertaining, by a complete perusal of 
his work; but I have with pleasure sought 
out all those passages to which Mr. Martyn 
was so good as to refer me, and am delighted 
to observe the exact agreement in opinion on 
the subject of translation in general, and on 
that of Mr. Pope's in particular, that subsists 
between Mr. Twining and myself 

With Mrs. Unwin's best compliments, I 
remain, my dear madam, 

Your obliged and affectionate, W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

April 30, 1789. 

My dear Madam, — I thought to have sent 
you, by the return of your messenger, a let- 
ter; at least, something like one: but in- 
stead of sleeping here, as I supposed he 
would, he purposes to pass the night at La- 
vendon, a village three miles off. This de- 
sign of his is but just made known to me, 
and it is now near seven in the evening. 
Therefore, lest he should be obliged to feel 
out his way, in an unknown country, in the 
dark, I am forced to scribble a hasty word 
or two, instead cf devoting, as I intended, 
bbe whole evening to your service. 

* The translation of Aristotle. 
t Pi : \ ate correspondence. 



A thousand thanks for your basket, and 
all the good things that it contained ; par- 
ticularly . for my brother's Poems,* whose 
hand-writing struck me the moment I saw 
it. They gave me some feelings of a me]. 
ancholy kind, but not painful. I will return 
them to you by the next opportunity. I wish 
that mine, which I send you, may prove half 
as pleasant to you as your excellent cakes 
and apples have proved to us. You will then 
think yourselves sufficiently recompensed for 
your obliging present. If a crab-stock can 
transform a pippin into a nonpareil, what 
may not I effect in a translation of Homer ? 
Alas ! I fear nothing half so valuable. 

I have learned, at length, that I am indebt- 
ed for' Twining's Aristotle to a relation of 
mine, General Cowper. 

Pardon me that I quit you so soon. It is 
not willingly ; but I have compassion on your 
poor messenger. 

Adieu, my dear madam, and believe me, 
Affectionately yours, W. C 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, May 20, 1789. 

My dear Sir, — Finding myself, between 
twelve and one, at the end of the seventeenth 
book of the Odyssey, I give the interval be- 
tween the present moment and the time of 
walking, to you. If I write letters before I 
sit down to Homer, I feel my spirits too flat 
for poetry, and too flat for letter-writing if I 
address myself to Homer first ; but the last I 
choose as the least evil, because my friends 
will pardon my dullness, but the public will 
not. 

I had been some days uneasy on your ac- 
count when yours arrived. We should have 
rejoiced to have seen you, would your engage- 
ments have permitted ; but in the autumn, I 
hope, if not before, we shall have the pleasure 
to receive you. At what time we may expect 
Lady Hesketh, at present, I know not ; but 
imagine that at any time after the month of 
June you will be sure to find her with us, 
which I mention, knowing that to meet you 
would add a relish to all the pleasures she caiv 
find at Weston. 

When I wrote these lines on the Queen's 
visit, I thought I had performed well ; but it 
belongs to me, as I have told you before, to 
dislike whatever I write when it has been 
written a month. The performance was there- 
fore sinking in my esteem, when your appro- 
bation of it, arriving in good time, buoyed it 
up again. It will now keep possession of the 
place it holds in my good opinion, because it 
has been favored with yours ; and a copy will 
certainly be at your service whenever you 
choose to have one. 

* We regret that we have not succeeded in procuring 
any traces of these poems of Cowper's brother 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



32? 



Nothing is more certain than that when I 
wrote the line, 

God made the country, and man made the town, 

* had not the least recollection of that very 
similar one, which you quote from Hawkins 
Brown. It convinces me that critics (and 
none more than Warton, in his notes on 
Milton's minor poems) have often charged 
authors with borrowing what they drew from 
their own fund. Brown was an entertaining 
companion when he had drunk his bottle, but 
not before : this proved a snare to him, and he 
would sometimes drink too much ; but I know 
not that he was chargeable with any other 
irregularities. He had those among his inti- 
mates, who would not have been such had he 
been otherwise viciously inclined ; the Dun- 
combs, in particular, father and son, who were 
of unblemished morals. W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

The Lodge, May 30, 1789. 

Dearest Madam, — Many thanks for your 
kind and valuable despatches, none of which, 
except your letter, I have yet had time to read ; 
for true it is, and a sad truth too, that I was 
in bed when your messenger arrived. He 
waits only for my answer, for which reason I 
answer as speedily as I can. ■ 

I am glad *if my poetical packet pleased 
you. Those stanzas on the Queen's visit 
were presented some time since, by Miss 
Goldsworthy,f to the princess Augusta, who 
has probably given them to the Queen; but 
of their reception I have heard nothing. I 
gratified myself by complimenting two sover- 
eigns whom I love and honor ; and that grati- 
fication will be my reward. It would, indeed, 
be unreasonable to expect that persons who 
keep a Laureat in constant pay, should have 
either praise or emolument to spare for every 
volunteer who may choose to make them his 
subject. 

I will take the greatest care of the papers 
with which you have entrusted me, and will 
return them by the next opportunity. It is 
very unfortunate that the people of Bedford 
should choose to have the small-pox, just at 
the season when it would be sure to prevent 
our meeting. God only knows, madam, when 
we shall meet, or whether at all in this world ; 
awt certain it is, that whether we meet or not, 
I am most truly yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, June 5, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — I am going to give you a 
teal of trouble, but London folks must be 

* Private correspondence. 
The daughte* of General Goldsworthy. 



content to be troubled by country folks ; for 
in London only can our strange necessities ba 
supplied. You must buy for me, if you please, 
a cuckoo clock ; and now I will tell you where 
they are sold, which, Londoner as you are, it 
is possible you may not know. They are 
sold, I am informed, at more houses than 
one in that narrow part of Holborn which 
leads into Broad St. Giles'. It seems they are 
well-going clocks and cheap, which are the 
two best recommendations of any clock. 
They are made in Germany, and such num- 
bers of them are annually imported, that they 
are become even a considerable article of 
commerce. 

I return you many thanks for Bosweli's 
Tour * I read it to Mrs. Unwin after supper 
and we find it amusing. There is much trash 
in it, as there must always be in every nar- 
rative that relates indiscriminately all that 
passed. But now and then the Doctor speaks 
like an oracle, and that makes amends for all. 
Sir John was a coxcomb, and Boswell is not 
less a coxcomb, though of another kind. 1 
fancy Johnson made coxcombs of all his 
friends, and they in return made him a cox- 
comb ; for, with reverence be it spoken, such 
he certainly was, and flattered as he was he 
was sure to be so. 

Thanks for your invitation to London, bat 
unless London can come to me, I fear we shall 
never meet. I was sure that you would love 
my friend when you should once be well ac- 
quainted with him,f and equally sure that ho 
would take kindly to you. 

Now for Homer. W. C 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, June 16, 1789. 
My dear Friend, — You will naturally sup- 
pose that the letter in which you announced 
your marriage occasioned me some concern, 
though in my answer I had the wisdom to 
conceal it. The account you gave me of the 
object of your choice was such as left me at 
liberty to form conjectures not very comfort- 
able to myself, if my friendship for you were 
indeed sincere. I have since, however, been 
sufficiently consoled. Your brother Chester 
has informed me that you have married not 
only one of the most agreeable, but One of 
the most accomplished, women in the king- 
dom. It is an old maxim, that it is better to 
exceed expectation than to disappoint it ; and 
with this maxim in your view it was, no doubt, 
that you dwelt only on circumstances of dis- 
advantage, and would not treat me with a re- 
cital of others which abundantly overweigh 
them. I now congratulate not you only but 
myself, and truly rejoice that my friend haa 
chosen for hi? fellow-traveller, through the re- 

* Tour to the Hebrides, 
t Rev. John Newton. 



330 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



maining stages of his journey, a companion 
who will do honor to his discernment, and 
make his way, so far as it can depend on a 
wife to do so, pleasant to the last. 

My verses on the Queen's visit to London 
either have been printed, or soon will be, in 
.'he " World." The finishing to which you 
objected I have altered, and have substituted 
two new stanzas instead of it. Two others 
also I have struck out, another critic having 
objected to them. I think I am a very tract- 
able sort of a poet. Most of my fraternity 
would as soon shorten the noses of their 
children because they were said to be too long, 
as thus dock their compositions in compliance 
with the opinions of others. I beg that when 
my life shall be written hereafter, my author- 
ship's ductibility of temper may not be for- 
gotten. « 
I am, my dear friend, 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, June 20, 1789. 

Amico Mio, — I am truly sorry that it must 
be so long before we can have an opportunity 
to meet. My cousin in her last letter but one 
inspired me with other expectations, express- 
ing a purpose, if the matter could be so con- 
trived, of bringing you with her : I was willing 
to believe that you had consulted together on 
the subject, and found it feasible. A month 
was formerly a trifle in my account, but at my 
present age I give it all its importance, and 
grudge that so many months should yet pass 
in which I have not even a glimpse of those I 
love, and of whom, the course of nature con- 
sidered, I must ere long take leave forever — 
but I shall live till August. 

Many thanks for the cuckoo which arrived 
perfectly safe and goes well, to the amusement 
and amazement of all who hear it. Hannah 
lies awake to hear it, and I am not sure that 
we have not others in the house that admire 
his music as much as she. 

Having read both Hawkins and Boswell, I 
now think myself as much a master of John- 
son's character as if I had known him per- 
sonally, and cannot but regret that our bards 
of other times found no such biographers as 
these. They have both been ridiculed, and 
the wits have had their laugh ; but such a his- 
tory of Milton or Shakspeare as they have 
given of Johnson — O how desirable !* 

W. C. 

* The distinguished merit of Boswell's Life of Dr. 
Johnson is precisely what Cowper here states. In pe- 
rusing it we become intimately acquainted with his 
manner, habits of life, and sentiments on eveiy subject. 
We are introduced to the great wits of the age, and see 
a lively portraiture of the literary characters of those 
times. However minute and even frivolous some of the 
remarks may be, yet Boswell's Life' will never fail to 
awaken interest, and no library can be considered to be 
eompletc without it. 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 

July 18, 1789. 

Many thanks, my dear madam, for youi 
extract from George's letter. I retain but 
little Italian, yet that little was so forcibly 
mustered by the consciousness that I was 
myself the subject, that I presently became 
master of it. I have always said that George 
is a poet, and I am never in his company but 
I discover proofs of it, and the delicate address 
by which he has managed his complimentary 
mention of me convinces me of it still more 
than ever. Here are a thousand poets of us 
who have impudence enough to write for the 
public; but amongst the modest men who 
are by diffidence restrained from such an en- 
terprise are those who would eclipse us all. 
I wish that George would make the experi- 
ment, I would bind on his laurels with' my 
own hand.* 

Your gardener has gone after his wife, but, 
having neglected to take his lyre, alias fiddle, 
with him, has not brought home his Eury- 
dice. Your clock in the hall has stopped, and 
(strange to tell !) it stopped at sight of the 
watchmaker : for he only looked at it, and it 
has been motionless ever since. Mr. Greg- 
son is gone, and the Hall is a desolation. 
Pray don't think any place pleasant that you 
may find in your rambles, that we may see 
you the sooner. ' Your aviary is all in good 
health ; I pass it every day, and 'often inquire 
at the lattice ; the inhabitants of it send their 
duty, and wish for your return. I took no- 
tice of the inscription on your seal, and had 
we an artist here capable of furnishing me 
with another, you should read on mine, " En- 
core une lettre." 

Adieu ! W. C. 



The importance of improving the early 
hours of life, which, once lost, are never re- 
covered, is profitably enforced in the succeed- 
ing letter. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, July 23, 1789. 
You do Well, my dear sir, to improve your 
opportunity; to speak in the rural phrase, 
this is your sowing time, and the sheaves 
you look for can never be yours unless you 
make that use of it. .The color of our whole 

"Homer," says a popular critic, "is not more de- 
cidedly the first of heroic poets— Shakspeare is not more 
decidedly the first of dramatists— Demosthenes is not 
more decidedly the first of orators, than Boswell is the 
first of biographers." 

" A book," observes Mr. Croker, " to which the world 
refers as a manual of amusement, a repository pf wit, 
wisdom, and morals, and a lively and faithful history of 
the manners and literature of England, during a period 
hardly second in brilliancy, and superior in importance 
even to the Augustan age of Anne. 

* This truly amiable and •iccomplished person after 
wards became Sir George Throckmurton, Bart 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



331 



jfe is generally such as the three or four 
first years in which vvj are our own masters 
make it. Then it is that we may be said to 
shape our own destiny, and to treasure up 
"or ourselves a series of future successes or 
lisappointments. Had I employed my time 
as wisely as you, in a situation very similar 
to yours, I had never been a poet perhaps ; 
but I might by this time have acquired a 
character of more importance in society, and 
a situation in which my friends would have 
been better pleased to see me. But three 
years misspent in an attorney's office, were 
almost of course followed by several more 
equally misspent in the Temple, and the con- 
sequence has been, as the Italian epitaph 
says, " Sto qui." The only use I can make 
of myself now, at least the best, is to serve 
in terrorem to others, when occasion may 
happen to offer, that they may escape (so far 
as my admonitions can have any weight with 
them) my folly and my fate. When you 
feel yourself tempted to relax a little of the 
strictness of your present discipline, and to 
indulge in amusement incompatible with 
your future interests, think on your friend at 
Weston. 

Having said this, I shall next, with my 
whole heart, invite you hither, and assure 
you that I look forward to approaching Au- 
gust with great pleasure, because it prom- 
ises me your company. After a little time 
(which we shall wish longer) spent with us, 
you will return invigorated to your studies, 
and pursue them with more advantage. In 
the meantime, you have lost little, in point 
of season, by being confined to London. In- 
cessant rains and meadows under water have 
given to the summer the air of winter, and 
the country has been deprived of half its 
beauties. 

It is time to tell you that we are all well, 
and often make you our subject. This is 
the third meeting that my cousin and we have 
had in this country, and a great instance of 
good fortune I account it in such a. world as 
this to have expected such a pleasure thrice, 
without being once disappointed. Add to 
this wonder as soon as you can by making 
rourself of the party. 

W.C. 



TO MRS. KING* 

August 1, 1789. 

My dear Madam, — The post brings me no 
letters that do not grumble at my silence. 
Had not you, therefore, taken me to task as 
roundly as others, I should have concluded 
vou perhaps more indifferent to my epistles 
jhan the rest of my correspondents ; of whom 
one say % — " I shall be glad when you have 
Inished Homer ; then possibly you will find 
* Private correspondence. 



a little leisure for an old friend." Anothei 
says — " I don't choose to be neglected, unless 
you equally neglect every one e.se." Thus 
I hear of it with both ears, and shall, till J 
appear in the shape of two gi eat quarto vol- 
umes, the composition of which, I confess, 
engrosses me to a degree that gives my 
friends, to whom I feel myself much obliged 
for their anxiety to hear from me, but too 
much reason to complain. Johnson told Mr. 
Martyn the truth, but your inference from 
| that truth is not altogether so just as most 
of your conclusions are. Instead of finding 
myself the -more at leisure because my long 
labor draws to a close, I find myself the more 
occupied. As when a horse approaches the 
goal, he does not, unless he be jaded, slacken 
his pace, but quickens it; even so it fares 
with me, The end is in view ; I seem almost 
to have reached the mark, and the nearness 
of it inspires me with fresh alacrity. But, 
be it known to you, that I have still two 
books of the Odyssey before me, and when 
they are finished, shall have almost the whole 
eight-and-forty to revise. Judge then, my 
dear madam, if it is yet time for me to play, 
or to gratify myself with scribbling to those 
1 love. No : it is still necessary that waking 
I should be all absorbed in Homer, and that 
sleeping I should dream of nothing else. 

I am a great lover of good paintings, but 
no connoisseur, having never had an oppor- 
tunity to become one. In the last forty 
years of my life, I have hardly seen six pic- 
tures that were worth looking at ; for I was 
never a frequenter of auctions, having never 
had any spare money in my pocket, and the 
public exhibitions of them in London had 
hardly taken place when I left it. My cousin, 
who is with us, saw the gentleman whose 
pieces you mention, on the top of a scaffold, 
copying a famous picture in the Vatican 
She has seen some of his performances, and 
much admires them. 

You have had a great loss, and a loss that 
admits of no consolation, except such as will 
naturally suggest itself to you, such, I mean, 
as the Scripture furnishes. We must all 
leave, or be left ; and it is the circumstance 
of all others that makes a long life the least 
desirable, that others go while we stay, till 
at last we find ourselves alone, like a tree on 
a hill-top. 

Accept, my dear madam, mine and Mrs. 
Unwin's best compliments to yourself and 
Mr. King, and believe me, however unfre- 
quent in telling you that I am so, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, August 8, 17e9. 
My dear Friend, — Come when you will, oi 
when you can, you cannot come at a, /r\ n£ 



332 



COWPER'S WORKS 



time ; but we shall expect you on the day 
mentioned. # 

If you have any book that you think will 
make pleasant evening reading, bring it with 
you. I now read Mrs. Piozzi's* Travels to 
the, ladie c after supper, and shall probably 
have finished them before we shall have the 
pleasure of seeing you. It is the fashion, I 
understand, to condemn them. Bat we, who 
make books ourselves, are more merciful to 
book-makers. I would that every fastidious 
judge of authors were himself obliged to 
write : there goes more to the composition 
of a volume than many critics imagine.f I 
have often wondered that the same poet who 
wrote the " Dunciad," should have written 
these lines, 

The mercy J to others show, 
That mercy show to me. 

Alas ! for Pope, if the mercy he showed to 
others, was the measure of mercy he re- 
ceived! He was the less pardonable, too, 
because experienced in all the difficulties of 
composition. 

I scratch this between dinner and tea : a 
time when I cannot write much without dis- 
ordering my noddle and bringing a flush into 
my face. You- will excuse me therefore, if, 
through respect for the two important con- 
siderations of health and beauty, I conclude 
myself, 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.J 

August 12, 178&. 

My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you and 
Mrs. Hill are so agreeably occupied in your 
retreat.^ August, I hope, will make us 
amends for the gloom of its many wintry 
predecessors. We are now gathering from 
our meadows, not hay, but muck ; such stuff 
as deserves not the carriage, which yet it 
must have, that the after-crop may have 
leave to grow. The Ouse has hardly deigned 
to run in his channel since the summer 
began. 

* Formerly Mrs. Thrale, the well-known friend of Dr- 
Johnson, and resident at Streatham. Her second mar- 
riage was considered to be imprudent. She wrote Anec- 
dotes of Dr. Johnson, and was also the authoress of the 
oeautiful tale entitled, "The Three Warnings," begin- 
ning, 

"The tree of deepest root is found 
Unwilling most to leave the ground," &c. &c. 

t It cost Lord Lyttleton twenty years to write the Life 
and History of Henry II. The historian Gibbon was 
twelve years in completing his " Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire," and Adam Smith occupied ten years in 
producing his " Wealth of Nations." 

A stronger instance can scarcely be quoted of the men- 
tal labor employed in the composition of a work, than 
What is recorded of Boileau, who occupied eleven months 
in writing his " Equivoque," consisting only of 346 lines, 
%nd afterwards spent three years in revising it. 

Ccwper sometimes wrote only five or six lines in a day. 

J Private correspondence. 

i At Wargrave, near Henley-on-Thames. 



My Muse were a vixen if she were not ai 
ways ready to fly in obedience to your com. 
mands. But what can be a one ? I can 
write nothing in the few hours that remain 
to me of this day that will be fit for your 
purpose, and unless I could dispatch what I 
write by to-morrow's post, it would not reach 
you in time. I must add, too, that my 
friend, the vicar of the next parish,* engaged 
me, the day before yesterday, to furnish him 
by next Sunday with a hymn, to be sung on 
the occasion of his preaching to the children 
of the Sunday-school :f of which hymn I 
have not yet produce.! a syllable. I am 
somewhat in the case of lawyer Dowling, in 
" Tom Jones ;" and could I split myself into 
as many poets as there are muses, could find 
employment for them all. 
Adieu, my dear friend. 

I am ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.| 

August 16, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — Mrs. Newton and you 
are both kind and just in believing that I d 
not love you less when I am long silent. 
Perhaps a friend of mine, who wishes me to 
have him always in my thoughts, is never so 
effectually possessed of the accomplishment 
of that wish as when I have been long his 
debtor; for then I think of him not only 
every day, but day and night, and all day long. 
But I confess at the same time that my 
thoughts of you will be more pleasant to 
myself when I shall have exonerated my 
conscience by giving you the letter so long 
your due. Therefore, here it comes : little 
worth your having, but payment, such as it is, 
that you have a right to expect, and that is 
essential to my own tranquillity. 

That the Iliad and the Odyssey shculd 
have proved the occasion of my suspending 
my correspondence with you, is a proof how 
little we foresee the consequences of what 
we publish. Homer, I dare say, hardly at all 
suspected that at the fag-end of time two 
personages would appear, the one ycleped 
Sir Newton and the other Sir Cowper, who 
loving each other heartily, would nevertheless 
suffer the pains of an interrupted intercourse. 

* Olney. 

t We subjoin an extract from this Sunday-s;-roci 
hymn, for the benefit of our younger readers. 

" Hear, Lord, the song of praise and -prayer, 
In heaven, thy dwelling-place, 
From infants, made the public care, 
And taught to seek thy face ! 

" Thanks for thy word, and for thy day ; 
And grant us, we implore, 
Never to waste in sinful play 
Thy holy Sabbaths more. 

"Thanks that we hear — but, oh ! impart 
To each desires sincere, 
That we may listen with ou - heart, 
And learn, as well as hear." 
t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



33* 



nis poems the cause. So, however, it has 
happened ; and though it would not, I sup- 
pose, extort from the old bard a single sigh, 
if he knew it, yet to me it suggests the seri- 
ous reflecti >n above-mentioned. An author 
by profession had need narrowly to watch his 
•pen, lest a line should escape it which by possi- 
bility may do mischief, when he has been long 
dead and buried. What we have done, when 
we have written a book, will never be known 
till the day of judgment : then the account 
will be liquidated, and all the good that it 
has occasioned, and all the evil, will witness 
either for or against us. 

I am now in the last book of the Odyssey, 
yet have still, I suppose, half a year's work 
before me. The accurate revisal of two such 
voluminous poems can hardly cost me less. 
I rejoice, however, that the goal is in pros- 
pect ; for, though it has cost me years to 
run this race, it is only now that I begin to 
have a glimpse of it. That I shall never re- 
ceive any proportionable pecuniary recom- 
pense for my long labors is pretty certain ; 
and as to any fame that I may possibly gain 
by it, that is a commodity that daily sinks in 
value, in measure as the consummation of all 
things approaches. In the day when the lion 
shall dandle the kid, and a little child shall 
lead them, the world will have lost all relish 
for the fabulous legends of antiquity, and 
Homer and his translator may budge off the 
stage together. 

Ever yours, W. C. 

Cowper's remarks on the subject of au- 
thors, in the above letter, are truly impressive 
and demand attention. If it indeed be true, 
that authors are responsible for their writ- 
ings, as well as for their personal conduct, (of 
which we presume there can be no reason- 
able doubt,) how would the tone of literature 
be raised, and the pen often be arrested in 
its course, if this conviction were fully re- 
alized to the conscience ! Their writings 
are, in fact, the record of the operations of 
their minds,' and are destined to survive, so 
far as metallic types and literary talent can 
ensure durability and success. Nor is it less 
true that the character of a nation will gen- 
erally be moulded by the spirit of its authors'. 
Allowing, therefore, the extent of this power- 
ful influence, we can conceive the possibility 
of authors, at the last great day, undergoing 
the ordeal of a solemn judicial inquiry, when 
the subject for investigation will be, how far 
their writings have enlarged the bounds of 
useful knowledge, or subserved the cause of 
piety and truth. If, instead of those great 
ends being answered, it shall appear that the 
foundations of religion have been under- 
mined, the cause of virtue weakened, and the 
heart made more accessible to error ; if, too, 
a dread array of witnesses shall stand forth, 



tracing the guilt of their lives and the ruir 
of their hopes to the fatal influence of th* 
books which they had read, what image of 
horror can equal the sensation of such a mo- 
ment, save the despair of hearing the irrevo- 
cable sentence, " Depart from me, ye workers 
of iniquity ; I never knew you !" 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Sept. 24, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — You left us exactly at 
the wrong time ; had you stayed till now, you 
would have had the pleasure of hearing even 
my cousin say — " I am cold," — and the still 
greater pleasure of being warm yourself; for 
I have had a fire in the study ever since you 
went. It is the fault of our summers that 
they are hardly ever warm or cold enough. 
Were they warmer we should not want a fire, 
and were they colder we should have one. 

I have twice seen and conversed with Mr. 

J ; he is witty, intelligent, and agreeable 

beyond the common measure of men whi 
are so. But it is the constant effect of a 
spirit of party to make those hateful to each 
other who are truly amiable in themselves. 

Beau sends his love ; he was melancholy 
the whole day after your departure. 

W. C 



The power of poetry to embellish the most 
simple incident is pleasingly evinced in the 
following letter, by the Homeric muse of 
Cowper. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ, 

Weston, Oct. 4, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — The hamper is come, an* 
come safe ; and the contents I can affirm, 
on my own knowledge, are excellent. It 
chanced that another hamper and box came 
by the same conveyance, all which I un- 
packed and expounded in the hall, my cousin 
sitting meantime on the stairs, spectatress of 
the business. We diverted ourselves with 
imagining the manner in which Homer would 
have described the scene. Detailed in his 
circumstantial way, it would have furnished 
materials for a paragraph of considerable 
length in an Odyssey. 

The straw-stuff'd hamper with his ruthless steel 
He operrd cutting sheer th' inserted cords. 
Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came 
The rustling package first bright straw of wheat 
Or oats or barley ; next a bottle green 
Throat-full clear spirits the contents,, distilld 
Drop after drop odoious. by the art 
Of the fair mother of his friend— the Rose 

And so on. 

I should rejoice to be the hero of suW» a ts « 
in the hands of Homer. 



534 



COWPER'S' WORKS. 



V ou will remember. I trust, that, when the 
state of your healtl; or spirits calls for rural 
#alks and fresh air, you have always a re- 
treat at Weston. 

We are all wp.U; all love you, down to 
the very dog : and shall be glad to hear that 
you have exchanged languor for alacrity, and 
the debility that you mention for indefatiga- 
ble vigor. 

Mr. Throckmorton has made me a hand- 
some present ; Villoison's edition of the Iliad, 
elegantly bound by Edwards.* If I live long 
enough, by the contributions of my friends I 
shall once more be possessed of a library. 
Adieu ! W. C. 



TO THE REV, WALTER BAGOT. 

My dear Walter, — I know that you are 
too reasonable a man to expect anything like 
punctuality of correspondence from a trans- 
later of Homer, especially from one who is 
a doer also of many other things at the same 
time ; for I labor hard not only to acquire a 
little fame for myself, but to win it also for 
others, men of whom I know nothing, not 
even their names, who send me their poetry, 
that by translating it out of prose into verse, 
I may make it more like poetry than it was. 
Having heard all this, you will feel yourself 
not only inclined to pardon my long silence, 
but to pity me also for the cause of it. You 
may if you please believe likewise, for it is 
true, that I have a faculty of remembering my 
friends even when I do not write to them, and 
of loving them not one jot the less, though I 
leave them to starve for want of a letter from 
me. And now I think you have an apology 
both as to style, matter, and manner, alto- 
gether unexceptionable. 

Why is the winter like a backbiter? Be- 
cause Solomon says that a backbiter separ- 
ates between chief friends, and so does the 
winter; to this dirty season it is owing that 
I see nothing of the valuable Chesters, whom 
indeed I see less at all times than serves at 
all to content me. I hear of them indeed 
occasionally from my neighbors at the Hall, 
but even of that comfort I have lately en- 
joyed less than usual, Mr. Throckmorton 
having been hindered by his first fit of the 
gout from his usual visits to Chicheley. The 
gout however has not prevented his making 
me a handsome present of a folio edition of 
the Iliad, published about a year since at 
Venice, by a literato, who calls himself Vil- 
loison. It is possible that you have seen it, 
and that if you have it not yourself, it has at 
least found its way to Lord Bagot's library. 
If neither should be the case, when I write 
next (for sooner or later I shall certainly 

* The character of this work is given by Cowper him- 
IPlf in & subsequent letter tr hib friend Walter Bagot. 



write to you again if I live) I will send yow 
some pretty stories out of his Prolegomena 
which will make your hair stand on end, as 
mine has stood on end already, they so hor- 
ribly affect, in point of authenticity, the credit 
of the works of the immortal Homer. 

Wishing you and Mrs. Bagot all the haj 
piness that a new year can possibly bring 
with it, I remain, with Mrs. Unwin's best re- 
spects, yours, my dear friend, with all sin- 
cerity, , W. C. 

My paper mourns for the death of Lord 
Cowper, my valuable cousin, and much my 
benefactor. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

My dear Friend, — I am a terrible creature 
for not writing sooner, but the old excuse 
must serve ; at least I will not occupy paper 
with the addition of others unless you should 
insist on it, in which case I can assure you 
that I have them ready. Now to business. 

From Villoison I learn that it was the 
avowed opinion and persuasion of Callima- 
chus (whose hymns we both studied at West- 
minster) that Homer was very imperfectly 
understood even in his day ; that his admir- 
ers, deceived by the perspicuity of his style, 
fancied themselves masters of his meaning, 
when in truth they knew little about it. 

Now we know that Callimachus, as I have 
hinted, was himself a poet, and a good one ; 
he was also esteemed a good critic ; he 
almost, if not actually, adored Homer, and 
imitated him as nearly as he could. 

What shall we say to this? I will tell you 
what I say to it. Callimachus meant, and he 
could mean nothing more by this assertion, 
than that the poems of Homer were in fact 
an allegory; that under the obviotis import 
of his stories lay concealed a mystic sense, 
sometimes philosophical, sometimes religious, 
sometimes moral : and that the generality 
either wanted penetration or industry, or had 
not been properly qualified by 'their studies 
to discover it. This I can readily believe, 
for I am myself an ignoramus in these points, 
and, except here and there, discern nothing 
more than the letter. But if Callimachus 
will tell me that even of that I am ignorant, 
I hope soon by two great volumes to con- 
vince him of the contrary. 

I learn also from the same Villoison, that 
Pisistratus, who was a sort of Maecenas in 
Athens, where he gave great encouragement 
to literature, and built and furnished a public 
library, regretting that there was no complete 
copy of Homer's works in the world, resolved 
to make one. For this.purpose, he advertised 
rewards in all the newspapers to those, who 
j being possessed memoriter of any part or par- 
| eel of the poems of that bard, would resort 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



335 



to his house, and repeat them to his secre- 
taries, that they might write them. Now, it 
happened that more were desirous of the re- 
ward than qualified to deserve it. The con- 
sequence was, that the non-qualified persons, 
having many of them a pretty knack at versi- 
fication, imposed on the generous Athenian 
most egregiously, giving him, instead of 
Homer's verses, which they had not to give, 
verses of their own invention. He, good 
creature, suspecting no such fraud, took 
them all for gospel, and entered them into 
his volume accordingly. 

Now. let him believe the story who can. 
That Homer's works were in this manner 
corrected, I can believe ; but, that a learned 
Athenian could be so imposed upon, with 
sufficient means of detection at hand, I can- 
not. Would he not be on his guard ? Would 
not a difference of style and manner have oc- 
curred ? Would not that difference have ex- 
cited a suspicion ? Would not that suspicion 
have led to inquiry, and would not that in- 
quiry have issued in detection? For how 
easy was it in the multitude of Homer-con- 
ners to find two, ten, twenty, possessed of 
the questionable passage, and, by confronting 
him with the impudent impostor, to convict 
him. Abeas ergo in malam rem. cum istis 
tuis hallucinationibuSi Yillolsone !* 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON, f 

Weston, Dec. 1, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — On this fine first of De- 
cember, under an unclouded sky, and in a 
room full of sunshine, I address myself to the 
payment of a debt long in arrear, but never 
forgotten by me, however I may have seemed 
to forget it. I will not waste time in apolo- 
gies. I have but one, and that one will sug- 
gest itself unmentioned. I will only add, 
that you are the first to whom I write, of 
several to whom I have not written many 
months, who all have claims upon me ; and 
who, I flatter myself, are all grumbling at 
my silence. In your case, perhaps, I have 
been less anxious than in the case of some 
others ; because, if you have not heard from 
myself, you have heard from Mrs. Unwin. 
From her you have learned that I live, that 
I am as well as usual, and that I translate 
Homer : — three short items, but in which is 

* The reveries of learned men are amusing, but inju- 
rious to true taste and sound 'literature. Bishop War- 
burton's labored attempt to prove that the descent of 
JEneas into hell in the 6th book of the iEneid, is in- 
tended to convey a representation of the Eleusinian mys- 
teries, is of this description ; when it is obviously an 
imitation of a similar event, recorded of Ulysses. Genius 
should guard against a fondness for speculative discur- 
8ion, which often leads from the simplicity of truth to the 
establishment of dangerous errors. We consider specu- 
lative inquiries to form one of the features of the present 
times, against which we have need to be vigilantly on 
l/ur guar,L t Private correspondence. 



comprised the whole detail of my present 
history. Thus I fired when you were here 
thus 1 have fared ever since you were here; 
and thus, if it please God, I shall continue to 
fare for some time longer: for, though the 
work is done, it is not finished: a riddle 
which you, who are a brother of the press, 
will solve easily.* I have also been the less 
anxious, because I have had frequent oppor- 
tunities to hear of you ; and have always 
heard'that you are in good health and happy. 
Of Mrs. Newton, too, I have heard more fa- 
vorable accounts of late, which have given us 
both the sincerest pleasure. Mrs. Unwin's 
case is. at present, my only subject of uneasi- 
ness, that is not immediately personal, and 
properly my own. She has almost constant 
headaches; almost a constant pain in her 
side, which nobody understands; and her 
lameness, within the last half year, is very 
little amended. But her spirits are good, 
because supported by comforts which depend 
not on the state of the body ; and I do not 
know that, with all these pains her looks are 
at all altered since we had the happiness to 
see you here, unless, perhaps, they are al- 
tered a little for the better. I have thus 
given you as circumstantial an account of 
ourselves as I could; the most interesting 
matter, I verily believe, with which I could 
have tilled my paper, unless I could have 
made spiritual mercies to myself the subject 
In my next, perhaps, I shall find leisure to 
bestow, a few lines on what is doing in 
France, and in the Austrian Netherlands;! 
though, to say the truth, I am much better 
qualified to write an essay on the siege of 
Troy than to descant on any of these modern 
revolutions. I question if, in either of the 
countries just mentioned, full of bustle and 
tumult as they are, there be a single charac- 
ter whom Homer, were he living, would 
deign to make his hero. The populace are 
the heroes now, and the stuff of winch gen- 
tlemen heroes are made seems to be all ex- 
pended. 

I will endeavor that my next letter shall 
not follow this so tardily as this has followed 
the last; and, with our joint affectionate re- 
membrances to yourself and Mrs. Newton, 
remain as ever, 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 18, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — The present appears to 

* Revision is no small part of the literary labors of an 
author. 

t The French revolution, that great event which exer- 
cised so powerful an influence not only on European 
governments but on the world at large, and the effects cf 
which are experienced at the present moment, had just 
commenced. The Austrian Netherlands had also re- 
volted, and Brussels and most of the principal town* 
and cities were in the bands of the insurgents. 



336 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



me a wonderful period in the history of man- 
kind. That nations so long contentedly 
slaves should on a sudden become enamored 
of liberty, and understand as suddenly their 
own natural right to it, feeling themselves at 
the same time inspired with resolution to as- 
sert it, seems difficult to account for from 
natural causes. With respect to the final is- 
sue of all this, I can only say that if, having 
discovered the value of liberty, they should 
next discover the value of peace, and lastly 
the value of the word of God, they will be 
happier than they ever were since the rebel- 
lion of the first pair, and as happy as it is 
possible they should be in the present life. 
Most sincerely yours, W. C. 

The French revolution, to which we have 
now been led by the correspondence of Cow- 
per, whether we consider its immediate or 
ultimate consequences, was one of the most 
extraordinary events recorded in the history 
of modern Europe. It fixed the contempla- 
tion of the politician, the philosopher, and 
the moralist. By the first, it was viewed ac- 
cording to the political bias which marks the 
two great divisions of party established in 
this country. Mr. Fox designated it as one 
of the noblest fabrics ever erected by human 
liberty for the happiness of mankind. Mr. 
Burke asserted that it was a system of de- 
molition, and not of reparation. The French 
revolution might possibly have merited the 
eulogium of Mr. Fox, if its promoters had 
known when to pause, or how to regulate its 
progress. But unhappily the spirit of dem- 
ocracy was let loose, and those who first en- 
gaged in the work (influenced no doubt by 
the purest motives) were obliged to give 
way to men of more turbulent passions ; 
demagogues, who were willing to go all 
lengths ; who had nothing -to lose, and every- 
thing to gain; and in whose eyes modera- 
tion was a crime, and the fear of spoliation 
and carnage an act of ignoble timidity. Con- 
tending factions succeeded each other like the 
waves of the sea, and were borne along with 
the same irresistible power, till their fury 
was spent and exhausted. 

The sequel is well known. Property was 
confiscated. Whatever was venerable in vir- 
tue, splendid in rank, or sacred in religion, 
became the object of popular violence. The 
throne and the altar were overturned; and 
an amiable and inoffensive monarch, whose 
„nly crime was the title that he sustained, 
was led in triumph to the scaffold, amidst the 
acclamations of his people ; and, as if to 
make death more terrible, the place selected 
f^r his execution was in view of the very 
palace which had been the scene of his for- 
mer greatness* 

Haec finis Priami fatorura ; hie exitus ilium 
Sorte tulit, Trojam incensam et prolapsa videntem 



The features which distinguished the revo- 
lution in France from that of England in 1688 
are thus finely drawn by Mr. Burke. 

" In truth, the circumstances of our revolu- 
tion (as it is called) and that of France are 
just the reverse of each other in almost every 
particular, and in the whole spirit of the trans- 
action. With us it was the case of a legal 
monarch attempting arbitrary power. In 
France it is the case of an arbitrary mon- 
arch, beginning, from whatever cause, to le 
galize his authority. The one was to be re 
sisted, the other was to be managed and 
directed ; but in neither case was the order 
of the state to be changed, lest government 
might be ruined, which ought only to be 
corrected and legalized. 

"What we did was, in truth and substance, 
and in a constitutional light, a revolution, not 
made, but 'prevented. We took solid securi- 
ties; we settled doubtful questions; we cor- 
rected anomalies in our law. In the stable, 
fundamental parts of our constitution we 
made no revolution ; no, nor any alteration 
at all. We did not impair the monarchy. 

" The nation kept the same ranks, the same 
orders, the same privileges, the same franchi- 
ses, the same rules for property, the same 
subordinations, the same order in the law, 
in the revenue, and in the magistracy: the 
same lords, the same commons, the same cor- 
porations, the same electors."* 

That we should have been so graciously 
preserved in such a period of political con- 
vulsions, will ever demand our gratitude and 
praise. We owe it not to our arms, or to our 
councils, but to the goodness and mercy of 
God. We heard the loud echo of the thun- 
der, and the howlings of the storm. We 
even felt some portion of the heavings of the 
earthquake ; but we were spared from foil 
ing into the abyss; we survived the ruir. 
and desolations. We trust we shall s f ill be 
preserved, by the same superintending Prov-r 
idence, and that we may say, in the language 
of Burke, — 

" We are not the converts of Rousseau ; we 
are not the disciples of Voltaire ; Helvetius 
has made no progress amongst us. Atheists 
are not our preachers ; madmen are not our 
lawgivers." 

But, if history be philosophy teaching by 
example, what, we may ask, were the politi- 
cal and moral causes of that extraordinary 
convulsion in France, of which we are speak- 
ing ? They are to be traced to that spirit of 
ambition and conquest, which, however splen- 
did in military prowess, ultimately exhausted 
the resources of the state, and oppressed the 
people with imposts and taxation. They are 

Fergama; tot quondam populis, terrisque, superbum 
Regnatorem Asiae. Jacet ingeps littore truncus, 
Avulsumque humoris caput, et sine nomine corpus. 
* Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



331 



to be found in the system of peculation and 
extravagance that pervaded every departmei t 
of the government; in the profligacy of the 
court; in ihe luxurious pomp and pride of 
the noblesse ; and in the universal corruption 
that infected the whoie mass of society. To 
the above may be added, the zeal with which 
infidel principles were propagated, and the 
systematic attempts to undermine the whole 
fabric of. civil society through the agency of 
the press. The press became impious to- 
wards God, and disloyal towards kings ; and 
unfortunately the church and the state, being 
enfeebled by corruption, opposed an ineffect- 
ual resistance. Religion had lost its hold on 
the public mind. Men were required to be- 
lieve too much, and believed nothing. The 
consequences were inevitable. When men 
have once cast orT the fear of God, it is an 
easy transition to forget reverence to the au- 
thority of kings, and obedience to the majes- 
>ty of law. It is eurious to observe how the 
effects of this antisocial conspiracy w T ere dis- 
tinctly foreseen ana predicted. " I hold it 
impossible," said Rousseau, " that the great 
monarchies of Europe can subsist much lon- 
ger." " The high may be reduced low, and 
the rich become poor, and even the monarch 
Iwindle into a subject."* The train was laid, 
the match alone was wanting to produce the 
explosion. 

The occasion was at length presented. 
The immediate cause of the French revolu- 
tion! must be sought in the plains of Ameri- 
ca. When Great Britain was involved with 
her American colonies, France ungraciously 
interposed in the quarrel. She paid the price 
of her interference in a manner that she little 
anticipated. The Marquis de la Fayette there 
first acquired his ardor for the cause of liber- 

* In his " Emilie." The memorable remark of Madame 
Je Pompadour will not soon be forgotten ; " Apres nous 
le- Deluge," " After us, the Deluge." 

t Rousseau's prophecy of this great catastrophe has 
Deen already inserted ; but the most remarkable predic- 
tion, specifying even the precise period of its fulfilment, 
is to be found in Fleming's "Apocalyptic Key," pub- 
lished so far back as the year 1701. In this work is the 
following passage. w Perhaps the French monarchy may 
begin to be considerably humbled about that time : that 
whereas the present French King (Lewis XIV.) takes 
the Sun for his emblem, and this for his motto, ' nee plu- 
ribus impar,' he may at length, or rather his successors, 
and the monarchy itself, at least before the year 1794, be 
forced to acknowledge that in respect to neighboring 
potentates, he is even singulis impar."* 

We add one more very curious prediction. 

" Yes ; that Versailles, which thou hast made for the 
glory of thy names, I will throw to the ground, and ail 
your insolent inscriptions, figures, abominable pictures. 
And Paris; Paris, that imperial city, I will afflict it 
dreadfully. Yes, I will afilict the Royal Family. Yes, I 
will avenge the iniquity of the King upon his grand- 
children." — Laafs Prophetic Warnings, London, 1707, 
p. 42. 

* By referring to Revelation xvi. 8, it will be seen that 
the fourth vial is poured out on the San, which is inter- 
preted as denoting the humiliation of some eminent po- 
tentates of the Romish communion, and therefore prin- 
cipally to be understood of the House of Bourbon, which 
takes precedence of them all. 



ty ; and, crossing the Atlantic, carried back 
with him the spirit into France, and in a 
short time lighted up aflame which has since 
spread so great a conflagration. 

But whence sprung the revolution in Amer- 
ica? 

To solve this momentous question, we 
must overlook the more immediate causes, 
and extend our inquiry to the political and re- 
ligious discussions of the times of James I. 
and Charles T. and II. It is in that unfortu- 
nate period <:>! polomical controversy and ex- 
citement, that the foundation of events was 
laid v\hich have not even yet spent their 
strength : and that the philosophical inquirer, 
whose sole object is the attainment of truth, 
will find it. 

The Puritans proposed to carry forth the 
principle of the Reft r ^ation to a still further 
extent. The propo dtion was ±cy cted, their 
views were impugned, and the freedom of re- 
ligious inquiry was impeded by vexatious ob- 
structions. They found no asylum at home; 
they sought it abioad, and on the American 
continent planted the standard of civil and 
religious liberty. The times of Charles I. 
followed. There was the same spirit, and 
the same results. The Star Chamber and 
the- High Commission Court supplied new 
victims to swell the tide of angry feeling be- 
yond the Atlantic. It was persecution that 
first peopled America. Time alone was want- 
ing to mature the fruits. The reign of Charlea 
II. completed the eventful crisis. The Act 
of Uniformity excluded, in one day, two thou- 
sand ministers (many of whom were distin- 
guished for profound piety and learning) from 
the bosom of the Church of England ; and 
thus, by the acts of three successive reigns, 
the spirit of independence was established 
in America, and dissent in England, from 
which such mighty, results have since fol- 
lowed. 

We have indulged in these remarks, be- 
cause we wish to show the tendency of that 
high feeling, which, originating, as we sin- 
cerely believe, in a cordial attachment to our 
Church, endangers, by mistaking the means 
the stability of the edifice which it seeks to 
support. We think this feeling, though 
abated in its intenseness, still exists; and, 
cast as we now are into perilous times, when 
Churches and States are undergoing a most 
scrutinizing inquiry, we are deeply solicitous 
that the past should operate as a beacon for 
the future. If the Church of England is to 
be preserved as a component part of our in- 
stitutions, and in its ascendancy over the pub- 
lic mind, the members of that Church must 
not too incautiously resist the spirit of the 
age, but seek to guide what they cannot ar- 
rest. Let the value .and necessity of an Es- 
tablished Church be recognized by the evi- 
dence of its usefulness ; let the pure doctrines 
22 



338 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of the Gospel be proclaimed in our pulpits ; 
and a noble ardor and co-operation be mani- 
fested in the prosperity of our great Institu- 
tions. — our Bible, Missionary, and Jewish so- 
cieties. She will then attract the favor, the 
love and the veneration of the poor, and dif- 
fuse a holy and purifying influence among all 
classes in the community. Her priests will 
thus be clothed with righteousness, and her 
saints shout for joy. To her worshippers we 
may then exclaim with humble confidence 
and joy, " Walk about Zior., and go round 
about her; tell the towers thereof. Mark 
/e well her bulwarks, con; <!er her palaces, 
that ye may tell it to the generation fol- 
lowing. For this God is our God forever 
and ever ; he will be our guide even unto 
death."* 



We now resume the correspondence of 
Cowper. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Jan. 3, 1790. 

My dear Sir, — I have been long silent, but 
you have had the charity, I hope and believe, 
not to ascribe my silence to a wrong cause. 
The truth is, I have been too busy to write to 
anybody, having been obliged to give my 
early mornings to the revisal and correction 
of a little volume of Hymns for Children, 
written by I know not whom. This task I 
finished but yesterday, and while it was in 
hand wrote only to my cousin, and to her 
rarely. From her, however, I knew that you 
would hear of my well-being, which made me 
less anxious about my debts to you than I 
could have been otherwise. 

I am almost the only person at Weston 
known to you who have enjoyed tolerable 
health this winter. In your next letter give 
us some account of your own state of health, 
for I have had many anxieties about you. 
The winter has been mild; but our winters 
are in general such, that, when a friend 
leaves us in the beginning of that season, I 
always feel in my heart a perhaps, importing 
that we have possibly met for the last time, 
and that the robins may whistle on the 
grave of one of us before the return of 
summer. 

I am still thrumming Homer's lyre ; that 
is to say, I am still employed in my last re- 
visal ; and, to give you some idea of the in- 
tenseness of my toils, I will inform you that 
it cost me all the morning yesterday, and all 
the evening, to translate a single simile to 
my mind. The transitions from one member 
of the subject to another, though easy and 
natural in the Greek, turn out often so intol- 
erably awkward in an English version, that 
almost endless labor and no little address are 

* Psalm xlviii. 12—14. 



requisite to give them grace and elegance. ] 
f a-get if I told you that your German Clavis 
has been of considerable use to me. I an' 
indebted to it for a right understanding >' 
the manner in which Achilles prepared pork 
mutton, and goat's flesh, for the entertain- 
meirt of his friends, in the night when the, 
came deputed by Agamemnon to negotiate 
a reconciliation. A passage of which no 
body in the world is perfectly master, my- 
self only, and Slaukenbergius excepted, nor 
ever was, excep: when Greek was a live an- 
guage. 

I do not know whether my cousin ha.° told 
you ( r not how I brag in my letters to her 
concerning my Translation ; perhaps her 
modesty feels more for me than mine for 
myself, and she would Mush to let even you 
know the degree of my self-conceit on that 
subject. I will tell you, however, expressing 
myself as decently as my vanity will permit, 
that it has undergone such a change for the 
better in this last revisal, that J have much 
warmer hopes of success than formerly. 

Yours, . W. C. 



TO MRS KING.* 

The Lodge, Jan. 4, 1790. 

My dear Madam, — Your long silence has 
occasioned me to have a thousand anxious 
thoughts about you. So long it has been, 
that, whether I now write to a Mrs. King at 
present on earth, or already in heaven, I 
know not. I have friends whose silence 
troubles me less, though I have known them 
longer; because, if I hear not from them- 
selves, I yet hear from others that they are 
still living, and likely to live. But if your 
letters cease to bring me news of your wel- 
fare, from whom can I gain the desired in- 
telligence? The birds of the air will not 
bring it, and third person there is none be- 
tween us by whom it might be conveyed. 
Nothing is plain to me on this subject, but 
that either you are dead, or very much indis- 
posed; or, which would affect me with per- 
haps as deep a concern, though of a different 
kind, very much offended. The latter of 
these suppositions I think the least probable 
conscious as I am of an habitual desire to 
offend nobody, 'especially a lady, and es- 
pecially a lady to whom I have many obliga 
tions. But all the three solutions above 
mentioned are very uncomfortable ; and if 
you live, and can send me one that wil" 
cause me less pain than either of them, I 
conjure you by the charity and benevolence 
which I know influence you upon all occa- 
sions, to communicate it without delay. 

It is possible, notwithstanding appear- 
ances to the contrary, that you are not be 
* Private corresr-'.mrienoo, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



33° 



come perfectly indifferent to ms and to what 
concerns me. I will therefore add a word or 
two on a subject which once interested you, 
and which is, for that reason worthy to be 
mentioned, though tru.y for no other — mean- 
ing- myeelf. 1 am well, and have been so, 
(uneasiness on your account excepted,) LotJ 
in mind and body, ever since I wrote to you. 
last, 1 have still the same employment. 
Homer in the morning, and Homer in the 
evening, as constant as the day goes round. 
In the spring I hope to send the Iliad and 
Odyssey to the press. So much for me and 
my occupations. Poor Mrs. Unwin has 
hitherto had but an unpleasant winter ; un- 
pleasant as constant pain, either in the head 
or side, could make it. She joins me in af- 
fectionate compliments to yourself and Mr. 
King, and in earnest wishes that you will 
soon favor me with a line that shall relieve 
me from all my perplexities. 
I am, dear madam, 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

The Lodge, Jan IP, 17!K>. 

My dear Madam, — The sincerest thanks 
attend you, both from Mrs. Unwin and my- 
self, for many good things, on some of which 
I have already regaled with an affectionate 
remembrance of the giver. 

The report that informed you of inquiries 
made by Mrs. Unwin after a house at Hunt- 
ingdon was unfounded. We have no thought 
of quitting Weston, unless the same Provi- 
dence that led us hither should lead us away. 
It is a situation perfectly agreeable to us 
both ; and to me in particular who write 
much, and walk much, and consequently 
love silence and retirement, one of the most 
eligible. If it has a fault, it is that it seems 
to threaten us with a certainty of never see- 
ing you. But may we not hope that, when 
a milder season shall have improved your 
health, we may yet, notwithstanding the dis- 
tance, be favored with Mr. King's and your 
company'? A better season will likewise 
improve the roads, and, exactly in proportion 
as it does so, will, in effect, lessen the inter- 
val between us. I know not if Mr. Martyn 
be a mathematician, but most probably he is 
a good one, and he can tell you that this, is 
a proposition mathematically true, though 
rather paradoxical in appearance. 

I am obliged to that gentlem.i i, and much 
obliged to him for his favorable opinion of 
my translation. What parts of Homer are 
particularly intended by the critics as those 
in which I shall probably fall short, T know 
not; but let me fail where 1 may, 1 shall fail 
aowhere through want of endeavors to avoid 

* Private correspondence. 



j it. The under parts of the poems (those ] 
j mean which are merely narrative) I find the 
I most, difficult. These can only be supported 
j by the diction, and on these, for that reason 
! I have bestowed the most abundant labor 
i Fine similes and fine speeches take care of 
: themselves : but the exact process of slaying 
; a sheep, and dressing it, it is not so easy to 
j dignity in our language, and in our measure. 
j But ! shall have the comfort, as I said, to re- 
i fleet, that, whatever may be hereafter laid to 
01} charge, the sin of idleness will not.* 
Justly, at 'east, it never will. In the mean- 
time, my dear madam, I whisper to you a 
secret; — not to fall short of the original in 
; everything is impossible. 

I send you, 1 believe, all my pieces that 

j yOu have never seen. Did I not send you 

i " Catliarina?" If n?t, you shall have it here- 

i after. 1 am, dear madam, ever, ever in haste 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 

We are here first introduced to the notice 
of the Rev. John Johnson, the cousin of 

| Cowper, by the maternal line of the Donnes. 
The poet often used familiarly to call him 

I " Johnny of Norfolk." His name will fre- 
quently appear in the course of the ensuing 
correspondence. It is to his watchful and 
affectionate care that the poet was indebted 
for all the solace that the most disinterested 
regard, and highly conscientious sense oi 
duty, could administer, under circumstances 
the most afflicting. Nor did he ever leave 
his beloved bard, till he had closed his eyes 
in death, and paid the last sad offices, due to 
departed worth and genius. His acquaint- 
ance with Cowper commenced about this time, 
by a voluntary introduction, on his own part 
He has recorded the particulars of this iirst 
interview and visit in a poem, entitled " Rec- 
ollections of Cowper s " We trust that his 
estimable widow may see fit to communicate 
it to the public, who we have no doubt will 
feel a lively interest in a subject, issuing from 
the kinsman of Cowper. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 22, 1790. 

My dear Coz., — I had a letter yesterday 

from the wild boy Johnson, for whom I have 

conceived a great affection. Jt was just such 

a letter as I like, of the true helter-skelter 

kind ; and, though he writes a remarkably 

good hand, scribbled with such rapidity, that 

it was barely legible. He gave me a droll 

account of the adventures of Lord Howard's 

note, and of his own pursuit of it. The 

j poem he brought me came as from Lord 

I Howard, with his Lordship's request that 1 

! would revise it. It is in the form of a pas- 

; toral, and is entitled, " The Tale of the Lute. 

or the Beauties of Audley End'." I read it 

I attentively, was much pleased with part of it, 



540 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and part of it I equally disliked. I told him 
so, and in such terms as one naturally uses 
when there seems to be no occasion to qual- 
ify or to alleviate censure. I observed him 
afterwards somewhat more thoughtful and 
silent, but occasionally as pleasant as usual ; 
and in Kil wick- wood, where we walked the 
next day, the truth came out — that he was 
himself the author, and that Lord Howard, 
not approving it altogether, and several 
friends of his own age, to whom he had 
shown it, differing from his Lordship in 
opinion, and being highly pleased with it, he 
had come at last to a resolution to abide by 
m judgment; a measure to which Lord 
Howard by all means advised him. He ac- 
cordingly brought it, and will bring it again 
in the summer, when we shall lay our heads 
together and try to mend it. 

I have lately had a letter also from Mrs. 
King, to whom I nad written to inquire 
whether she / were living or dead : she tells 
me the critics expect from my Homer every- 
thing in some parts, and that in others I 
shall fall short. These are the Cambridge 
critics ; and she has her intelligence from the 
botanical professor, Martyn. That gentle- 
man in reply answers them, that I shall fall 
short in nothing, but shall disappoint them 
all. It shall be my endeavor to do so, and I 
am not without hope of succeeding. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ, 

The Lodge, Feb. 2, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — Should Heyne' s* Homer 
appear before mine, which I hope is not 
probable, and should he adopt in it the opin- 
ion of Bentley, that the whole of the last 
Odyssey is spurious, I will dare to contradict 
both him and the Doctor. I am only in part 
of Bentley's mind (if indeed his mind were 
such) in this matter, and, giant as he was in 
learning, and eagle-eyed in criticism, am per- 
suaded, convinced, am sure (can I be more 
positive?) that, except from the 'moment 
when the Ithacans began to meditate an at- 
tack on the cottage of Laertes, and thence 
to the end, that book is the work of Homer. 
From the moment aforesaid, I yield the point, 
or rather, have never, since I had any skill in 
Homer, felt myself at all inclined to dispute 
it.f But I believe perfectly at the same 

* A German critic, distinguished by his classical erudi- 
tion and profound learning. 

t In this laborious undertaking, Cowper was assisted 
.>y the following editions of that great poet. 

1st. That of Clark, 1729—1754. 4 vols. Gr. et Lat. 

This is the most popular edition of Homer, and the 
iasis of many subsequent editions. The text is formed 
tin that of Schrevelius and of Barnes. The notes are gram- 
matical and philological, with numerons quotations from 
Virgil of parallel passages. The want of the ancient 
Bre^k Scholia is the principal defect. 

2udly. That of Villoison. Venice. 1788. Gi 

This edition is distinguished by a fac-simile f the text 



saw in any other work, unless in Shak- 
speare's. I am equally disposed to right for 



time, that Homer himself alone excepted, th€ 
Greek poet never existed, wi»o could have 
written the speeches made b) the shade of 
Agamemnon, in which there is more insight 
into the human heart discovered, than I ever 

r in any 

are's. I i 
the whole passage that describes Laertes, 
and the interview between him and Ulysses. 
Let Bentley grant these to Homer, and I will 
shake hands with him as to ail the rest. The 
battle with which the book concludes is, I 
think, a paltry battle, and there is a huddle 
in the management of it altogether unworthy 
of my favorite, and the favorite of all ages. 

If you should happen to fall into company 
with Dr. Warton* again, you will not, I dare 
say, forget to make him my respectful com- 
pliments, and to assure him that I felt my- 
self not a little flattered by the fav >rable 
mention he was pleased to make .f me and 
my labors. The poet who pleases a man 
like him has nothing left to wish for. I am 
glad that you were pleased with my your.? 
cousin Johnson; he is a boy, and bashfu., 
but has great merit in respect both of char, 
acter and intellect. So far at least as in * 
week's knowledge of him I could, possibly ' 
learn, he is very amiable and very sensible, 
and inspired me with a warm wish to know 
him better. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — Your kind letter de- 
served a speedier answer, but you know my 
excuse, which, were I to repeat always, my 
letters would resemble the fag-end of a news- 
paper, where we always find the price of 
stocks, detailed with little or no variation. 

and scholia of a MS. of Homer, in the tenth century, 
found in the library of St. Mark, Venice. The Preface 
abounds in learned and interesting matter, and is in high 
estimation among scholars. Wolf, Heyne, and the Ox- 
ford, or Grenville edition, have profited largely by Vil- . 
loison's labors. His undustrious search after valuable 
MSS. and care in collating them with received editions ; 
his critical acumen, sound scholarship, and profound 
erudition, entitle him to the gratitude and praise of the 
classical student. He died in 1805. 

3rdly. That of Heyne. Leipsick. 1802, 8 vols. Gr. et 
Lat. 

The text is formed on that of Wolf. The editor was 
assisted in this undertaking by a copy of Bentley's 
Homer, in which that celebrated critic restores the long- 
lost digamma; and by an ancient and valuable MS. be- 
longing to Mr. Towneley. 

Of this edition it has been observed that " the work 
of Professor Heyne will in a great cieasure preclude 
the necessity of farther collations, from which nothing ol 
consequence can be expected. When the Greek lan- 
guage is better understood than it is at present, it will be 
resorted to as a rich repository of philological informa- 
tion." — Edinburgh Review, July, 1803. 

* Dr. Warton (Joseph) head master of Winchester 
School, upwards of thirty years, where he presided with 
high reputation; author of "Essay on the Writings and 
Genius of Pope," and of an edition of the Works of Pope, 
jji 9 vols. 8vo. He was brother to Thomas Warton, well 
known for his History of English Poetry. Died in 1800. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



S4 



When January returns, you have your feel- 
jigs concerning me, and such as prove the 
faithfulness of your friendship.* I have mine 
riiso concerning myself, but they are of a cast 
different from yours. Yours have a mixture 
of sympathy and tender solicitude, which 
makes them, perhaps, not altogether un- 
pleasant. Mine, on the contrary, are of an 
unmixed nature, and* consist, simply and 
merely, of the most alarming apprehensions. 
Twice ha<5 thi.t month returned upon me, ae- 
companu'd by such horrors as I have no rea- 
son to xupiK^e ever made part of tiie expe- 
rience of any o£n«f man. I accordingly look 
forward to it. and meet it, with a dread not 
to be imagined. I number the nights as 
they pass, and in tiie morning bless myself 
that another night is gone, and no harm has 
happened. This may argue, perhaps, some 
imbecility of mind, and no small degree of 
it; but it is natural, I believe, and so natural 
as to be necessary and unavoidable. I know 
that God is not governed by secondary causes, 
in any of his operations, and that, on the con- 
trary, they are all so many agents in his 
hand, which strike only when he bids them. 
I know consequently that one month is as 
dangerous to me as another, and that, in the 
middle of summer, at noonday, and in the 
clear sunshine, I am in reality, unless guard- 
ed by him, as much exposed as when fast 
asleep at midnight, and in midwinter. But 
we are not always the wiser for our knowl- 
edge, and I can no more avail myself of 
mine, than if it were in the head of another 
man, and not in my own. I have heard of 
bodily aches and ails, that have been particu- 
larly troublesome when the season returned 
in which the hurt that occasioned them was 
received. The mind, I believe (with my own, 
however, I am sure it is so), is liable to simi- 
lar periodical affection. But February is 
come, my terror is passed, and some shades 
of the gloom that attended his presence have 
passed with him. I look forward with a lit- 
tle cheerfulness to the buds and the leaves 
that will soon appear, and say to myself, till 
they turn yellow I will make myself easy. 
The year will go round, and January will 
approach. I shall tremble again, and I know 
it ; but in the meantime I will be as comfort- 
able as T can. Thus, in respect to peace of 
mind, such as it is that I enjoy, I subsist, as 
the poor are vulgarly said to do, from hand 
to mouth ; and of a Christian, such as you 
once knew me, am, by a strange transforma- 
tion, become an Epicurean philosopher, bear- 
..ig this motto on my mind, — Quid sit futu- 
rum cras,fuge quccrere. 

I have run on in a strain that the begin- 
ning of your letter suggested to me, with 

* January was a season of the year when the nervous 
depression under which Cowper labored was generally 
nicst severe. 



such impetuosity, that I have not left mysell 
opportunity to write more by the present 
post; and, being unwilling that you should 
wait longer for what will be worth nothing 
when you get it, will only express the grea\ 
pleasure we feel on hearing, as we did lately 
from Mr. Bull, that Mrs. Newton is so muc' 
better. 

Truly yours, W. f 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 9, 1790. 

I have sent you lately scraps instead of 
letters, having had occasion to answer imme- 
diately on the receipt, which always happens 
while I san. s deep in Homer. 

I knew when I recommended Johnson to 
you, that you would find some way to serve 
him, and so it has happened ; for, notwith- 
standing your own apprehensions to the con- 
trary, you have already procured him a chap- 
lainship:* this is pretty well, considering 
that it is an early day, and that you have but 
just begun to know that there is such a man 
under heaven. I had rather myself be pa- 
tronized by a person of small interest, with 
a heart like yours, than by the Chancellor 
himself, if he did not care a farthing for me. 

If I did not desire you to make my ac- 
knowledgments to Anonymous, as I be- 
lieve I did not, it was because I am not 
aware that I am warranted to do so. But 
the omission is of less consequence, because, 
whoever he is, though he has no objection to 
doing the kindest things, he seems to have 
an aversion to the thanks they merit. 

You must know that two odes composed 
by Horace have lately been discovered at 
Rome.f I wanted them transcribed into the 
blank leaves of a little Horace of mine, and 
Mrs. Throckmorton performed that service 

* The poet's kinsman was made chaplain to Dr. Spen- 
cer Madan, the Bishop of Peterborough. 

t These Odes proved to be forgeries. They were re- 
ported to have been found in the Palatine Library, anc 
communicated to the public by Gaspar Pallavicini, the 
sub-librarian. We have room only for the following : — 

AD SALIUM FLORUM. 

Discolor grandem gravat uva ramum ; 
Instat Autumnus ; glacialis anno 
Mo& hyems volvente adiret, capillis 
Horrida canis. 

Jam licet Nymphas trepide fugaces 
Insequi, lento pede detinendas, 
Et labris captae, simulantis iram, 
Oscula figi. 

Jam licit vino madidos vetusto 
De die laetum recinare carmen ; 
Flore, si te des hilarum, licebit 

Sumere nocteiu 

Jam vide curas A quilone sparsas 
Mens viri fortis sibi constat, utrum 
Serius lethi citiusve tristis 

Advolat hora. 

There is a false quantity in the first stanza, whic* 
affords presumptive evidence of forgery. 
The title of the second Ode is, "Ad Librim SiUm.'' 



342 



COWPER'S WORKS 



for ma ; in a blank leaf, therefore, of the same 
oook, I wrote the following : — 

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, 

On her beautiful Transcript of Horace's Ode, 

AD LIBRUM SUUM. 

Maria, could Horace have guess'd 

What honors awaited his ode, 
To his own little volume address'd, 

The honor which' you have bestow'd, 
Who have traced it in characters here. 

So elegant, even, and neat; 
He had laugh'd at the critical sneer. 

Which he seems to have' trembled to meet. 

And sneer if you please, he had said, 

Hereafter a nymph shall arise, 
Who shall give me, when you are all dead, 

The glory your malice denies, 
Shall dignity give to my lay, 

Although but a mere bagatelle ; 
And even a poet shall say, 

Nothing ever was written so well. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 26, 1790. 
You have set my heart at ease, my cousin, 
so far as you are yourself the object of its 
anxieties. What other troubles it feels can 
be cured by God alone. But you are never 
silent a week longer than usual, without giv- 
ing an opportunity to my imagination (ever 
fruitful in flowers of a sable hue) to tease 
rne with them day and night. London is in- 
deed a pestilent place, as you call it ; and I 
would, with all my heart, that thou hadst less 
to do with it ; were you under the same roof 
with me, 1 should know you to be safe, and 
should never distress you with melancholy 
letters. 

I feel myself well enough inclined to the 
measure you propose, and will show to your 
new acquaintance, with all my heart, a sam- 
ple of my translation, but it shall not be, if 
you please, taken from the Odyssey. It is a 
poem of a gentler character than the Iliad, 
and, as I propose to carry her by a coup de 
main, I shall employ Achilles, Agamemnon, 
and the two armies of Greece and Troy in 
my service. I will accordingly send you in 
the box that I received from you last night 
the two first books of the Iliad for that lady's 
perusal ; to those I have given a third revisal ; 
for them therefore I will be answerable, and 
am not afraid to stake the credit of my work 
upon litem with her, or with any living wight, 
especially one who understands the original. 
I do not mean that even they are finished, 
for I shall examine and cross-examine them 
yet again, and so you may tell her ; but I 
know that they will not disgrace me : where- 
as it is so long since I have looked at the 
Odyssey, that I know nothing at all about it. 



They shall set sail from Olney on Monday 
morning in the diligence, and will reach you, 
I hope, in the evening. As soon as she las 
done with them, I shall be glad to have them 
again, for the time draws near when I shall 
want to give them the last touch. 

I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's* kind- 
ness in giving me the only picture of my mo- 
ther that is to be found, I suppose, in all the 
world. I had rather possess it than the rich- 
est jewel in the British crown, for I loved 
her with an affection that her death, fifty-twc 
years?, since, has not in the least abated. I 
remember her too, young as I was when she 
died, well enough to know that it is a ver\ 
exact resemblance of her, and as such it is to 
me invaluable. Everybody loved her, ana 
with an amiable character so impressed upoi 
all her features, everybody was sure to do so. 

I have a very affectionate and a very clever 
letter from Johnson, who promises me the 
transcript of the books entrusted to him in a 
few days. I have a great love for that y oung 
man ; he has some drops of the same stream 
in his veins that once animated the original 
of that dear picture, f W. C. 



TO MRS. BODHAM. 

Weston, Feb. 27, 1790. 

My dearest Rose,| — Whom I thought 
withered and fallen from the stalk, but whom 
I find still alive : nothing could give me greater 
pleasure than to know it, and to learn it from 
yourself. I loved you dearly when you were 
a child, and love you not a jot the less for 
having ceased to be so. Every creature that 
bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, 
and you, the daughter of her brother, are but 
one remove distant from her : I love you there- 
fore, and love you much, both for her sake 
and for your own. The world could not have 
furnished you with a present so acceptable to 
me as the picture which you have so kindly 
sent me. I received it the night before last, 
and viewed it with a trepidation of nervas 
and spirits somewhat akin to what I should 
have felt, had the dear original presented hei - 
self to my embraces. I kissed it, and hun ; 
it where it is the last object thai I see at night, 
and, of course, the first on which I open my 
eyes in the morning. She died when I had 
completed my sixth year, yet I remember her 
well, and am an ocuiar witness of the great 
fidelity of the copy. T remember too a mul- 
titude of the maternal tendernesses which J 
received from her, and which have endeared 

* Mrs. Bodhara was a cousin of Cowper's, connected 
with him by his maternal family, the Donnes. 

t The manner in which Cowper speaks of his kinsman 
is uniformly the same— kind, affectionate, and endearing. 

% Mrs. Bodham was always addressed by Cowper \\ 
this playful and complimentary style, though her Chris 
tian name was Ann. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



34; 



:ier memory to mo beyond expression.* There 
is in me, I believe, more of the Donne than 
the Cowper, and though I love all of both 
names, and have a thousand reasons to love 
those of my own name, yet I feel the bond of 
nature draw me vehemently to your side. I 
was thought, in the days of my childhood, 
much to resemble my mother, and in my natu- 
ral temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight 
I must be supposed a competent judge, can 
trace both her and my late uncle, your father. 
Somewhat of his irritability, and a little I 

would hope both of his and of her , 

I know not what to call it without seeming 
to praise myself, which is not my intention, 
but speaking to you, I will even speak out, 
and say good nature. Add to all this, I deal 
much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, 
flie Dean of St. Paul's,! and I think I shall 
nave proved myself a Donne at all points. 
The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you 
all. 

I account it a happy event that brought the 
dear boy, your nephew, to my knowledge, and 
that, breaking through all the restraints which 
his natural bashfulness imposed on him, he 
determined to find me out. He is amiable to 
a degree that I have seldom seen, and I often 
long with impatience to see him again. 

My dearest cousin, what shall I say in an- 
swer to your affectionate invitation ? I must 
say this, I cannot come now, nor soon, and I 
wish with all my heart I could. But I will 
tell you what may be done, perhaps, and it 
will answer to us just as well : you and Mr. 
Bodham can come to Weston, can you not ? 
The summer is at hand, there are roads and 
wheels to bring you, and you are neither of 
vou translating Homer. I am crazed that I 

* No present could possibly have been more acceptable 
o Cowper than the receipt of his mother's picture. He 
composed the beautiful verses, on this occasion, so ten- 
ierly descriptive of the impression made on his youthful 
magination by the remembrance of her virtues. We 
extract the following passage : — 

My motner ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
iiover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And, turning from my nursery-window, drew 
A long, Ioiik sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It •as. Where thou art gone ; 
Vdieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave mo promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently 1 Wish'd, 1 long believed, 
4nd, disappointed still, was still deceived ; 
By expectation every day beguiled, 
Dupe of to-morrvw, even from a child. 
Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock o'* infant sorrow spent, 
I learn'd at last Butmission to my lot, 
But, though I less deplored th ;e, ne'er forgot. 
T Dr. John Donne, an eminent and learned divine, 
•Those life is written by Iz< ak Walton. Bora 1573, died 
631. 



cannot ask you all together for want of house 
room, but for Mr. Bodham and yourself we 
have good room, and equally good for any 
third in the shape of a Donne, whether named 
Hewitt,* Bodham, Balls, or Johnson, or b) 
whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt 
has particular claims upon me ; she was mv 
playfellow at Berkhamstead, and has a share 
in my warmest affections. Pray tell her so ! 
Neither do I at all forget my cousin Harriet. 
She and I have been many a time merry at 
Catfield, and have made the parsonage ring 
with laughter : — Give my love to her. Assure 
yourself, my dearest cousin, that I shall re- 
ceive you, as if you were my sister, and Mrs. 
Unwin is, for my sake, prepared to do the 
same. When she has seen you she will love 
you for your own. 

I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his 
kindness to my Homer, and with my love to 
you all, and with Mrs. Un win's kind respects, 
am, 

My dear, dear Rose, ever yours, 
W. C. 

. P. S. — I mourn the death of your poor 
brother Castress, whom I should have seen 
had he lived, and should have seen with the 
greatest pleasure. He was an amaible boy, 
and I was very fond of him. 

Still another P. S. — I find on consulting 
Mrs. Unwin that I have underrated our capa- 
bilities, and that we have not only room for 
you and Mr. Bodham, but for two of your sex, 
and even for your nephew into the bargain. 
We shall be happy to have it all so occupied. 
Your nephew tells me that his sister, in the 
qualities of the mind, resembles you; that is 
enough to make her dear to me, and I beg you 
will assure her that she is so. Let it not be 
long before I hear from you. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Feb. 28, 1790. 

My dear Cousin John, — I have much wished 
to hear from you, and, though yo/i are wel- 
come to write to Mrs. CJnwin as often as you 
please, I wish myself to be numbered among 
your correspondents. 

I shall find time to answer you, doubt it 
not! Be as busy as we may, we can always 
find time to do what is agreeable to us. By 
the way, had you a letter from Mrs. Unwin ? 
I am witness that she addressed one to you 
before you went into Norfolk, but yourmathe- 
matico-poetical head forgot to acknowledge 
the receipt of it. 

I was never more pleased in my life than 
to learn from herself, that my dearest Rosej 
is still alive. Had she not engaged me to 
love her by the sweetness of her character 

* The Rev. J. Johnson's sister 
t Mrs. Ann Bodham. 



344 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



when a child, she would have done it effectu- 
ally now by making me the most acceptable 
present in the world, my own dear mother's 
picture. I am perhaps the only person living 
who remembers her, but I remember her well, 
and can attest on my own knowledge the 
truth of the resemblance. Amiable and ele- 
gant as the countenance is, such exactly was 
her own ; she was one of the tenderest pa- 
rents, and so just a copy of her is therefore 
to me invaluable. 

I wrote yesterday to my Rose, to tell her 
all this, and to thank her for her kindness 
in sending it. Neither do I forget your kind- 
ness, who intimated to her that I should be 
happy to possess it. 

She invites me into Norfolk, but alas ! she 
might as well invite the house in which I 
dwell; for, all other considerations and im- 
pediments apart, how is it possible that a 
translator of Homer should lumber to such a 
distance ! But, though I cannot comply with 
her kind invitation, I have made myself the 
best amends in my power, by inviting her and 
all the family oi Donnes to Weston. Perhaps 
we could not accommodate them all at once, 
but in succession we could, and can at any 
time find room for five, three of them being 
females, and one a married one. You are a 
mathematician ; tell'me then how five persons 
can be lodged in three beds (two males and 
three females) and I shall have good hope that 
you will proceed a senior optime. It would 
make me happy to see our house so furnished. 
As to yourself, whom I know to be a subsca- 
larian, or a man that sleeps under the stairs,* 
I should ha\ e no objection at all, neither could 
you possibly have any yourself to the garret, 
as a place in which you might be disposed of 
with great felicity of accommodation. 

I thank you much for your services in the 
transcribing way, und would by no means have 
you despair of an opportunity to serve me in 
the same way yet again ; — write to me soon, 
md tell me when I snail see you. 

I have not said the half that I have to say, 
but breakfast is at hand, which always termi- 
nates my epistles. 

What have you done with your poem ? 
The trimming that it procured you here has 
not, 1 hope, put you out of conceit with it 
entirely; you are more than equal to the al- 
teration that it needs. Only remember that 
in writing, perspicuity is always more than 
half the battle; the want of it is the ruin of 
wiore than half the poetry that is published. 
A meaning that does not stare you in the face 
is as bad as no meaning, because nobody will 
take the pains to poke for it. So now adieu 
for the present. Beware of killing yourself 
with problems, for, if you do, you will never 
ive to be another Sir Isaac. 

* This expression alludes to the situation of the rooms 
Vcupied by him at Caius College, Cambridge. 



Mrs, Unwin's affectionate remembrances 
attend you ; Lady Hesketh is much disposed 
to love you ; perhaps most who know you 
have some little tendency the same way. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 8, 1790. 

My dearest Cousin, — I thank thee much 
and oft, for negociating so well this poetica. 

concern with Mrs. , and for sending me 

her opinion in her own hand. I should be 
unreasonable indeed not tn be highly gratified 
by it, and I like it the better for being mod- 
estly expressed. It is, as you know, and it 
shall be s-ome months longer, my daily business 
to polish and improve what is done, that when 
the whole shall appear she may find her ex- 
pectations answered. I am glad also that 
thou didst send her the sixteenth Odyssey, 
though, as I said before, I know not at all at 
present whereof it is made ; but I am sure 
that thou wouldst not have sent it, hadst thou 
not conceived a good opinion of it thyself, 
and thought that it would do me credit. It 
was very kind in thee to sacrifice to this Mi- 
nerva on my account. 

For my sentiments on the subject of the 
Test Act, I cannot do better than refer thee 
to my poem, entitled and called " Expostula- 
tion." I have there expressed myself not 
much in its favor, considering it in a religious 
view ; and in a political one, I like it not a 
jot the better.* I am neither Tory nor high 
Churchman, but an old Whig, as my father 
was before me ; and an enemy, consequently, 
to all tyrannical impositions. 

Mrs. Unvvin bids me. return thee many 
thanks for thy inquiries so kindly made con- 
cerning her health. She is a little better than 
of late, but has been ill continually ever since 
last November. Everything that could try 
patience and submission she has had, and hei 
submission and patience have answered in 
the trial, though mine, on her account, have 
often failed sadly. 

I have a letter from Johnson, who tells me 
thai he has sent his transcript to you, begging 
at the same time more copy. Let him have 
it by all .means; he is an industrious youth 
and I love him dearly. I told him that you 

* The following is the passage alluded to. 
Hast thou by statute shoved from its design 
The Saviour's feast, his own blest bread and witje, 
And made the symbols of atoning grace 
An office-key, a picklock to a place ? 
That infidels may prove their title good, 
By an oath dipp'd in sacramental blood? 
A blot that will be still a blot, in spite 
Of all that grave apologists may write : 
And, though a bishop toil to cleanse the staL:, 
He wipes and scourb the silver cup in vain. 
And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, 
Till perjuries are common as bad pence, 



Wh 



r hiie thousands, careless of the damning sin, 
iss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within? 



Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er 
The Test Act is now repealed. 



Expostulntum. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



341 



we disposed to love him a little. A new 
poem is born on tne receipt of my mother's 
picture . — thou shalt have it. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL KOSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, March 11, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — I was glad to hear from 
you, for a line from you gives me always 
much pleasure, but was not much gladdened 
by the contents of your letter. The state of 
your health, which I have learned more accu- 
rately perhaps from my cousin, except in this 
last instance, than from yourself, has alarmed 
me, and even she has collected her informa- 
tion upon that subject more from your looks 
than from your own acknowledgments. To 
complain much and often of our indisposi- 
tions does not always insure the pity of the 
hearer, perhaps sometimes forfeits it ; but to 
dissemble them altogether, or at least to sup- 
press the worst, is attended ultimately with 
an inconvenience greater still ; the secret will 
out at last, and our friends, unprepared to re- 
ceive it, are doubiy distressed about us. In 
saying this, I squint a little at Mrs. Unwin, 
who will read it ; it is with her, as with you, 
the only subject on which she practices any 
dissimulation at all; the consequence is, that, 
when she is much indisposed, I never believe 
myself in possession of the whole truth, live 
in constant expectation of hearing something 
worse, and at the long run am seldom disap- 
pointed. It seems, therefore, as on all other 
occasions, so even in this, the better course 
on the whole to appear what we are : not to 
lay the fears of our friends asleep by cheerful 
looks, which do not probably belong to us, or 
by letters written as if we were well, when 
in fact we are very much otherwise. On 
condition, however, that you act differently 
towards me for the future, I will pardon the 
past, and she may gather from my clemency 
shown to you some hopes, on the same con- 
ditions, of similar clemency to herself. 

W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Weston, March 12, 1790. 

My dear Madam, — I live in such a nook, 
have so few opportunities of hearing news, 
and so little time to read it, that to me to 
begin a letter seems always a sort of forlorn 
nope. Can it be possible, I say to myself, 
that I should have anything to communicate'? 
These misgivings have an ill effect, so far as 
»ny punctuality is concerned, and are apt to 
deter me from the business of letter- writ- 
ng, as from an enterprise altogether imprae- 
vicab 2 

I will not say that you are more pleased 

* Private correspondence 



with my trifles than they deserve, lest I should 
seem to call your judgment in question; but 
I suspect that a little partiality to the brother 
of my brother enters into the opinion you 
form of them. No matter, however, by what 
you are influenced, it is for my interest that 
you' should like them at any rate, because, 
such as they are, they are the only return I 
can make you for all your kindness. This 
consideration will have two effects; it will 
have a tendency to make me more industri- 
ous in the production of such pieces, and 
more attentive to the manner in which I write 
them. This reminds me of a piece in your 
possession, which I will entreat you to com- 
mit to the flames, because I am somewhat 
ashamed of it. To make you amends, 1 
hereby promise to send you a new edition of 
it when time shall serve, delivered from the 
passages that I dislike in the first, and in other 
respects amended. The piece that I mean, is 
one entitled — " To Lady Hesketh on her 
furnishing for me our house at Weston" — 
or, as the lawyers say, words to that amount. 
I hiive, likewise, since I sent you the last 
packet, been delivered of two or three other 
brats, and, as the year proceeds, shall prob 
ably add to the number. All that come 
shall be basketed in time, and conveyed to 
your door. 

I have lately received from a female cousin 
of mine in Norfolk, whom I have not seen 
these five-and- shirty years, a picture of my 
own mother. She died when I wanted two 
days of being six years old ; yet I remembe: 
her perfectly, find the picture a strong like- 
ness of her, and, because her memory has 
been ever precious to me, nave written a poem 
on the receipt of it: a poem which, one ex- 
cepted, I had more pleasure in writing than 
any hat I ever wrote. That one was ad- 
dressed to a lady whom I expect in a few 
minutes to come down to breakfast, and who 
has supplied to me the place of my own 
mother — my own invaluable mother, these 
six-and-twenty years. Some sons may be 
said to have had many fathers, but a plurali- 
ty of mothers is not common. 

Adieu, my dear madam ; be assured that I 
always think of you with much esteem and 
affection, and am, with mine and Mrs. Unwin's 
best compliments to you and yours, most un 
feignedly your friend and humble servant, 

W. C 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 

The Lodge, March 21, 1790. 

My dearest Madam, — I shall only observe 

on the subject of your absence, that you have 

stretched it since you went, and have made it 

a week longer. Weston is sadly unked* 

* A common provincialism in Buckinghamshire, prob- 
ably a corruption of uncouth. 



346 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



witho at you ; and here are two of ite, who 
will be heartily glad to see you again. I be- 
lieve you are happier at home than anywhere, 
which is a comfortable belief to your neigh- 
bors, because it affords assurance that, since 
you are neither likely to ramble for pleasure, 
nor to meet with any avocations of business, 
while Weston shall continue to be your home, 
it will not often want you. 

The two first books of my Iliad have been 
submitted to the mspection and scrutiny of a 
great critic of your sex, at the instance of my 
cousin, as you may suppose. The lady is 
mistress of more tongues than a few (it is to 
be hoped she is single) ; and particularly she 
is mistress of the Greek.* She returned 
them with expressions, that, if anything could 
make a poet, prouder than all poets naturally 
are, would have made me so. I tell you this, 
because I know that you all interest your- 
selves in the success of the said Iliad. 

M) periwig is arrived, and is the very per- 
fection of all periwigs, having only one fault ; 
which is, that my head will only go into the 
first half of it, the other half, or the upper 
part of it, continuing still unoccupied. My 
artist m this way at Olney has, however, un- 
dertaken to make the whole of it tenantable, 
and then I shall be twenty years younger 
than you have ever seen me. 

I heard of your birth-day very early in the 
morning ; the news came from the steeple. 

W. C. 



The following letter is interesting as re- 
cording his opinion of the style best adapted 
to a translation of Homer. 

TO LADY HESKETM. 

The Lodge, March 22, 1790. 
I rejoice, my dearest cousin, that my MSS. 
have roamed the earth so successfully, and 
have met with no disaster. The single book 
excepted, that went to the bottom of the 
Thames, and rose again, they have been for- 
tunate without exception. I am not super- 
stitious, but have, nevertheless, as good a 
right to believe that adventure an omen, and 
a favorable one, as Swift had to interpret as 
he did the loss of a fine fish, which he had no 
sooner laid on the bank than it flounced into 
the water again. This,- he tells us himself, 
he always considered as a type of his future 
disappointments; and why may not I as well 
consider the marvellous recovery of my lost 
book from the bottom of the Thames as typi- 
cal of its future prosperity ? To say the 
truth, I have no fears now about the success 
of my translation, though in time past I have 
nad many. I knew there was a style some- 
where, could I but find it, in which Homer 
ought to be rendered, and which alone would 
* Mrs. Carter. 



suit him. Long time I blundered about it 
ere I could attain to any decided judgment 
on the matter ; at first, I was betrayed by a 
desire of accommodating my language to the 
simplicity of his into much of the quaintness 
that belonged to our writers of the fifteenth 
century. In the course of many revisals 1 
have delivered myself from this evil, I believe, 
entirely ; but I have done it slowly, and as a 
man separates himself from his mistress when 
he is going to marry. [ had so strong a pre- 
dilection in favor of this style at -firsts that I 
was crazed to find that others were not as ' 
much enamored with it as myself. At every 
passage of that sort which I obliterated. I 
groaned bitterly, and said to myself, I am 
spoiling my work to please those who have 
no taste for the simple graces of antiquity. 
But, in measure as I adopted a more moden. 
phraseology, I became a convert to theii 
opinion, and, in the last revisal, which I am 
now making, am not sensible of having 
spared a single expression of the obsolete 
kind. I see my work so much improved by 
this alteration, that I am filled with wonder 
at my own backwardness to assent to the 
necessity of it, and the more when I consider 
that Milton, with whose manner I account 
myself intimately acquainted is never quaint, 
never twangs through the nos?., but is every- 
where grand and elegant, without resorting 
to musty antiquity for his beauties. On the 
contrary, he took a long stride forward, left 
the language of his own day far behind him, 
and anticipated the expressions of a century 
yet to come. 

I have now, as I said, no longer any doubt 
of the event, but I will give thee a shilling 
if thou wilt tell me what I shall say in my 
Preface. It is an affair of much delicacy, and 
I have as many opinions about it as there are 
whims in a weathercock. 

Send my MSS. and thine when thou wilt. 
In a day or two I shall enter on the last Iliad ; 
when I have finished it I shall give the 
Odyssey one more reading, and shall there- 
fore shortly have occasion for the copy in thy 
possession, but you see that there is no need 
to hurry. 

I leave the little space for Mrs. Unwin's 
use, who means, I believe, to occupy it, 
And am evermore thine most truly, 

W. C. 

Postscript, in the hand of Mrs. Unwin. 

You cannot imagine how much your 'adv 
ship would oblige your unworthy serva it, ff 
you would be so good to let me kn:>w m 
what point I differ from you. All that at 
present I can say is, that I will readily sacr- 
fice my own opinbn, unless I can give y u 
substantial reason for adhering to it. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



34 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, March 23, 1790. 

Your MSS. arrived safe in New Norfolk- 
street, and I am much obliged to you for 
your labors. Were you now at Weston, I 
•ould furnish you with employment for some 
/eeks, and shall perhaps be equally able to 
do it in summer, for 1 have lost my best 
amanuensis in this place, Mr. G. Throckmor- 
ton, who is gone to Bath. 

You are a man to be envied who have 
never read the Odyssey, which is one of the 
most amusing story-books in the world. 
There is also much of the finest poetry in 
the world to be found in it, notwithstanding 
all that Longinus has insinuated to the con- 
trary.* His comparison of the Iliad and 
Odyssey to the meridian and to the declining 
sun is pretty, but, I am persuaded, not just. 
The pretimess of it seduced him; he was 
otheiwise too judicious a reader of Homer to 
hfcvfe made it. I can find in *the latter no 
symptoms of impaired ability, none of the 
effects of age ; on the contrary, it seems to 
me a certainty, that Homes, had he written 
the Odyssey in his youth, could not have 
written it better; and if the Iliad in his old 
age, that he would have written it just as 
well. A critic would tell me that, instead 
►»f written, I should have said composed. Very 
likely — but I am not writing to one of that 
snarling generation. 

My boy, I lorg to see thee again. It has 
happened seme way or other, that Mrs. Un- 
win and I have conceived a great affection 
for thee. That I should is the less to be 
wondered ?t, (because thou art a shred of 
my own mo: her;) neither is the wonder 
great, that site should fall into the same pre- 
dicament ; for she loves everything that I 
love. You will ohsa T e that your own per- 
sonal right to be beloved makes no part of 
the consideration. There is nothing that I 
touch with so much tenderness as the vanity 
of a young man ; because, I know how ex- 
tremely suscer. tible he is of impressions that 
might hurt him in that particular part of 
his composition. If you should ever prove a 
coxcomb,f from which character you stand 
just now at a greater distance than any 
young man I know, it shall never be said 
that I have made you one ; no, you will gain 
nothing by me but the honor of being much 
valued by a poor poet, who can do you no 
good while he lives, and has nothing to leave 
you when he dies. If you can be contented 
to be dear to me on these conditions, so you 
shall ; but other terms more advantageous 
than these, or more inviting, none have I to 
propose. 

* Longinus compares the Odyssey to fhe setting sun, 
and the Iliad, as more characteristic of the loftiness of 
Homer's genius, to the splendor of the rising sun. 

t No man ever possessed a happier exemption, through- 
out life, from such a title. 



Farewell. Puzzle not yourself about a 
subject when you write to either of us : every 
thing is subject enough from those we love. 

W. C 



jn 70P.N JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, April 17, 1790. 

Your letter, tlkvt now lies before me, is al 
most three weeks old, and therefore of *f ul 
age to receive an answer, which it shall have 
without delay, if the interval between the 
present moment and that of breakfast should 
prove sufficient for the purpose. 

Yours to Mrs. Unwin was received yester- 
day, for which she will thank you in due time. 
I nave also seen, and have now in my desk, 
your letter to Lady Hesketh; she sent it 
thinking that it would divert me; in which 
she was not mistaken. I shall tell her when 
I write to her next, that you long to receive 
a line from her. Give yourself no trouble 
on the subject of the politic device you saw 
good to recur to, when you presented me 
with your manuscript;* it was an innocent 
deception, at least it could harm nobody save 
yourself; an effect which it did not fail to 
produce ; and, since the punishment followed 
it so closely, by me at least it may very well 
be forgiven. You ask, how I can tell that 
you are not addicted to practices of the de- 
ceptive kind ? And certainly, if the little 
time that I have had to study you were alone 
to be considered, the question would not be 
unreasonable; but in general a man who 
reaches my years finds 

" That long experience does attain 
To something like prophetic strain." 

I am very much of Lavater's opinion, and 
persuaded that faces are as legible as books, 
only with these circumstances to recommend 
them to our perusal, that they are read in 
much less time, and are much less likely to 
deceive us. Yours gave me a favorable im- 
pression of you the moment I beheld it, and, 
though I # shall not tell you in particular what 
I saw in it, for reasons mentioned in my last, 
I will add, that I have observed in you no- 
thing since that has not confirmed the opin- 
ion I then formed in your favor. In fact I 
cannot recollect that my skill in physiognomy 
has ever deceived me, and I should add more 
on this subject had I room. 

When you have shut up your mathematical 
books, you must give yourself to the study 
of Greek ; not merely that you may be able 
to read Homer and the other Greek classics 
with ease, but the Greek Testament and the 
Greek fathers also. Thus qualified, and by 
'the aid of you* fiddle ^into the bargain, to- 
gether with some portion of the grace of God 

* The poem on Audley End, alluded to in a formar 
letter to Lady Hesketh. 



848 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



(without which nothing can be done) to en- 
able you to look well to your flock, when you 
shall get one, you will be set up for a parson. 
In which character, if I live to see you in it, I 
shall expect and hope that you will make a 
very different figure from most of your frater- 
nity.* Ever yours, W. C. 



% TO LADY HESXETH. 

The Lodge, April 19, 1790. 

My dearest Coz., — I thank thee for my 
cousin Johnson's letter, which diverted me. 
I had one from him lately, in which he ex- 
pressed an ardent desire of a line from you, 
and the delight he would feel in receiving it. 
I know not whether you will have the charity 
to satisfy his longings, but mention the mat- 
ter, thinking it possible that you may. A 
letter from a lady to a youth immersed in 
mathematics must be singularly pleasant. 

I am finishing Homer backward, having 
begun at the last book, and designing to per- 
severe in that crab-like fashion till I arrive at 
the first. This may remind you perhaps of a 
certain poet's prisoner in the Bastille (thank 
Heaven ! in the Bastille now no more) count- 
ing the nails in the door, for variety's sake, 
in all directions.! I find so little to do in the 
last revisal, that I shall soon reach the Odys- 
sey, and soon want those books of it which 
are in thy possession ; but the two first of the 
Iliad, which are also in thy possession, rLdch 
sooner ; thou mayst therefore send them by 
the first fair opportunity. I am in high spirits 
on this subject, and think that I have at last 
licked the clumsy cub into a shape that will 
secure to it the favorable notice of the public. 

Let not retard me, and I shall hope to 

get it out next winter. 

I am glad that thou hast sent the General 
those verses on my mother's picture. They 
will amuse him — only I hope that he will not 
miss my mother-in-law, and think that she 
ought to have made a third. On such an oc- 
casion it was not possible to mention her 
with any propriety. I rejoice at the General's 
recovery ; may it prove a perfect one. 

W. C. 



TO LAPY lE^SKETH. 

Weston, April 30, 1790. 

To my old friend, Dr. Madam* thou couldst 

* Cowper is often very sarcastic upon the clergy. We 
irust that these censures are not so merited in these times 
If reviving piety, 
t We subjoin the lines to which Cowper refers : — 
" To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro 
The studs, that thick emboss his iron door ; 
Then downward and then upward, then aslant, 
And then alternate ; with & sickly hope % 

By dint of change to give hia tasteless task 
Some relish ; till the sum, exactly found 
In all directions, he begins again." 

Book V. — Winter Morning's Walk. 
I Tht Bishop of Peterborough. 



not have spoken better than thou didst. Te 
him, I beseech you, ^hat I have not forgotten 
him; tell him also, that to my heart ana 
home he will be always welcome; nor he 
only, but all that are his. His judgment of 
my translation gave me the highest satisfac. 
tion, because I know him to be a rare, old 
Grecian. 

The General's approbation of my picture: 
verses gave me also much pleasure. I wrott- 
them not without tears, therefore I p;esumt 
it maybe that they are felt by others. Should 
he offer me my father's picture I shall gladly 
aecept it. A melancholy pleasure is bettei 
than none, nay, verily, better than most. He 
had a sad task imposed on him, but no man 
could acquit himself of such a one with more 
discretion or with more tenderness. The 
death of the unfortunate young man remind- 
ed me of those lines in Lycidas, 

" It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark 
That sunk so low tnat sacred head of thine !" 



How beautiful ! 



w. c. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 5 * 



The Lodge, May 2, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — I am still at the old 
sport — Homer all the morning, and Homer 
all the evening. Thus have I been held in 
constant employment, I know not exactly 
how many, but I believe these six years, an 
interval of eighth months excepted. It is 
now become so familiar to me to take Homer 
from my shelf at a certain hour, tbat I shall 
no doubt continue to take him f.om my shelf 
at the same time, even after I have ceased to 
want him. That period is not far distant. 
I am now giving the last touches to a work, 
which, had I foreseen the difficulty of it, I 
should never have meddled with ; but which, 
having at length nearly finished it to my 
mind, I shall discontinue with regret. 

My very best compliments attend Mrs. 
Hill,"whom I love, " unsight unseen," as they 
say, but yet truly. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 

The Lodge, May 10, 1790. 
My dear Mrs. Frog,f — You have by thr 
time (I presume) heard from the Doctor 
whom I desired to present to you our best 
affections, and to tell you that we are well 
He sent an urchin, (I do not mean a hedge* 
hog, commonly called an urchin in old times, 
but a boy, commonly so called at present,) 
expecting that he would find you at Buck 

* Private correspondence. 

t The sportive title generally bestowed by fowper on 
his amiable friends the Throckmortons. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



34V 



and s, whither he supposed you gone on 
Thursday. He sent him charged with divers 
articles, and among others with letters, or at 
least with a letter ; which I mention, that, if 
the boy should be lost, together with his 
despatches, past all possibility of recovery, 
you may yet know that the Doctor stands 
acquitted of not writing. That he is utterly 
lost ^that is to say, the boy — for, the Doctor 
being the last antecedent, as the grammarians 
say, yor might otherwise suppose that he 
was intended) is the more probable, because 
ae was never four miles from his home be- 
fore, havirg only travelled at the side of a 
jfough-team; and when the Doctor gave 
him his direction to Buckland's,* he asked, 
very naturally, if- that place was in England. 
So, what has become of him Heaven knows ! 

I do not know that any adventures have 
presented themselves since your departure 
worth mentioning, except that the rabbit that 
infested your wilderness has been shot, for de- 
vouring your carnations ; and that I myself 
have been in some danger of being devoured 
in like manner by a great dog, viz., Pearson's. 
But I wrote him a letter on Friday, (I mean 
a letter to Pearson, not to his dog, which I 
mention to prevent mistakes— for the said 
last antecedent might occasion them in this 
place also,) informing him, that, unless he 
tied up his great mastiff in the day-time, I 
would send him a worse thing, commonly 
called and known by the name of an attorney. 
When I go forth to ramble in the fields, I do 
not sally (like Don Quixote) with a purpose 
of encountering monsters, if any such can be 
found ; but am a peaceable, poor gentleman, 
and a poet, who mean nobody any harm, the 
fox-hunters and the two universities of this 
land excepted. 

I cannot learn from any creature whether 
the Turnpike Bill is alive or dead — so igno- 
rant am >I, and by such ignoramuses sur- 
rounded. But, if I know little else, this at 
least I know, that I love you, and Mr. Frog; 
that I long for your return, and that I am, 
with Mrs. Unwin's best affections, 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 28, 1790. 

My dearest Cot;., — I thank thee for the 
cffer of thy best services on this occasion. 
But Heaven guard my brows from the wreath 
you mention, whatever wreath beside may 
hereafter adorn them ! It would be a leaden 
extinguisher clapped on all the fire of my 
genius, and I should never more produce a 
ine worth reading. To speak seriously, it 
would make me miserable, and therefore I 



* The residence of the Throckmorton family in Berk- 
shire. 



am sure that thou, of all my friends, would&t 
least wish me to wear it.* 
Adieu, 
Ever thine — in Homer-hurry, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, June 3, 1790. 
You will wonder, when I tell you, mat \ 
even I, am considered by people, who live at 
a great distance, as having interest and influ- 
ence sufficient to procure a place at court, 
for those who may happen to want one. I 
have accordingly been applied to within these 
few days by a Welchman, with :- wife and 
many children, to get him made Poec Laureat 
as fast as possible. If thou wouidst wish to 
make the world merry twice a year, thou 
canst not do better than procure the office 
for him. I will promise thee that he shall 
afford thee a hearty laugh in return every 
birth-day and every new year. He is an 
honest man. Adieu ! W. C 



The poet ! s kinsman, having consulted him 
on the subject of his future plans and studies, 
receives the following reply. The letter is 
striking, but admits of doubt as to the just- 
ness of some of jts sentiments. 

TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, June 7, 1790. 

My dear John, — You know my engage- 
ments, and are consequently able to account 
for my silence. I will not therefore waste 
time and paper in mentioning them, but will 
only say, that, added to those with which you 
are acquainted, I have had other hindrances, 
such as business and a disorder of my spirits, 
to which I have been all my life subject. At 
present I am, thank God ! perfectly well both 
in mind and body. Of you I am always 
mindful, whether I write or not, and very de- 
sirous to see you. You will remember, 1 
hope, that you are under engagements to us. 
and as soon as your Norfolk friends can spare 
you, will fulfil them. Give us all the time 
you can, and all that they can spare to us ! 

You never pleased me more than when 
you told me you had abandoned your mathe- 
matical pursuits. It grieved me to think, that 
you were wasting your time merely to gain 
a little Cambridge fame, not worth your hav- 
ing. I cannot be contented, that your re 
nown should thrive nowhere but on thr 
banks of the Cam. Conceive a nobler ambi- 
tion, and never let your honor be circum- 

* Lady Hesketh suggested the appointment ot the 
office of Poet Laureat to Cowper, which had become va- 
cant by the death of Warton in 1790. The p( et declined 
the oner of her services, and Henry James I've, Esq., wa» 
nominated the successor. 



350 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



scribed by the paltry dimensions of a univer- 
sity ! It is well that you have already, as 
you observe, acquired sufficient information 
in that science to enable l to pass credita- 
bly such examinations as I suppose you must 
hereafter undergo. Keep what you have 
gotten, and be content. More is needless.* 

You could not apply to a worse than I am 
to advise you concerning your studies. I 
was never a regular student myself, but lost 
the m 3st valuable years of my life in an at- 
torney's office and in the Temple. I will not 
therefore give myself airs, and affect to know 
what I know not. The affair is of great im- 
portance to you, and you should be directed 
in it by a wiser than I. To speak however 
in very general terms on the subject, it 
seems to me that your chief concern is with 
history, natural philosophy, logic, and divin- 
ity. As to metaphysics, I know little about 
them. But the very little that I do know 
has net taught me to admire them. Life is 
too short to afford time even for serious trifles. 
Pursue what you know to be attainable, make 
truth your object, and your studies will make 
you a wise man ! Let your divinity, if I may 
advise, be the divinity of the glorious Reforma- 
tion : I mean in contradiction to Arminianism, 
and all the isms that were ever broached in this 
world of error and ignorance. 

* To Cowper's strictures on the University of Cam- 
bridge, and his remark that the fame there acquired is 
■not worth having, we by no means subscribe. We think 
no youth ought to be insensible to the honorable ambi- 
tion of obtaining its distinctions, and that they are not 
unfrequently the precursors of subsequent eminence in 
the Church, the Senate, and at the Bar. We have been 
informed that, out of fifteen judges recently on the bench, 
eleven had obtained honors at our two Universities. 
Whether the system of education is not susceptible of 
much improvement is a subject worthy of deep con- 
sideration. There seems to be a growing persuasion 
that, at the University of Cambridge, the mode of study 
is too exclusively mathematical ; and that a more com- 
prehensive plan, embracing the various departments of 
general knowledge and literature, would be an accession 
to the cause of learning. We admit that the University 
fully affords, the means of acquiring this general informa- 
tion, but there is a penalty attached to the acquisition 
which operates as a prohibition, because the prospect of 
obtaining honors must, in that case, be renounced. By 
adopting a more comprehensive system, the stimulants 
to exertion would be multiplied, and the end of educa- 
tion apparently more fully attained. 

When we reflect on the singular character of the pres- 
ent times, the instability of governments, and the disor- 
ganize'! state of society, arising from conflicting prin- 
ciples and opinions, the question of education assumes a 
momentous interest. We are (irmly persuaded that, un- 
less Ihe minds of youth be enlarged by useful knowledge, 
ttnd fortified by right principles of religion, they will not 
be fitted to sustain the duties and responsibilities that 
must soon devolve upon them ; nor will they be qualified 
to meet the storms that now threaten the political and 
moral horizon of Europe. 

Dr. Johnson, in enumerating the advantages resulting 
from a university education, specifies the following as 
calculated to operate powerfully on the mind of the stu- 
dent. 

" There is at least one very powerful incentive to learn- 
ing ; 1 mean the Genius of the place. It is a sort of in- 
spiring Deity, which every youth of quick sensibility and 
«hgenious disposition creates to himself, by reflecting that 
he is placed under those venerable walls where a Hooker 
»nd a Hammond, a Bacon and a Newton, once pursued 
file same course of scieace, and from whence they soared 
to the most elevated heights of literary fame."— The 
idler. No. 33. 



The divinity of ihe Reformation is caller 
Calvinism, but injuriously. It has been that 
of the church of Christ in all ages. It is the 
divinity, of St. Paul, and of St. Pants Mas 
ter, who met him in his way to Damascus. 

I have written in gn at haste, that I might 
finish, if possible, before breakfast. Adieu ! 
Let us see you soon ; the sooner the better. 
Give my love to the silent lady, the Rose, 
and all my friends around you ! W. C. 

There is an impressive grandeur and sub- 
limity in the concluding part of the above 
letter, which entitles it to be written in char- 
acters of gold. May it be engraven on the 
heart of every minister! The divinity of the 
glorious Reformation, as illustrated in the 
works of Cranmer, Jewel, Latimer, and Rid- 
ley, are in fact the essential doctrines of the 
gospel, as distinguished from a mere system 
of moral ethics. It is in proportion only as 
these great and fundamental truths are clearly 
understood, and fully, freely, and faithfully 
declared, that religion can acquire its holy 
ascendancy over the heart and practice. Moral 
preaching may produce an external reforma- 
tion, but it is the gospel alone that can 
change the heart. The corruption and lost 
state of man, the mercy of God in Christ, the 
necessity of a living faith in the Saviour, the 
office of the Holy Spirit, in his enlightening, 
converting, and sanctifying influences; — 
these are the grand themes of the Christian 
ministry. Whenever they are urged with 
the prominence that their incalculable im- 
portance demands, and accompanied by a 
divine influence, signal effects will never fail 
to follow. The careless will be roused, the 
lover of pleasure become the lover of God, 
and the oppressed heart find pardon and 
peace. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, June 8, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — Among the many who 
love and esteem you, there is none who re 
joices more in your felicity than myself. 
Far from blaming, I commend you much for 
connecting yourself, young as you are, with 
a well-chosen companion for life. Entering 
on the state with uncontaminated morals, 
you have the best possible prospect of hap- 
piness, and will be secure against a thousand 
and ten thousand temptations to which, at an 
early period of life, in such a Babylon as you 
must necessarily inhabit, you would other- 
wise have been exposed. I see it too in the 
light you do, a3 likely to be advantageous to 
you in your profession. Men of business 
have a better opinion of a candidate for em- 
ployment, who is married, because he has 
given bond to the world, as you observe, and 
to himself, for diligence, industry, and atten 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



35* 



tion. It is altogether therefore a subject of 
much congratulation ; and mine, to which I 
add Mrs. Unwin's, is very sincere. Samson, 
at his marriage, proposed a riddle to the 
Philistines. I am no Samson, neither are 
you a Philistine. Yet expound to me the 
following if you can ! 

What are .they which stand at a distance 
from each other, and meet without ever mov- \ 
ing ?* 

Should you be so fortunate as to guess it, j 
you may propose it to the company, when | 
you celebrate your nuptials ; and, if you can j 
win thirty changes of raiment by it, as Sam- j 
son did by his, let me tell you, they will be j 
no contemptible acquisition to a young be- ! 
ginner. 

You will not, I hope, forget your way to 
Weston, in consequence of your marriage, ' 
where you and yours will always be wel- 
eome. W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

The Lodge, June 14, 1790. 

My dear Madam, — I have hardly a scrap : 
of paper belonging to me that is not scrib- 
bled over with blank verse; and, taking out 
your letter from a bundle of others, this mo- 
ment, I find it thus inscribed on the seal- 
side : — 

Meantime his steeds 
Snorted, by Myrmidons detain'd, and loosed 
From their own master's chariot, foam'd to fly. 

You will easily guess to what they belong ; j 
and I mention the circumstance . merely in j 
proof of my perpetual engagement to Homer, j 
whether at home or abroad; for, when I j 
committed these lines to the back of your j 
letter, I was rambling at a considerable dis- j 
tance from home. I set one fo^t on a mole- 
hill, placed my hat, with the crown upward, 
on my knee, laid your letter upon it, and 
with a pencil wrote the fragment that I have 
sent you. In the same posture I have writ- 
ten many and many a passage of a work 
which I hope sbon to have done with. But 
all this is foreign to what I intended when I 
first took pen in hand. My purpose then 
was, to excuse my long silence as well as I 
eould, by telling you that I am, at present, 
not only a laborer in verse, but in prose also, 
having been requested by a friend, to whom 
I could not refuse it, to* translate for him a 
series of Latin letters, received from a Dutch 
minister of I he Cape of Good Hope. \ With 
this additional occupation you will be sensi- 

* This enigma is explained in a subsequent letter. 
Private correspondence. 

X The Dutch minister here mentioned, was Mr. Van 
fjier, who recorded the remarkable account of the great 
»piritual change produced in his mind, by reading the 
works of Mr. Newton. The letters were written in L„tin, 
and translated by Cowper at the request of his clerical 
Viena. 



ble that mj hands are full ; and it is a truth 
that, except to yourself, I would, just at this 
time, have written to nobody. 

I felt a true concern for what you told me 
in your last, respecting the ill state of health 
of your much- valued friend, Mr. Martyn. 
You say, if I knew half his worth, I should, 
with you, wish his longer continuance be- 
low. Now you must understand, that, igno- 
rant as I am of Mr. Martyn, except by your 
report of him, I do nevertheless sincerely 
wish it — and that, both for your sake and 
my own ; nor less for the sake of the pub- 
lic* For your sake, because you love and 
esteem him highly ; for the sake of the pub- 
lic, because, should it please God to take 
him before he has completed his great bo- 
tanical work, I suppose no other person will 
be able to finish it so well ; and for my own 
sake, because I know he has a kind and fa- 
vorable opinion beforehand of my transla 
tioh. and, consequently, should it justify his 
prejudice when it appears, he will stand, my 
friend against an army of Cambridge critics. 
It would have been strange indeed if self had 
not peeped uufc on this subject. I beg you 
will present my best respects to him, and 
assure him that, were it possible he could 
visit Weston, I should be most happy to re- 
ceive him. 

Mrs. Unwin would have been employed 
in transcribing my rhymes for you, would 
her health have permitted; but it is very 
seldom that she can write without being 
much a sufferer by it. She has almost a 
constant pain in her side, which forbids it. 
As soon as it leaves her, or much abates 
she will be glad to work for you. 

I am, like you and Mr. King, an adinirei 
of clouds, but only when there are blue in- 
tervals, and pretty wide ones too, between 
them. One cloud is too much for me, but a 
hundred are not too many. So with this 
riddle and with my best respects to Mr. 
King, to which 1 add Mrs. Unwin's to you 
both, — I remain, my dear madam, 

Truly yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 17, 1790. 
My dear Coz., — Here am I, at eight in the 
morninsr, in full dress, going a-visiting to 
Chiche oy. We are a strong party, and fill 
two chaises ; Mrs. F. the elder, and Mrs. G. 
in one; Mrs. F. the younger, and myself in 
another. Were it not that I shall find Ches- 
ters at the end of my journey, I should b« 
inconsolable. That expectation alone sup- 
ports my spirits : and, even with this pros- 

* Professor Martyn lived to an advanced old age, en 
deared to his family, respected and esteemed by the pub 
lie, and supported in his iast momenta by the consols 
tions and hopes of the gospel. 



352 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



pect before me, when I saw this moment a 
poor old woman coming- up the lane, oppo- 
site my window, I could not help sighing, 
and saying to myself, " Poor, but happy old 
woman ! Th ;u art exempted by thy situa- 
tion in life from riding in chaises, and mak- 
ing thyself fine in a morning : happier there- 
fore in my account than T, who am under the 
cruel necessity of doing both. Neither dost 
thou write voises. neither hast thou ever 
heard of the name of Homer, whom I am 
miserable to abandon for a whole morning!" 
This, and more of the same sort, passed in 
my mind on seeing the old woman above- 
said. 

The troublesome business with which I 
filled my last letter is, I hope, by this time 
concluded, and Mr. Archdeacon satisfied. I 
can, to be sure, but ill afford to pay fifty 
pounds for another man's negligence, but 
would be happy to pay a hundred rather 
than be treated as if I were insolvent ; threat- 
ened with attorneys and bums. One would 
think that, living where I live, I might be 
exempted from trouble. But alas ! as the 
philosophers often affirm, there is no nook 
under heaven in which trouble cannot enter; 
and perhaps, had there never been one phi- 
losopher in the world, this is a truth that 
would not have been always altogether a 
secret. 

I have made two inscriptions lately, at the 
request o; Thomas Gifford, Esq., who is 
sowing iv\ "uuty acres with acorns on one side 
of his ho use, and twenty acres with ditto on 
the other.* He e-^cn two memorials of 
stone on the occasion, that, when posterity 
shall be curious to know the age of the oaks, 
their curiosity may be gratified. 

1. 

INSCRIPTION. 

Other stor.es the era tell 
, When some feeble mortal fell. 
I stand here to date the birth 
Of these hardy sons of earth. 

Anno 1790. 

2. 

INSCRIPTION. 

Reader ! Behold a monument 
That aslii- r.o sigh or tear, 

Though it perpetuate the event 
Of a great burial here. 

Anno 1791. 

My works therefore will not all perish, or 
will not all perish soon, for he :.as ordered 
his lapidary to cut the characters very deep, 
and in stone extremely hard. It is not in 
rain, then, that l have so long exercised the 
business of a poet. I shall at last reap the 
reward of my labors, and be immortal prob- 
ably for many years. 

Ever thine, W. C. 

* At Chillington, Bucks 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, June 22, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — 

Villoison makes no mention of the ser- 
pent, whose skin or bowels, or perhaps both, 
were honored with the Iliad and the Odyssey 
inscribed upon them. But I have conversed 
with a living eye-witness of an African ser- 
pent long enough to have afforded skin and 
guts for the purpose. In Africa there are 
ants also which frequently destroy these 
monsters. They are not much larger than 
«*urs, but they travel in a column of immense 
length, and eat through everything that op- 
poses them. Their bite is like a spark of 
fire. When these serpents have killed their 
prey, lion or tiger, or any other large animal, 
before they swallow him, the) take a consid- 
erable circuit round about the carcass, to see 
if the ants are coming, because, when they 
have gorged their prey, they are unable to 
escape them. They are nevertheless some- 
times surprised by them in their unwieldy 
state, and the ants make a passage through 
them. Now if you thought your own story 
of Homer, bound in snake-skin, worthy of 
three notes of admiration, you cannot do less 
than add six to mine, confessing at the same 
time, that, if I put you to the expense of a 
letter, I do not make you pay your money 
for nothing. But this account I had from a 
person of most unimpeached veracity. 

I rejoice with you in the good Bishop's re- 
moval to St. Asaph,* and especially because 
the Norfolk parsons much more resemble the 
ants above-mentioned than he the serpent. 
He is neither of vast size, nor unwieldy, nor 
voracious; neither, I dare say, does he sleep 
after dinner, according to the practice of the 
^.icl serpent. But, harmless as he is, I am 
mistaken if his mutinous clergy did not 
sometimes disturb his rest, and if he did not 
fine their bite- though they could not actually 
eat through him, in a degree resembling fire. 
Good men like him, tind peaceable, should 
have good and peaceable folks to deal with 
and I heartily wish him such in his nev 
diocese. But if. he will keep the clergy to 
their b-iciness, he shall have trouble, let him 
go v.nere he may; and this is boldly spoken. 
conrideriFie xhat I speak it to one of that 



But 



like Jeremiah's 



bn-fltfejv, of figs: some of you cannot be bet- 
id .-i.i. some of you are stark naught. Ask 
the ^isnop himself if this be not true. 

W. C. 



TO MRS. BOimAM. 

Weston, June 29, 1790. 
My dearest Cousin, — It is true that T did 
sometimes complain to Mrs. Unwin of you/ 
* Dr. Lewis Bagot, previously Bishop of Norwich. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



355 



long silence. But it is likewise true that I 
made many excuses for you in my own mind, 
and did not feel myself at all inclined to be 
asigry, not even much to wonder. There is 
an awkwardness and a difficulty in writing 
to those whom distance and length of time 
have made in a manner new to us, that nat- 
urally gives us a check, when you would 
otherwise be glad to address them. But a 
time, I hope, is near at hand when you and I 
shall be effectually delivered from all such 
constraints, and correspond as fluently as if 
our intercourse had suffered much less inter- 
ruption. 

You must not suppose, my dear, that 
though I may be said to have lived many 
years with a pen in my hand, I am myself 
altogether at my ease on this tremendous oc- 
casion. Imagine rather, and you will come 
nearer the truth, that when I placed this 
sheet before me, 1 asked myself more than 
once, " How .ihall I fill it? One subject in- 
deed presents itself, the pleasant prospect 
that opens upon me of our coming once 
more together : but, that once exhausted, 
with what shall T proceed?" Thus I ques- 
tioned myself; but rinding neither end nor 
profit of such questions, I bravely resolved 
to dismiss them all at once, and to engage in 
the great enterprise of a letter to my quon- 
dam Rose at a venture. 'There is great 
truth in a rant of Nat Lee's, or of Dryden's, 
! know noc which, who makes an enamoured 
v>v\th any to his mistress, 

And nonsense shall be eloquence in love. 

For certain it is, that they who truly love 
one another are not very nice examiners of 
each other's style or matter; if an epistle 
comes, it is always welcome, though it be 
perhaps neither so wise, nor so witty, as one 
might have wished to make it. And now, 
my cousin, let me tell thee how much I feel 
myself obliged to Mr. Bodham for the readi- 
ness he expresses to accept my invitation. 
Assure him that, stranger as he is to me at 
present, and natural as the dread of strangers 
has ever been to me, I shall yet receive him 
with open arms, because he is your husband, 
and loves you dearly. That consideration 
alo/ie will endear him to me, and I dare say 
that I shall not find it his only recommenda- 
tion to my best affections. May the health 
of his relation (his mother, I suppose) be 
soon restored, and long continued, and may 
nothing melancholy, of what kind soever, in- 
terfere to prevent our joyful meeting. Be- 
tween the present moment and September 
our house is clear for your reception, and 
you have nothing to do but to give us a day 
or two's notice of your coming. In Septem- 
ber we expect Lady Hesketh, and 1 only 
regret that our h^use is not large enough 



to hold all together, for, were it possible 
that you could meet, yon would love each 
other. 

Mrs. Unwin bids me offer you her best 
love. She is never well, bur, always patient 
and ivhvays cheerful, and feels beforehand 
that she shall be loatn to part with you. 

My love to all the dear Donnes of every 
name ! — write soon, no matter about what. 

w. c 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, July 7, 1790. 

Instead of beginning with the saffron. 
vested morning, to which Homer invites me, 
on a morning that has no saffron vest to 
boast, I shall begin with you. 

It is irksome to us both to wait so long as 
we must for you, but we are willing to hope 
that by a longer stay you will make us 
amends for all this tedious procrastination. 

Mrs. Unwin has made known her whole 
case to Mr. Gregson, whose opinion of it has 
been very consolatory to me. He says in- 
deed it is a case perfectly out of the reach of 
all physical aid, but at the same time not at 
all dangerous. Constant pain is a sad griev- 
ance, whatever part is affected, and she is 
hardly ever free from an aching head, as well 
as an uneasy side, but patience is an anodyne 
of God's own preparation, and of that he 
gives her largely. 

The French, who like all lively folks are 
extreme in everything, are such in their zeal 
for freedom, and if it were possible to make 
so noble a cause ridiculous, their manner of 
promotirig it could not fail to do so. Princes 
and peers reduced to plain gentlemanship, 
and gentles reduced to a level with their own 
lacqueys, are excesses of which they will re- 
pent hereafter.* Difference of rank and sub- 
ordination are, I believe of God's appoint- 
ment, and consequently essential to the well- 
being of society : but what we mean by 
fanaticism in religion is exactly that which 
animates their politics, and unless time 
should sober them, they will, after all, be an 
unhappy people. Perhaps it deserves not 
much to be wondered at, that, at their first 
escape from tyrannical shackles, they should 
act extravagantly, and treat their kings as 
they have sometimes treated their idols. To 
these however they are reconciled in due 
time ag...n, but their respect for monarchy is 
at an end. They want nothing now but a 
little English sobriety, and that they want 
extremely. I heartily wish them some wit 
in their anger, for it were great pity that so 
many millions should be miserable for wan* 
of it. 

* The distinctions of rank were abolished during the 
French Revolution, and the title of citizen considered to 
be the only legal and honorable appellation. 

23 



B54 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, July 8, 1790. 

My dear Johnny, — You do well to perfect 
yourself on the violin. Only beware that an 
amusement so very bewitching as music, es- 
pecially when we produce it ourselves, do 
not steal from you all those hours that 
should be given to study. I can be well 
content that it should serve you as a refresh- 
ment after severer exercises, but not that it 
should engross you wholly. Your own good 
6ense will most probably dictate to you this 
precaution, and I might have spared you the 
trouble of it, but I have a degree of zeal for 
your proficiency in more important pursuits, 
that would not suffer me to suppress it. 

Having delivered my conscience by giving 
you this sage admonition, I will convince you 
that I am a censor not over and above severe, 
by acknowledging in the next place that I 
have known very good performers on the 
violin, very learned also ; and my cousin, Dr. 
Spencer Madan, is an instance. 

I am delighted that you have engagedyour 
sister to visit us ; for I say to myself, if John 
be amiable what must Catharine be ? For 
we males, be we angelic as we* may, are al- 
ways surpassed by the ladies. But know 
this, that I shall not be in love with either 
of you, if you stay with us only a few days, 
for you talk of a week or so. Correct this 
erratum, I ^beseech you, and convince us, by 
a much longer continuance here, that it was 
one. W. C. 

Mrs. Unwin has never been well since you 
saw her. You are not passionately fond of 
letter-writing, I perceive, who have dropped 
a lady ; but you will be a loser by the bar- 
gain; for one letter of hers, in point of real 
utility and sterling value, is worth twenty of 
mine, and you will never have another from 
her till you have earned it. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

The Lodge, July 16, 1790. 
My dear Madam, — Taking it for granted 
that this will find you at Perten-hall, I follow 
you with an early line and a hasty one, to 
tell you how much we rejoice to have seen 
yourself and Mr. King; and how much re- 
gret you have left behind you. The wish 
that we expressed when we were together, 
Mrs. Unwin and I have more than once ex- 
pressed sinee your departure, and have al- 
ways felt it — that it had pleased Providence 
to appoint our habitations nearer to each 
other. This is a life of wishes, and they only 
are happy who have arrived where wishes 
cannot enter. We shall live now in hope of 
ft second meeting and a longer interview ; 

* Private correspondence. 



which, if it please God to continue to yoj 
and to Mr. King your present measure" *f 
health, you will be able, I trust, to contrive 
hereafter. You did not leave us without en- 
couragement to expect it ; and I know thai 
you do not raise expectations but with a 
sincere design to fulfil them. 

Nothing shall be wanting, on our part, t< 
accomplish in due time a journey to Perten 
hall. But J am a strange creature, who am 
less able than any man living to project any- 
thing out of the common course, with a rea- 
sonable prospect of performance. I have 
singularities, of which, I believe, at present 
you know nothing ; and which would fill you 
with wonder, if you knew them. I will add, 
however, in justice to myself, that they would 
not lower me in your good opinion ; though, 
perhaps, they might iempt you to question 
the soundness of my upper story. Almost 
twenty years have I been thus unhappily cir- 
cumstanced ; and the remedy is in the "hand 
of God only. That I make you this partial 
communication on the subject, conscious, at 
the same time, that you are well worthy to 
be entrusted with the whole, is merely be- 
cause the recital would be too long for a let- 
ter, and painful both to me and to you. But 
all this may vanish in a moment; and, if it 
please God, it shall. In the meantime, my 
dear madam, remember me in your prayers, 
and mention me at those times, as one whom 
it has pleased God to afflict with singulai 
visitations. 

How I regret, for poor Mrs. Unwin's sake, 
your distance ! She has no friend suitable 
as you to her disposition and character, in 
all the neighborhood. Mr. King, too, is just 
the friend and companion with whom I could 
be happy ; but such grow not in this coun- 
try. Pray tell him that I remember him 
with much esteem and regard; and believe 
me, my dear madam, with the sincerest af 
fection, 

Yours entirely, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, EoQ. 

Weston, July 31, 1790. 
You have by this time, I presume, an- 
swered Lady Hesketh's letter ? If not, an- 
swer it without delay, and this injunction I 
give you, judging that it may not be entirely 
unnecessary, for, though I have seen you but 
once, and only for two or three days, I have 
found out that you are a scatter-brain.* 1 
made the discovery. perhaps the sooner, be- 
cause in this you very much resemble myself, 
who. in the course of my life, through mere 
carelessness and inattention, lost many ad 
vantages; an insuperable shyness has arse 
deprived me of many. And here again there 
* This title was not long merits 



LIFE OF COWPER 



351 



is a resemblance between us. You will do 
well to guard against both, for of both, I be 
lieve, you have a considerable share as well 
as myself. 

We long to see you again, and are only 
concerned at the short stay you propose to 
make with us. If time should seem to you 
as short at Weston, as it seems to us, your 
visit here will begone " as a dream when one 
awaketh, or as a watch in the night." 

It is a life of dreams, but the pleasantest 
one naturally wishes longest. 

I shall find employment for you, having 
made already some part of the fair copy of 
the Odyssey a foul one. I am revising it for 
the last time, and spare nothing that I can 
mend. The Iliad is finished. 

If you have Donne's poems, bring them 
with you, for I have not seen them many 
years, and should like to look them over.* 

You may trust us, too, if you please, with 
a little of your music, for I seldom hear any, 
and delight much in it. You need not fear 
a rival, for we have but two fiddles in the 
neighborhood — one a gardener's, the other a 
tailor's : terrible performers both ! 

W. 0. 



Mrs. Newton was at this time in very de- 
clining health. It is to this subject that 
Cowper alludes in the following letter. 



* Dr. Donne, Dean of St. Paul's, and Chaplain to King 
.•ames the First, belonged to that class of writers, whom 
Johnson, in his Life of Cowley, describes as metaphysical 
poets. Their great object seemed to be to display their 
wit and learning, and to astonish by what was brilliant, 
rather than to please by what was natural and simple. 
Notwithstanding this defect, the poetry of Donne, though 
harsh and unmusical, abounds in powerful thoughts, and 
discovers a considerable share of learning. His divinity 
was drawn from the pure fountain of Revelation, of 
which he drank copiously and freely. Of his fervent zeal 
and piety, many instances are recorded in that inimitable 
piece of biography, Izaak Walton's Lives. We subjoin a 
specimen of his poetry, composed during a severe fit of 
sickness, and which, on his recovery, was set to music, 
and used to be often sung to the organ by the choristers 
of St. Paul's, in his own hearing. 

HTMN TO GOD THE FATHER. 



Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, 
Which was my sin, though it were done before ? 
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, 
And do run still, though still I do deplore ? 
When thou hast done, thou hast not done, 
For I have more. 



Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won 
Others to sin, and made my sin their door ? 
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
A year or two, but wallow'd in a score ? 
When thou hast done, thou hast not done, 
For I have more. 

3. 
I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun 
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore 
But swear by thyself that, at my death, thy Son 
Shall shine, as h3 shines now, and heretofore. 
And having done that thou hast done, 
I fear no more 

Divine Poems 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

The Lodge, Aug. 11, 1790. 
My dear Friend,— That I may not seem 
unreasonably tardy in answering your last 
kind letter, I steal a few minutes from my 
customary morning business, (at present the 
translation of Mr. Van Lier's Narrative,) tc 
inform you that I received it safe from the 
hands of- Judith Hughes, whom we met in 
the middle of Hill-field. Desirous of gain- 
ing the earliest intelligence possible concern- 
ing Mrs. Newton, we were going to call on 
j her, and she was on her way to us. It 
J grieved us much that her news on that sub- 
| ject corresponded so little with our earnest 
wishes of Mrs. Newton's amendment. But 
if Dr. Benamerf still gives' hope of her re- 
! ccvery, it is not, I trust, without substantial 
reason for doing so ; much less can I sup- 
j pose that he would do it contrary to his own 
j persuasions, because a thousand reasons, that 
; must influence, in such a case, the conduct 
j of a humane and sensible physician, concur 
to forbid it. If it shall please God to restore 
her, no tidings will give greater joy to us. 
In the meantime, it is our comfort to know, 
that in any event you will be sure of sup 
ports invaluable, and that cannot fail you, 
though, at the same time, I know well that, 
i with your feelings, and especially on so af- 
' feeling a subject, you will have need of the 
full exercise of all your faith and resignation. 
To a greater trial no man can be called, than 
that of being a helpless eye-witness of the 
sufferings of one he loves and loves tenderly. 
This I know by experience; but it is long 
since I had any experience of those commu- 
nications from above, which alone can 'enable 
us to acquit ourselves, on such an occasion, 
as we ought. But it is otherwise with you, 
and I rejoice that it is so. 

With respect to my own initiation into the 
secret of animal magnetism, I have a thou, 
i sand doubts. Twice, as you know, I have 
I been overwhelmed with the blackest despair : 
and at those times everything in which I have 
been at any period of my life concerned has 
afforded to the enemy a handle against me. 
I tremble, therefore, almost at every step I 
take, lest on some future similar occasion it 
should yield him opportunity, and furnish 
him with means to torment me. Decide foi 
me, if you can ; and in the meantime, present, 
if you please, my respectful compliments and 
very best thanks to Mr. Holloway, for his 
most obliging offer.J; I am, perhaps, the 
only man living who would hesitate a mo- 
ment, whether, on such easy terms, he should 

» Private correspondence. 

r Dr. Benamer was a pious and excellent man, whos*. 
ho ust! was the resort of religious persons at that time, 
wh a went there for the purpose of edification. Mr. New 
ton was a regular attendant on these occasions. 

% Newton had suggested the propriety of Cowper trying 
the yfifect of animal magnetism, in the hopes of mi Ugatinfl 
-his disorder, but he declined the offer. 



356 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



or should not accept it. But if he finds an- 
other like me, he will make a greater discov- 
ery than even that which he has already 
made of the principles of this wonderful art. 
For I take it for granted, that he is the gen- 
tleman whom you once mentioned to me as 
indebted Only to his own penetration for the 
knowledge of it. 

I shall proceed, you may depend on it, 
with all possible despatch in your business. 
Had it fallen into my hands a few months 
later, I should have made a quicker riddance ; 
for, before the autumn shall be ended, I hope 
to have done with Homer. But my first 
morning hour or two (now and then a let- 
ter which must be written excepted) shall 
always be at your service till the whole is 
finished. 

Commending you and Mrs. Newton, with 
all the little power I have of that sort, to 
His fatherly and tender care in whom you 
have both believed, in which frieDdly office I 
am fervently joined by Mrs. Unwin, I re- 
main, with our sincere love to you both, and 
to Miss Catlett, my dear friend, most affec- 
tionately yours, W. C. 



The termination of a laborious literary un- 
tertaking is an eventful period in an author's 
life. The following letter announces the 
termination of Cowper's Homeric version, 
and its conveyance to the press. . 

TO MRS. BODHAM. 

Weston, Sept. 9, 1790. 
My dearest Cousin, — I am truly sorry to 
be forced after all to resign the hope of see- 
ing you and Mr. Bodham at Weston this 
year; the next may possibly be more propi- 
tious, and I heartily wish it may. Poor 
Catharine's* unseasonable indisposition has 
also cost us a disappointment which we much 
regret. And, were it not that Johnny has 
made shift to reach us, we should think our- 
selves completely unfortunate. But him we 
have, and him we will hold as long as we 
can, so expect not very soon to see him in 
Norfolk. He is so harmless, cheerful, gen- 
tle, and good-tempered, and I am so entirely 
at my ease with him, that I cannot surrender 
him without a needs must, even to those who 
have a superior claim upon him. He left us 
yesterday morning, and whither do you think 
he is gone, and on what errand ? Gone, as 
cure as you are alive, to London, and to con- 
vey my Homer to the bookseller's. But he 
will return the day after to-morrow, and I 
mean to part with him no more till necessity 
shall force us asunder. Suspect me not, my 
sousin, of being such a monster as to have im- 
oosed this task myself on youi kind nephew, 

* The Rev. J. Johnson's sister. 



or even to have thought of doing it. It hap- 
pened that one day, as we chatted by the fire- 
side, I expressed a wish that I could hear of 
some trusty body going to London, to whose 
care I might consign my voluminous labors, 
the work of five years. For I purpose never 
to visit that city again myself, and should 
have been uneasy to have left a charge, of 
so much importance to me, altogether to the 
care of a stage-coachman. Johnny had no 
sooner heard my wish than, offering himself 
to the service, he fulfilled it; and his offer 
was made in such terms, and accompanied 
with a countenance and manner expressive 
of so much alacrity, that, unreasonable as I 
thought it at first to give him so much trou- 
ble, I soon found that I should mortify him 
by a refusal. He is gone therefore with a 
box full of poetry, of which I think nobody 
will plunder him. He has only to say what 
it is, and there is no commodity I think a 
freebooter would covet less. 

W. C. 



The marriage of his friend, Mr. Rose, was 
too interesting an event not to claim Cowper's 
warm congratulations. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, FSQ. 

Tku Lodge, Sept. 13, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — Your letter was particu- 
larly welcome to me, not only because it came 
after a long silence, but because it brought 
me good news— news of your marriage, and 
consequently, I trust, of your happiness. 
May that happiness be durable as your lives, 
and may you be the Felices ter et amplius of 
whom Horace sings so sweetly ! This is my 
sincere wish, and, though expressed in prose, 
shall serve as your epithalamium. You cc m- 
fort me when you say that your marriage will 
not deprive us of the sight of you hereafter. 
If you do not wish that I should reoret your 
union, you must make that assurance good as 
often as you have opportunity. 

After perpetual versification during five 
years, I find myself at last a vacant man, and 
reduced to read for my amusement. My 
Homer is gone to the press, and you will im- 
agine that 1 feel a void in consequence. The 
proofs however will be coming soon, and I 
shall avail myself with all my force, of this 
last opportunity to make my work as perfect 
as I wish it. I shall not therefore be long 
time destitute of employment, but shall have 
sufficient to keep me occupied all the winter 
and part of the ensuing spring, for Johnson 
purposes to publish either in March, April, or 
May — my very preface is finished. It did not 
cost me much trouble, being neither long nor 
learned. I have spoken my mind as freely as 
decency would permit on the subject of Pope's 
version, allowing hini at the same time ail the 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



35' 



merit to which I think him entitled. I have 
given my reasons for translating in blank 
verse, and hold some discourse on the mech- 
anism of it, chiefly with a view to obviate 
the prejudices of some people against it. I 
expatiate a little on the manner in which I 
ihink Homer ought to be rendered, and in 
which I have endeavored to render him my- 
self, and anticipated two or three cavils to 
which I foresee that I shall be liable from 
the ignorant or uncandid, in order, if possi- 
ble, to prevent them. These are the chief 
heads of my preface, and the whole consists 
of about twelve pages. 

It is possible, when I come to treat with 
Johnson about the copy, I may want some 
person to negotiate for me, and knowing no 
one so intelligent as yourself in books, or so j 
well qualified to estimate their just value, I ; 
shall beg leave to resort to and rely on you 
as my negotiator. But I will not trouble 
you unless I should see occasion. My cous- 
in was the bearer of my MS3. to London. 
He went on purpose, and returns to-morrow. 
Mrs. Unwin's affectionate felicitations added 
to my own, conclude me, 
Dear friend, 

Sincerely yours, W. o. 

The trees of a colonnade will solve my 
riddle*. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

The Lodge, Sept. 17, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — I received last night a 
copy of my subscribers' names from John- 
son, in which I see how much I have been 
indebted to yours and to Mrs. Hill's solici- 
tations. Accept my best thanks, so justly 
due to you both. It is an illustrious cata- 
logue, in respect of rank and title, but me- 
thinks I should have liked it as well had it 
been more numerous. The sum subscribed, 
however,* will defray the expense of printing, 
which is as much as, in these unsubscribing 
days, I had any reason to promise myself. I 
devoutly second your droll wish, that the 
booksellers may contend about me. The more 
the better : seven times seven, if they please ; 
and let them fight with the fury of Achilles, 

Till ev'ry rubric-post be crimson'd o'er 
With blood of booksellers, in battle slain 
For me, and not a periwig untorn. 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

, Weston, Oct. 6, 1790. 

My dear Madam, — I am truly concerned 

that you have so good an excuse for your 

Bilence. Were it proposed to my choice, 

vvhether you should omit to write through ill- 

* What are they which stand at a distance from 
each other, and meet without ever moving 1 
f Private correspondence. 



ness or indifference to me, I shcfald he seifisb 
enough, perhaps, to find decision difficult fo 
a few moments ; but have such an opinion at 
the same time of my affection for you, as t<j 
be verily persuaded that 1 should at last make 
a right option, and wish you rather to forget 
me than to be afflicted. Bui there is One 
wiser and more your friend than I can possi- 
bly be, who appoints all your sufferings, and 
who, by a power altogether his own, is able 
to make them good for you. 

I wish heartily that my verses had been 
more worthy of the counterpane, their sub- 
ject.* The gratitude I felt when you brought 
it, and gave it to me, might have inspired 
better: but a head full of Homer, I find by 
sad experience, is good for little else. Lady 
Hesketh, who is here, has seen your gift, and 
pronounced it the most beautiful and best 
executed of the kind she ever saw. 

[ have lately received from my bookseller 
a copy of my subscribers' names, and do not 
find among them the name of Mr. Professor 
Martyn. i mention it because you informed 
me, some time since, of his kind intention to 
Humber himself among my encouragers on 
.his occasion, and because I am unwilling to 
lose, for want of speaking in time, the honor 
that his name will do me. It is possible, too, 
that he may have subscribed, and that his non- 
appearance may be owing merely to Johnson's 
having forgot to enter his name. Perhaps 
you will have an opportunity to ascertain the 
matter. The catalogue will be printed soon, 
and published in the " Analytical Review," as 
the last and most effectual way of advertising 
my translation, and the name of the gentleman 
in question will be particularly serviceable to 
me in the first edition of it. 

My whole work is in the bookseller's hands, 
and ought by this time to be in the press. The 
next spring is the time appointed for the pub- 
lication. It is a genial season, when people 
who are ever good-tempered at all .ire sure to 
be so ; a circumstance well worthy of an 
author's attention, especially of mine, who am 
ust going to give a thump on the outside of the 
critics' hive, that will probably alarm them all. 

Mrs. Unwin, 1 think, is on the whole rather 
improved in her health since we had the plea- 
sure of your short visit ; I should say the 
pleasure of your visit, and the pain of its 
shortness. I am, my dearest madam, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON, f 

The Lodge, Oct. 15, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — We were surprised and 

* Mrs. King presented the poet with a counterpane, in 
patch-work, of her own making. In acknowledgment, 
he addressed to her the verses beginning, 
" The bard, if e'er he feel at all, 
Must sure be quicken'd by a call," &c. fee. 
t Private correspondence. 



grieved at Mrs. Scott's* sudden departure; 
grieved, you may suppose, not former, but for 
him, whose loss, except that in God he has an 
all-sufficient good, is irreparable. The day of 
separation between those who have loved long 
and well is an awful day, inasmuch as it calls 
the Christian's faith and submission to the 
severest trial. Yet I account those happy, 
who, if they are severely tried, shall yet be 
supported, and carried safely through. What 
would become of me on a similar occasion ! 
I have one comfort, and only one ; bereft of 
that, I should have nothing left to lean on ; 
for my spiritual props have been long struck 
from under me. 

I have no objection at all to being known 
as the translator of Van Lier's Letters when 
they shall be published. Rather, I am ambi- 
tious of it as an honor. It will serve to prove, 
that, if I have spent much time to little pur- 
pose in the translation of Homer, some small 
portion of my time has, ; however, been well 
disposed of. 

The honor of your preface prefixed to my 
poems will be on my side ; for surely to be 
known as the friend of a much-favored min- 
ister of God's word is a more illustrious dis- 
tinction, in reality, than to have the friendship 
of any poet in the world to boast of. 

We sympathize truly with t o\i under all 
your tender concern for Mrs. Newton, and 
with her in all her sufferings from such vari- 
ous and discordant maladies. Alas ! what a 
difference have twenty-three years made in us 
and in our condition ! for just so long is it 
since Mrs. Unwin and I came into Bucking- 
hamshire. Yesterday was the anniversary of 
that memorable era. Farewell. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

The Lodge, Oct. 26, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — We should have been 
happy to have received from you a more fa- 
vorable account of Mrs. Newton's health. 
Yours is indeed a post of observation, and of 
observation the most interesting. It is well 
that you are enabled to bear the stress and 
intenseness of it without prejudice to your 
own health, or impediment to your ministry. 

The last time I wrote to Johnson, I made 
Miown to him your wishes to have your 
preface printed, and affixed, as soon as an 
opportunity shall offer ; expressing, at the 
same time, my own desires to have it done.f 

* The wife of the Rev. Thomas Scott, the author of one 
of the best Commentaries on the Bible ever published. 
Mr. Scott was p -eacher at the Lock Hospital at this time, 
t Private con ;spondence. 

| We here subjoin the letter which Cowper addressed 
o Johnson, the bookseller, on this occasion. 

Weston, Oct. 3 1790. 
Mr. Newton having again requested that the Preface 
which he wrote for my first volume may be prefixed to | 



Whether I shall have any answer to my pro- 
posal is a matter of much uncertainty ; for 
he is always either too idle or too busy, 1 
know not which, to write to me. Should 
you happen to pass his way, perhaps it would 
not be amiss to speak to him on the sub- 
ject ; for it is easier to carry a point by six 
words spoken, than by writing as many 
sheets about it. I have asked him hither, 
when my cousin Johnson shall leave us, 
which will be in abot*t a fortnight ; and 
should he come will enforce the measure 
myself. 

A yellow shower of leaves is falling con- 
tinually from all the trees in the country. A 
few moments only seem to have passed since 
they were buds ; and in a few moments more 
they will have disappeared. It is one advan- 
tage of a rural situation, that it affords many 
hints of the rapidity with which life flies, that 
do not occur in towns and cities. It is im- 
possible for a man conversant with such 
scenes as surround me, not to advert daily 
to the shortness of his existence here, ad- 
monished of it, as he must be, by ten thou- 
sand .objects. There was a time when I could 
contemplate my present state/ and consider 
myself as a thing of a day with pleasure ; 
when I numbered the seasons as they passed 
in swift rotation, as a schoolboy numbers the 
days that interpose between the next vaca- 
tion, when he shall see his parents, and en- 
joy his home again. But to make so just an 
estimate of a life like this is no longer in my 
power. The consideration of my short CDn- 
tinuance here, which was once grateful to me, 
now fills me with regret. I would live and 
live always, and am become such another 
wretch as Maecenas was, wno wished for long 
life, he cared not at what expense of suffer- 
ings. The only consolation left me on this 
subject is, that the voice :>f the Almighty can 
in one moment cure me of this nfental in- 
firmity. That he can, I know by experience ; 
and there are reasons for which I ought to 
believe that he will. But from hope to de- 
spair is a transition that I have made so often, 
that I can only consider the hope that may 
come, and that sometirues I believe will, as a 
short prelude of joy to a miserable conclu- 
sion of sorrow that shall never end. Thus 
are my brightest prospects clouded, and thus, 
to me, is hope itself become like a withered 
fjowev, that has lost both its hue and its fra- 
grance. 

I ought not to have written in this dismal 
strain to you, in your present trying situa- 
tion, nor did I intend it. You have more 
need to be cheered than to be saddened ; but 
a dearth of other themes contained me tc 

it, I am desirous to gratify him in a particular tbat so 
emphatically bespeaks his friendship for me ; and 
should my books see another edition, shall be obliged tc 
you if you will add it accordingly. W C. 



LIFE OF OOWPER. 



'£& 



choose myself for a subject, and of myself I 
can write no otherwise. 

Adieu, my dear friend. We are well : and, 
notwithstanding all that I have said, I am 
myself as cheerful as usual. Lady Hesketh is 
here, and in her company even I, except now 
and then for a moment, forget my sorrows. 
I remain sincerely yours, W. C. 

The purport of this letter is painful, but 
it is explained by the peculiarity of Cowper's 
case. The state of mind which the Christian 
ought to realize, should be a willingness to 
remain or to depart, as may seem best to the 
supreme Disposer of events ; though the pre- 
dominating feeling (where there is an assured 
and lively hope) will be that of the apostle, 
viz., that "to be with Christ is far better." 
The question is, how is this lively hope and 
assurance to be obtained 1 How is the sense 
of guilt, and the fear of death and judgment, 
to be overcome 1 The Gospel proclaims the 
appointed remedy. "Behold the Lamb of 
God, which taketh away the sins of the 
world." * " I, even I, am He, which blotteth 
out all thy transgressions for mine own sake, 
and will not remember thy sins." f " If any 
man sin , we have an advocate with the Father, 
Jesus Christ the righteous, and he is the pro- 
pitiation for our sins.";); The cordial recep- 
tion of this great gospel truth into the heart, 
the humble reliance upon God's pardoning 
mercy, through the blood of the cross, will, 
by the grace of God, infallibty lead to inward 
joy and peace. " Therefore, being justified 
by faith, we have peace with God, through 
our Lord Jesus Christ. By whom also we 
have access by faith unto this grace wherein 
we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of 
God."§ The same divine grace that assures 
peace to the conscience, will also change and 
renew the heart, and plant within it those 
holy principles and affections that will lead 
to newness of life. The promise of the 
blood to pardon, and the Spirit to teach and 
to sanctify, are the two great fundamental 
doctrines of the Gospel. || 



TO MRS. BODHAM. 

Weston. Nov. 21, 1790. 
My dear Coz., — Our kindness to your 
nephew is no more than he must entitle him- 
self to wherever he goes. His amiable dis- 
position and manners will never fail to secure 
him a warm place in the affection of all who 
know him. The advice I gave respecting 
his poem on Audley End w T as dictated by my 
'ove of him, and a sincere desire of his suc- 
cess. It is one thing to write what may 

* John i. 29. f Isaiah xliii. 25. 

t. 1 John ii. 1, 2. $ Rom. v. 1, 2. 

I! 1 John i. 7. Isaiah lxi. 1—3. Luke ii. 9—13. John 
xvi. 16, 17. 



please our friends, who, because they are 

such, are apt to be a little biassed in our fa. 

vor ; and another to write what may please 

everybody ; because they who have no con- 

| nexion or even knowledge of the author will 

i be sure to find fault if they can. My advice, 

I however, salutary and necessary as it seemed 

i to me, was such as I dare not have given to 

I a poet of less diffidence than he. Poets are 

to a proverb irritable, and he is the only one 

I ever knew who seems to have no spark of 

that fire about him. He has left us about a 

fortnight, and sorry we were to lose him; 

but had he been my son he must have gone, 

and 1 could not have regretted him more. If 

his sister be still with you, present my love 

to her, and tell her how much I wish to see 

them at Weston together. 

Mrs. Hewitt probably remembers more of 
my childhood than I can recollect either of 
hers or my own ; but this I recollect, that the 
days of that period were happy days com- 
pared with most I have seen since. There 
are few, perhaps, in the world, who have not 
cause to look back with regret on the days 
of infancy; yet, to say, the truth, I suspect 
some deception in this. For infancy itself 
has its cares, and though we cannot now con- 
ceive how trifles could affect us much, it is 
certain that they did. Trifles they appear 
now, but s&ch they were not then. 

W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

(MY BIRTH-DAY.) 

Weston, Friday, Nov. 26, 1790. 
My dearest Johnny, — I aub happy that you 
have escaped from the claws of Euclid into 
the bosom of Justinian. It is useful, I sup- 
pose, to every man to be well grounded in 
the principles of jurisprudence, and I take it 
to be a branch of science that bids much fairer 
to enlorge the mind, and <nve an accuracy of 
reasoning, than all the mathematics in the 
world. Mind your studies, and you will soon 
! be wiser than I can hope to be. 

We had a visit on Monday from one of the 
, first women in the world ; in point of char 
i acter, I mean, and accomplishments, the dow 
J ager Lady Spencer !* I may receive, per- 
haps, some honors hereafter, should my trans- 
; lation speed according to my wishes, and the 
; pains I have taken with it ; but shall never 
receive any that I shall esteem so highly 
i She is indeed worthy to whom I should ded- 
icate, and, may but my Odyssey prove as 
worthy of her, I shall have nothing to fear 
from the critics. 

Yours, my dear Johnny, 

With much affection, W. C. 

* The mother of the late Earl Spencer, and of tn« 
Duchess of Devonshire, and the person to whom Lc ded- 
cated his version of the Odyssey. 



&6C 



COWPER'S WORKS 



TO MRS. KING * 

The Lodge, Nov. 29, 1790. 

My dear Madam, — I value highly, as I ought 
and hope that I always shall, the favorable 
opinion of such men as Mr. Martyn : though, 
to say the truth, their commendations, instead 
of making me proud, have rather a tendency 
to humble me, conscious as I am that I am 
overrated. There is an old piece of advice, 
given by an ancient poet and satirist, which 
it behoves every man who stands well in the 
opinion of others to lay up in his bosom : — 
Take care to be what you are reported to be. I 
By due attention to this wise counsel, it is 
possible to turn the praises of our friends to 
good account, and to convert that which might ' 
prove an incentive to vanity into a lesson of 
wisdom. I will keep your good and respect- 
able friend's letter very safely, and restore it 
to you the first opportunity. I beg, my dear 
madam, that you will present my best com- 
pliments to Mr. Martyn, when you shall either 
see him next or write to him. 

To that gentleman's inquiries I am, doubt- { 
less, obliged for the recovery of no small pro- 
portion Of my subscription- list : for, in con- 
sequence of his application to Johnson, and 
very soon after it, I received from him no 
fewer than forty-five names, that had been 
omitted in the list he sent me, and that would 
probably never have been thought of more. 
No author, I believe, has a more inattentive 
or indolent bookseller: but he has everybody's 
good word for liberality and honesty ; there- 
fore I must be content. 

The press proceeds at present as well as I 
can reasonably wish. A month ha* passed 
since we began, and I revised this morning 
the first sheet of the sixth Iliad. Mrs. Lin win 
begs to add a line from herself, so that I have 
only room to subjoin my best respects to Mr. 
King, and to say that I am truly, 

My dear madam, yours, 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Nov. 30. 1790. 

My dear Friend, — I will confess that I 
thought your letter somewhat tardy, though, 
at the same time, I made every excuse for 
you, except, as it seems, the right. That in- 
deed was out of the reach of all possible con- 
jecture. I could not guess that your silence 
was occasioned by your being occupi-d with 
either thieves or thief-takers. Since, how- 
ever, the cause was such, I rejoice that your 
labors were not in vain, and that the free- 
booters who had plundered your friend are 
6afe in limbo. I admire, too, as much as I 
rejoice in your success, the indefatigable 
spirit that prompted you to pursue, with such 
unremitting perseverance, an obje ^t not to 
* Private correspondence. 



be reached but at the expense of infinite 
trouble, and that must have led you into ar. 
acquaintance with scenes and characters the 
most horrible to a mind like yours. I see i% 
this conduct the zeal and firmness of your 
friendship, to whomsoever professed, and 
though I wanted not a proof of it myself, 
contemplate so unequivocal an indication of 
what you really are, and of what I always be- 
lieved you to l>e, with much pleasure May 
you rise from the condition of an humble 
prosecutor, or witness, to the bench of judg- 
ment ! 

When your letter arrived, it found me with 
the worst and most obstinate cold that I evei 
caught. This was one reason why it had not 
a speedier answer. Another is, that, except 
Tuesday morning, there is none in the week 
in which I am not engaged in the last revisa' 
of my translation ; the revisal I mean of my 
proof-sheets. To this business I give myself 
with an assiduity and attention truly admir- 
able., and set an example, which, if other poets 
could be apprised of, they would do well, to 
follow. Miscarriages in authorship (I am 
itersuaded) are as nfJen to be ascribed to 
want Oi piiins-taki/'g as to want of ability. 

Lady Hesketh, Mrs. Unwin, and myself, 
often mention you, and always in terms that, 
though you would blush to hear them, you 
need not be ashamed of; at the same time 
wishing much that you would change our 
trio into a quartetto. YV. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Dec. 1, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — It is plain that you un- 
understand trap, as we used to say at school : 
for you begin with accusing me of long 
silence, conscious yourself, at the same time, 
that you have been half a year in my debt, or 
thereabout. But I will answer your accusa- 
tions with a boast — with a boast of having 
intended many a day to write to you again, 
notwithstanding your long insolvency. Your 
brother and sister of Chicheley can both wit- 
ness for me, that, weeks since, I testified such 
an intention, and, if I did not execute it, it 
was not for want of good-will, but for want 
of leisure. When will you be able to glory 
of such designs, so liberal and mao-nificent. 
you who have nothing to do, by your own 
confession, but to grow fat and saucy? Add 
to all this, that I have had a violent cold, such 
as I never have but at the first approach of 
winter, and such as at that time I seldom 
escape. A fever accompanied it, and an in- 
cessant cough. 

You measure the speed of printers, of my 
printer at least, rather by your own wishes 
than by any just standard. Mine (I believe) 
is as nimble a one as falls to the share of 
poets in general, though not nimble ene ugh 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



361 



to satisfy either the author or his friends. I 
told you that my work would go to press in 
autumn, and so it did. But it had been six 
weeks in London ere the press began to work 
upon it. About a month since we began to 
print, and, at the rate of nine sheets in a fort- 
night, have proceeded to about the middle of 
the sixth Iliad. " No further?" — you say. 
I answer — " No, nor even so far, without 
much scolding on my part, both at the book- 
seller and the printer." But courage, my 
friend ! Fair and softly, as we proceed, we 
shall find our way through at last ; and, in 
confirmation of this hope, while I write this, 
another sheet arrives. I expect to publish 
in the spring. 

I love and thank you for the ardent desire 
you express to hear me bruited abroad, et per 
or a viriim volitantem. For your encourage- 
ment, I will tell you that I read, myself at 
least, with wonderful complacence what I 
have done; and if the world, when it shall 
appear, do not like it as well as I, we will 
both say and swear with Fluellin, that " it is 
an ass and a fool (like you !) and a prating 
coxcomb." 

I felt no ambition of the laurel.* Else, 
though vainly, perhaps, I had friends who 
would have made a stir on my behalf on that 
occasion. I confess that, when I learned the 
new condition of the office, that odes were 
no longer required, and that the salary was 
increased, I felt not the same dislike of it. 
But I could neither go to court, nor could I 
kiss hands, were it for a much more valuable 
consideration. Therefore never expect to 
hear that royal favors find out me ! 

Adieu, my dear old friend ! I will send 
you a mortuary copy soon, and in the mean- 
time remain, Ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. f 

The Lodge, Dee. 5, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — Sometimes I am too sad, 
and sometimes too busy to write. Both these 
causes have concurred lately to keep me silent. 
But more than by either of these I have been 
hindered, since I received your last, by a vio- 
lent cold, which oppressed me during almost 
the whole month of November. 

Your letter affects us with both joy and 
sorrow : with sorrow and sympathy respect- 
ing poor Mpft. Newton, whose feeble and 
dying state suggests a wish for her release 
rather than for her continuance ; and joy on 
your account, who are enabled to bear, with 
so much resignation and cheerful acquies- 
3nce in the will of God, the prospect of a 
loss, which even they who know you best 
apprehended might prove too much for you. 

* The office of Poet Laureat, mentioned in a former 
tetter. 

Privale correspondence. 



As to Mrs. Newton's interest in the best 
things, none, intimately acquainted with her 
as we have been, could doubt it. She doubt- 
ed it indeed herself; but though it is not 
our luty to doubt, any more than it is our 
privilege, I have always considered the self- 
condemning spirit, to which such doubts are 
principally owing, as one of the most fa- 
vorable symptoms of a nature spiritually re- 
newed, and have many a time heard you mak6 
the same observation. 

[Tom off.] 

We believe that the best Christian is occa- 
sionally subject to doubts and fears ; and that 
they form a part of the great warfare. That 
it is our privilege and duty to cultivate an 
habitual sense of peace in the conscience, 
and that this peace will be enjoyed in pro- 
portion as faith is in exercise, and the soul is 
in communion with God, we fully agree. 
But who that is acquainted with the inward 
experiences of the Christian, does not know 
that there are alternations of joy and fear, of 
triumph and of depression ? The Psalms of 
David furnish many instances of this fact, as 
well as the history of the most eminent 
saints recorded in Scripture. " Though 1 
am sometimes afraid, yet put I my trust in 
thee." We conceive these words to be an 
exemplification of the truth of the case. 
When, therefore, we hear persons speak of 
the entire absence of sin and infirmity, and 
exemption from doubts and fears, we are 
strongly disposed to believe that they labor 
under great self-deception, and know little 
of their own hearts, in thus arguing against 
the general testimony of the Church of 
Christ in all ages. A plain and pious Chris- 
tian once told us of an appropriate remark 
that he addressed to an individual who pro- 
fessed, to be wholly free from any fears on 
this subject. "If," observed this excellent 
man, " you have no fears for yourself, you 
must allow me to entertain some for you." 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 18, 1790. 

I perceive myself so flattered by the in- 
stances of illustrious success mentioned in 
your letter, that I feel all the amiable modes- 
ty, for which I was once so famous, sensibly 
giving way to a spirit of vain-glory. 

The King's College subscription makes mb 
proud — the effect that my verses have had on 
your two young friends, the mathematicians, 
makes me proud, and I am, if possible proud- 
er still of the contents of the letter that you 
inclosed. 

You complained of being stupid, and sent 
me one of the cleverest letters. 1 have not 
complained of being stupid, and sent you one 



of the dullest. But it is no matter. I never 
aim at anything above the pitch of every 
day's scribble, when I write to those I love. 

Homer proceeds, my boy ! We shall get 
through it in time, and (I hop**) by the t\nje 
appointed. We are now in the tenth Hind. 
I expect the ladies every minute to breakfast. 
You have their best love. Mine attends the 
whole army of Donnes at Mattishall Green* 
assembled. How happy should I find my- 
self, were I but one of the party ! My ca- 
pering days are over. But do you caper for 
me, that you may give them some idea of 
the happiness I should feel were I in the 
midst of them ! W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

The Lodge, Dec. 31, 1790. 

My dear Madam, — Returning from my 
walk at half-past three, I found your wel- 
come messenger in the kitchen ; and, enter- 
ing the study, found also the beautiful pres- 
ent with which you had charged him.| We 
have all admired it (for Lady Hesketh was 
here to assist us in doing so ;) and for my 
own particular, I return your my sincerest 
thanks, a very inadequate compensation. 
Mrs. Unwin, not satisfied to send you thanks 
only, begs your acceptance likewise of a 
turkey, which, though the figure of it might 
not much embellish a counterpane, may pos- 
sibly serve hereafter to swell the dimensions 
of a feather-bed. 

I have lately been visited with an indispo- 
sition much more formidable than that which 
I mentioned to you in my last — a nervous 
fever ;■ a disorder to which I am subject, and 
which I dread above all others, because it 
comes attended by a melancholy perfectly 
insupportable. This is the first day of my 
complete recovery, the first in which I have 
perceived no symptoms of my terrible mal- 
ady; and the only drawback on this comfort 
that I feel is the intelligence contained in 
yours, that neither Mr. King nor yourself are 
w T ell. I dread always, both for my own 
health and for that of my friends, the unhappy 
influences of a year worn out. But, my 
dear madam, this is the last day of it; andl 
resolve to hope that the new year shall ob- 
literate all the disagreeables of the old one. 
I can wish nothing more warmly than that it 
may prove a propitious year to you. 

My poetical operations, I mean of the oc- 
casional kind, have lately been pretty much 
at a stand. I told you, I believe, in my last, 
that Homer, in the present stage of the pro- 
cess, occupied me more intensely than ever. 

* In Norfolk. 

t Private correspondence. 

t This counterpane is mentioned in a previous letter, 
dated Oct. 5th, in this year : so that, unless it was taken 
Back and then returned in an improved state, there seems 
«© be some error, that we do not profess to explain. 



He still continues to do so, and threatens, 
till he shall be completely finished, to makj 
all other composition impracticable. I have, 
however, written the mortuary verses as 
usual ; but the wicked clerk for whom I 
write them has not yet sent me the impres- 
sion. I transmit to you the long promised 
Catharina; and, were it possible that I could 
transcribe the others, would send them also. 
There is a way, however, by which I can 
procure a frank, and you. shall not want them 
long. 

I remain, dearest madam, 

Ever yours, W. C. 



We have now the pleasure of introducing 
to the reader a lady, of whom we should say 
much, if a sense of propriety did not, impose 
silence upon our pen. The Catharina, re- 
corded by the muse of Cowper, was Mise 
Stapleton at that time, subsequently married 
to Mr. George Throckmorton Courtney, and 
finally Lady Throckmorton, by the decease 
of the elder brother Sir John. As we can- 
not impose on the p6et the restraint which 
we are compelled to practise in our own 
case, we shall beg leave to insert the follow- 
ing verses, written on the occasion of he? 
visit to Weston. 

She came — she is gone — we have met — 
And meet perhaps never again ; 
The sun of that moment is set, 
And seems to have risen in vain. 
Catharina* has fled like a dream — 
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) 
But has left a regvet and ester-m, 
That will not so suddenly pass. 

The last ev'ning ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, j- and I. 

Our progress was often delay'd 

By the nightingale warbling nigh. 

We paus'd under man3 r a tree, 

And much she was charm'd with a tonej 

Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witness'd her own. 

My numbers that day she had sung, 
And gave them a grace so divine, 
As only her musical tongue 
Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
The longer I heard. I esteem'd 
The work of my fancy the more, 
And' e'en to myself never seem'd 
So tuneful a poet before. 

Though the pleasures of London exceed 
In number the days of the year. 
Catharina, did nothing impede, 
Would feel herself happier here ; 
For the close woven arches of lim-,* 
On the banks of our river, I kn ' , 
Are sweeter to her many times 
Than ought that the city can show. 

* Miss Stapleton, afterwards Lady Throckmorton, <«v 
the person to whom the present undertaking is dedicated 
t The wife of Sir John Throckmorton. 



So it is, wnen the mind is imbued 
With a well-judging taste from above, 
Then, whether embelli.sh'd or rude 
Tis nature alone that we love. 
The achievements of art may amuse, 
May even our wonder excite, 
But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse 
A lasting, a sacred delight. 

Since then in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice. 

May it still be her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice ! 

To inhabit a mansion remote 

b'rom the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 

And by Philomel's annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, 

To wing all her moments at home, 

And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 

As oft as it suits i\er to roam, 

She will have just the life she prefers. 

Wich little to hope or to fear, 

And ours would be pleasant as her*, 

Might we view her enjoying it here, 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Jan. 4, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — You would long since 
uave received an answer to your last, had 
not the wicked clerk of Northampton delayed 
to send me the printed copy of my annual 
dirge, which I waited to enclose. • Here it 
is at last, and much good may it do the 
readers !* 

I have 'regretted that I could not write 
sooner, especially because it well became me 
to reply as soon as possible to your kind in- 
quiries after my health, which has been both 
better and worse since I wrote last. The 
enough was cured, or nearly so, when I re- 
seived your letter, but I have lately been 
afflicted with a nervous fever, a malady for- 
midable to me above all others, on account 
of the terror and dejection of spirits that in 
my case always accompany it. I even look 
forward, for this reason, to the month now 
surrent, with the most miserable apprehen- 
sions ; for in this month the distemper has 
twice seized me. I wish to be thankful, 
however, to the sovereign Dispenser both of 
health and sickness, that, though I have felt 
cause enough to tremble, he gives me now 
encouragement to hope that I may dismiss 
my fears, and expect, for this January at least, 
to escape it. 

The mention of quantity reminds me of a 
remark that I have seen somewhere, possi- 
bly in Johnson, to this purport, that, the syl- 
lables in our language being neither long 
.ior short, our verse accordingly is less beau- 
tiful than the verse of the Greeks or Romans, 
because requiring less artifice in its constvue- 

* See laortutry verses composed on this occasion. 



tion. But I deny the fact, and am ready to 
depose on oath, that I find every syllable as 
distinguishably and clearly, either' long or 
short, in our language, as in any other. I 
know also, that without an attention to the 
quantity of our syllables, good verse cannot 
possibly be written, and that ignorance of 
this matter is one reason why we see so 
much that is good for nothing. The move- 
ment of a verse is always either shuffling or 
graceful, according to our management in 
this particular, and Milton gives almost as 
many proofs of it in his Paradise Lost as 
there are lines in the poem. Away, there- 
fore, with all such unfounded observations ! 
I would not give a farthing for many bushels 
of them — nor you perhaps for this letter. 
Yet, upon recollection, forasmuch as I know 
you to be a dear lover of literary gossip, I 
think it possible you may esteem it highly. 

Believe me, my dear friend, most truly 
yours, W. C. 



The fi-1 lowing letter records the death of 
Mrs. Newton, the object of so early and last- 
ing an attachment on the part of the Rev. 
John Newton. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, Jan. 20, 1791. 
My dear Friend, — Had you been a man of 
this world, I should have held myself bound 
by the law of ceremonies to have sent you 
long since my tribute of condolence. I have 
sincerely mourned with you ; and though you 
have lost a wife, and I only a friend, yet do 
I understand too well the value of such a 
friend as Mrs. Newton not to have sympa 
thised with you very nearly. But you are 
not a man of this world; neither can you, 
who have both the Scripture and the Giver 
of Scripture to console you, have any need 
of aid from others, or expect it from such 
spiritual imbecility as mine. I considered, 
likewise, that receiving a letter from Mrs. 
Unwin, you, iD fact, received one from my- 
self, with this difference only,- — that hers 
could not fail to be better adapted to the 
occasion and to your own frame of mind than 
any that I could send you. 
[Torn off.] 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Jan. 21, IV*,. 

I know that you have already been cate- 
chised by Lady Hesketh on the subject of 
your return hither, before the winter shall 
be over, and shall therefore only say, that if 
you can come, we shall be hapry to receive 
you. Remember also, that nothing can ex. 
* Private correspondence. 



364 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



euse the non-performance of a promise, but 
absolute necessity! In the meantime, my 
faith in /our veracity is such that I am per- 
suaded you will suffer nothing less than ne- 
cessity to prevent it. Were you not ex- 
tremely pleasant to us, tmd just the sort of 
youth that suits us, we should neither of us 
have said h*alf so much, or perhaps a word 
on the subject. 

Yours, my dear Johnny, are vagaries that 
I shall never see practised by any other ; and 
whether you slap your uncle, or reel as if 
you were fuddled, or dance in the path be- 
fore me, all is characteristic of yourself, and 
therefore to me delightful.* I have hinted 
to you indeed sometimes, that you should be 
cautious of indulging antic habits and singu- 
larities of all sorts, and young men in general 
have need enough of such admonition. But 
yours are a sort of fairy habits, such as might 
belong to Puck or Robin Goodfellow, and 
therefore, good as the advice is, I should be 
half sorry should you take it. 

This allowance at least, I giv<- you. Con- 
tinue to take your walks, if walks they may 
be called, exactly in their present fashion, 
till you have taken orders! Then indeed, 
forasmuch as a skipping, curvetting, bound- 
ing divine might be a spectacle not altogether 
seemly, I shall consent to your adoption of 
a more grave demeanor. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — My letters to you are 
all either petitionary, or in the style of ac- 
knowledgments and thanks, and such nearly 
in an alternate order. In my last I loaded 
you with commissions, for the due discharge 
of which I am now to say, and say truly, how 
much 1 feel myself obliged to you ; neither 
can I stop there, but must thank you like- 
wise for new honors from Scotland, which 
have left me nothing to wish for from that 
country ; for my list is now, I believe, graced 
with the subscription of all its learned bodies. 
I regret only that some of them arrived too 
late to do honor to my present publication 
of names. But there are those among them, 
and from Scotland too, that may give a useful 
hint perhaps to our own universities. Your 
very handsome present of Pope's Homer has 
arrived safe, notwithstanding an accident that 
befell him by the way. The Hall-servant 
brought the parcel from Olney, resting it on 
the pommel of the saddle, and his horse fell 
with him. Pope was in consequence rolled 
in the dirt, but being well coated, got no 
damage. If augurs and soothsayers were 

* These innocent peculiarities were in a less degree re- 
gained to the end of life by this truly amiable and inter- 
esting man. 



not out of fashion, I should have consulted 
one or two of trnt order, in hope of learning 
from them that this fall was ominous. J 
have found a place for him in the parlor 
where he makes a splendid appearance, and 
where he shall not long want a neighbor, one. 
who if less popular than himself, shall at least 
look as big as he How has it happened 
that, since Pope did certainly dedicate both 
Iliad and Odyssey, no dedication is found in 
this first edition of them ? 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, Feb. 13, 179L 
I now send you a full and true account of 
this business. Having learned that your inn 
at Wobu;.T was the George, we sent Samuel 
thither yesterday. Mr. Martin, master of th« 
George, tc id him.* 

W. C. 

P. S. I cannot help adding a circum- 
stance that will divert you. Martin, having 
learned from Sam whose servant he was, 
told him that he had never seen Mr. Cowper, 
but he had heard him frequently spoken of 
by the companies that had called at his 
house ; and therefore, when Sam would have 
paid for his breakfast, would take nothing 
from him. Who says that fame is only 
empty breath % On the contrary, it is good 
ale, and cold beef into the bangain. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston Underwood, Feb. 36, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — 

It is a maxim of much weight, 
Woi'th cunning o'er and o'er, 

He who has Homer to translate, 
Had need do nothing more. 

But, notwithstanding the truth and im- 
portance of this apophthegm, to which I lay 
claim as the original author of it, it is not 
equally true that my application to Homer, 
close as it is, has been the sole cause of my 
delay to answer you. No. In observing so 
long a silence I have been influenced much 
more by a vindictive purpose, a purpose to 
punish you for your suspicion that I could 
possibly feel myself hurt or offended by any 
critical suggestion of yours, that seemed to 
reflect on the purity )f my nonsense verses. 
Understand, if you please, for the future, 
that whether I disport myself in Greek or 

* This letter contained the history of a servant's cruelty 
to a post-horse, which a reader of humanity could not 
wish to see in print, lint the postscript describes so 
plcriRantlv the signal influence of a pcet's reputation <m 
the spirit of a liberal innkeeper, that it surely ought not 
to be suppressed. — Uayley. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



369 



Latin, or in whatsoever other language, you 
are hereby, henceforth and forever, entitled 
and warranted to take any liberties with it 
to which you shall feel yourself inclined, 
not excepting even the lines themselves, 
which stand at the head of this letter ! 

You delight me when you call blank verse 
the English heroic; for I have always 
thought, and often said, that we have no 
other verse worthy to be so entitled. When 
you read my preface, you will be made ac- 
quainted with my sentiments on this subject 
pretty much at large, for which reason I will 
curb my zeal, and say the less about it at 
present. That Johnson, who wrote har- 
moniously in rhyme, should have had so de- 
fective an ear as never to have discovered 
any music at all in blank verse, till he heard 
a particular friend of his reading it, is a 
wonder never sufficiently to be wondered at. 
Yet this is true on his own acknowledg- 
ment, and amounts to a plain confession, 
(of which, perhaps, he was not aware when 
he made it,) that he did not know how to 
read blank verse himself. In short, he either 
suffered prejudice to lead him in a string 
whithersoever it would, or his taste in poetry 
was worth little. I don't believe he ever 
read anything of that kind with enthusiasm 
in his life ; and as good poetry cannot be 
composed without a considerable share of 
that quality in the mind of the author, so 
neither can it be read or tasted as it ought 
to be without it. 

I have said all this in the morning fast- 
ing, but am soon going to my tea. When, 
therefore, I shall have told you that we are 
now, in the course of our printing, in the 
second book of the Odyssey, I shall only have 
time to add, that I am, my dear friend, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 

I think your Latin quotations very appli- 
cable to the present state of France. But 
France is in a situation new and untried 
before. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Feb. 27, 1791. 

Now, my dearest Johnny, I must tell thee 
in few words, how much I love and am 
obliged to thee for thy affectionate services. 

My Cambridge honorg are all to be as- 
cribed to you, and to you only. Yet you 
are but a little man, and a little man, into 
the bargain, who have kicked the mathemat- 
ics, their idol, out of your study. So import- 
ant are the endings which Providence fre- 
quently connects with small beginnings. Had 
you been here, I could have furnished you 
with much employment ; for 1 have so dealt 
with your fair MS. in the course of my polish- 
ing and improving, that I have almost blotted 



out the who]e. Such, however, as it is, 1 
must now send it to the printer, and he must 
be content with it, for there is not time to 
make a fresh copy. We are now printing 
the 'second book of the Odyssey. 

Should the Oxonians bestow none of their 
notice on me on this occasion, it will happen 
singularly enough, that, as Pope received all 
his University honors in the subscription 
way from Oxford, and none at all from Cam- 
bridge so I shall have received all mine 
from Cambridge, and none from Oxford. 
This \* the more likely to be the case, be- 
cause T understand, that on whatsoever occa- 
sion either of those learned bodies thinks fit 
to move, the other always makes it a point 
to sit still, thus proving its superiority. 

I shall send up your letter to Lady Hes- 
keth in a day or two, knowing that the intel- 
ligence contained in it will afford her the 
greatest pleasure. Know likewise, for your 
own gratification, that all th« Scotch Uni- 
versities have subscribed^ none excepted. 

We are all as well as usual ; that is to 
say, as well as reasonable folks expect to be 
on the crazy side of this frail existence. 

I rejoice that we shall so soon have you 
again at our fireside. W. . 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Weston, March 2, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — I am sick and ashamed 
of myself that I forgot my promise ; but it 
is actually true that I did forget it. Y«u, 
however, I did not forget ; nor did I forget 
to wonder and to be alarmed at your silence, 
being perfectly unconscious of my arrears. 
All this, together with various ether tres- 
passes of mine, must be set down to the 
account of Homer ; and, wherever he is, he 
is bound to make his apology to all my cor- 
respondents, but to you in particular. True 
it is, that if Mrs. Unwin did not call me from 
that pursuit, I should forget, in the ardor 
with which I persevere in it, both to eat, and 
to drink, and to retire to rest. This zeal 
has increased in me regularly as I have pro- 
ceeded, and in an exact ratio, as a mathema- 
tician would say, to the progress I have 
made toward the point at which I have been 
aiming. You will believe this, when I tell 
you, that, not contented with my previous 
labors, I have actually revised the whole 
work, a id have made a thousand alterations 
in it, -ince it has been in the press. I have 
now, however, tolerably well satisfied myself 
at least, and trust that the printer and I shall 
trundle along merrily to the conclusion. I 
expect to correct the proof-sheets of the 
third book of the Odyssey to day. 

Thus it is, as I believe I have said to you 
before, that you are doomed to hear of noth. 
* Private correspondence. 



366 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



mg but Homer from me. There is less of 
gallantly than of nature in this proceeding. 
When I write to you, I think of nothing but 
the subject that is uppermost, and that up- 
permost is always Homer Then I consider 
that though, as a lady, you Irve a right to 
expect other treatment at my rmnds, you are 
a lady who has a husband, and tha< husband 
an old schoolfellow of mine, and -vho, I 
know, interests himself in my success. 

I am likely, after all, to gather a oetter 
harvest of subscribers at Cambridge .ban I 
expected. A little cousin of mine, an under- 
graduate of Cams College, suggested to me, 
when he was here in the summer, that it 
might riot be amiss to advertise the work: at 
Merril's the bookseller. I acquiesced in the 
measure, and at his return he pasted me on 
a board, and hung me up in the shop, as it 
has proved in the event, much to my emolu- 
ment. For many, as I understand, have 
subscribed in consequence ; and, among the 
rest, several of the College libraries. 

I am glad that you have seen the last 
Northampton djrge, for the rogue of a clerk 
sent me oxxly half the number of printed 
copies for which I stipulated with him at 
first, and uiey were all expended immedi- 
ately, The poor man himself is dead now ; 
and whether his successor will continue me 
in my office, or seek another laureat, has not 
yet transpired. 

I am, dear madam, , 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Marcji 6, 1791. 
After all this ploughing and sowing on 
the plains of Troy, once fruitful, such at 
least to my translating predecessor, some 
harvest, I hope, will arise for me also. My 
long work has received its last, last touches ; 
and I am now giving my preface its final 
adjustment We are in the fourth Odyssey 
in the course of our printing, and I expect that 
I and the swallows shall appear together. 
They have slept all the winter, but I, on the 
contrary, have been extremely busy. Yet if 
[ can " virum volitare per ora" as swiftly as 
they through the air, I shall account myself 
well requited. 

Adieu ! W, C. 

The Rev. James Hurdis, to whom the next 
letter is adressed, was formerly Professor of 
Poetry in the University of Oxford, and con- 
sidered to have established his claim to the 
title of poet, by his popubr work, " The Vil- 
lage Curate." But there is an observation 
which has frequently suggested itself to ns, 
In recording the names of writers in the cor- 
respondence of Covvper, how few have ac- 



quired more than an ephemeral celebrity, and 
been transmitted to the present day ! Au 
thors resembles the waves of the sea, which 
pass on in quick succession, and engage the 
eye, till it is diverted by those which follow. 
Each in its turn yields to a superior impel- 
ling force. Some tower above the rest, and 
yet all by their collective strength and ener- 
gy, form one grand and mighty expanse of 
ocean. 

Such are the vicissitudes of literature, the 
effects of competition, and the appetite for 
novelty, that few productions outlive the 
generation in which they are written, unless 
they bear a certain impress of immortality, 
a character of moral or intellectual supe- 
riority. They then survive to every age, 
and are the property of every country, so 
long as taste, genius, or religion preserve 
their empire over mankind. 

Cowper^ having received an obliging letter 
from Mr. Hurdis, though not personally ac- 
quainted with him, addressed the following 
reply. 

Weston, March 6, 1791. 

Sir, — I have always entertained, and have 
occasionally avowed, a great degree of respect 
for the abilities of the unknown author of 
" The Village Curate," — unknown at that 
time, but now well known, and not to me 
only but to many. For, before I was favored 
with your obliging letter, I knew your name, 
your place of abode, your profession, and 
that you had four sisters ; all which I neither 
learned from our bookseller, nor from any 
of his connexions. You will perceive, there- 
fore, that you are no longer an author in- 
cognito. The writer indeed of many passa- 
ges that have fallen from your pen could 
not long continue so. Let genius, true ge- 
nius, conceal itself where it may, we may say 
of it, as the young man in Terence of his 
beautiful mistress, " Diu latere non potest." 

I am obliged to you for your kind offers 
of service, and will not say that I shall not 
be troublesome to you hereafter ; but at pres- 
ent I have no need to be so. I have within 
these two days given the very last stroke of 
my pen to my long translation, and what will 
be my next career I know not. At any rate we 
shall not, I hope, hereafter be known to each 
other as poets only, for your writings have 
made me ambitious of a nearer approach to 
you. Your door however will never be 
opened to me. My fate and fortune have com- 
bined with my natural disposition to draw a 
circle round me, which I cannot pass ; nor 
have I been more than thirteen miles from 
home these twenty years, and so far very 
seldom. But you are a younger man, and 
therefore may not be quite so immoveable ; 
in which case should you choose at any time 
to move Weston ward,, you will always find 




me happy to receive you ; and in the mean- 
time I remain with much respect, 

Your most obedient servant, critic, and 
friend, W. C. 

P. S. — I wish to know what you mean to 
do with " Sir Thomas."* For, though I ex- 
pressed doubts about his theatrical possibil- 
ities, I think him a very respectable person, 
and, with some improvement, well worthy of 
being introduced to the public. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, March 10, 1791. 

Gbe mv affectionate remembrances to 
rour sisters, and tell them I am impatient to 
entertain them with my old story new 
dressed. 

1 have two French prints hanging in my 
study, both on Iliad subjects ; and I have an 
English one in the parlor, on a subject from 
the same poem. In one of the former, Aga- 
memnon addresses Achilles exactly in the at- 
titude of a dancing master turning miss in a 
minuet : in the latter, the figures are plain, 
and the attitudes plain also. This is, in 
some considerable measure, I believe, the dif- 
ference between my translation and Pope's; 
and will serve as an exemplification of what 
I am going to lay before you and the public. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, March 18, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — I give* you joy that you 
are about to receive some more of my ele- 
gant prose, and I feel myself in danger of 
attempting to make it even more elegant than 
usual, and thereby of spoiling it, under the 
influence of your commendations. But my 
old helter-skelter manner has already suc- 
ceeded so well, that I will not, even for the 
sake of entitling myself to a still great por- 
tion of your praise, abandon it. 

I did not call in question Johnson's true 
spirit of poetry, because he was not qualified 
to relish blank verse, (though, to tell you the 
truth, I think that but an ugly symptom,) but, 
if I did not express it, I meant however to 
infer it, from the perverse judgment that he 
has formed of our poets in general ; depreciat- 
ing some of the best, and making honorable 
mention of others, in my opinion, not unde- 
servedly neglected. I will lay you sixpence 
that, had he lived in the days of Milton, and 
by any accident had met with his " Paradise 
Lost," be would neither have directed the at- 
tention of others to it, nor have much ad- 
mired it himself. Good sense, in short, and 
strength of intellect, seem to me, rather than 
a. fine taste, to have been his distinguishing 

* " Sir Thomas More," a tragedy. 



characteristics. But should you think other- 
wise, you have my free permission ; for so 
long as you have yourself a taste for the 
beauties of Cowper, I care not a fig whether 
Johnson has a taste or not. 

I wonder where you find all your quota- 
tions, pat as they are to the present condition 
of France. Do you make them yourself, or 
do you actually find them 1 I am apt t%sus- 
pect sometimes that you impose them only 
on a poor man who has but twenty books 111 
the world, and two of them are your brothei 
Chester's. They are, however, much to the 
purpose, be the author of them who he may. 

I was very sorry to learn lately, that my 
friend at Chichely has been some time indis- 
posed, either with gout or rheumatism, (for 
it seems to be uncertain which,) and attended 
by Dr. Kerr. I am at a loss to conceive how 
so temperate a man should acquire the gout, 
and am resolved therefore to conclude that it 
must be th* rheumatism, which, bad as it is, 
is in my judgment the best of the two, and 
will afford me, besides, some opportunity to 
sympathize with him, for I am not perfectly 
exempt from it myself.. Distant as you are 
in situation, you are yet, perhaps, nearer to 
him in point of intelligence than 1, and il 
you can send me any particular news of him, 
pray do it in your next. 

I love and thank you for your benediction. 
If God forgive me my sins, surely I shall 
love him much, for. I have much to be for- 
given. But the quantum need not discour- 
age me, since there is One, whose atonement 
can suffice for all. 

Tov Si kclO alfxa piev, ko.1 croc", koi kfiol^ Ka\ d3e\<poif 
'H/(£r£j90tj, dvrov ff(o^ojx£vovs davdro). 

Accept our joint remembrance, and believe 
me affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, March 19, 1791. 

My dearest Johnny, — You ask if it may 
not be improper to solicit Lady Hesketh's 
subscription to the poems of the Norwich 
maiden ? To which I reply it will be by no 
means improper. On the contrary, I am per 
suaded that she will give her name with a 
very good will : for she is much an admirer 
of poesy that is worthy to be admired, and 
such I think, judging by the specimen, the 
poesy of this maiden, Elizabeth Bently of 
Norwich, is likely to prove. 

Not that I am myself inclined to expect 
in general great matters in the poetical way 
from persons whose ill-fortune it has been tc 
want the common advantages of education : 
neither do I account it in general a kindness 
to such to encourage them in the indulgence 
of a propensity more likely to do them harm 
in the end, than to advance their interest 



Many such phenomena have arisen within my 
remembrance, at which all the world has 
wondered for a season, and has then forgot 
them.* 

The fact is, that though strong natural 
genius is always accompanied with strong 
natural tendency to its object, yet it often 
happens that the tendency is found where 
the «genius is wanting. In the present in- 
stance, however, (the poems of a certain 
Mrs. Leapor excepted, who published some 
forty years ago,) I discern, I think, more 
marks of true poetical talent than I remem- 
ber to have observed in the verses of any 
other, male or female, so disadvantageously 
circumstanced. I wish her therefore good 
speed, and subscribe to her with all my heart. 

You will rejoice when I tell you, that I 
have some hopes, after all, of a harvest from 
Oxford also ; Mr. Throckmorton has written 
to a person of considerable influence there, 
which he has desired him to exert in my 
favor, and his request, I should imagine, will 
hardly prove a vain one. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, March 24, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — You apologize for your 
silence in a manner which affords me so 
much pleasure, that I cannot but be satisfied. 
Let business be the cause, and I am con- 
tented. That is the cause to which I would 
even be accessary myself, and would increase 
yours by any means, except by a law-suit of 
my own, at the expense of ail your opportu- 
nities of writing oftener than twice in a 
twelvemonth. 

Your application to Dr. Dunbar reminds 
me of two lines to be found somewhere in 
Dr. Young — 

" And now a poet's gratitude you see, 

Grant him two favors, and he '11 ask for three." 

In this particular, therefore, I perceive, that 
a poet and a poet's friend bear a striking re- 
semblance to each other. The Doctor will 
bless himself that the number of Scotch uni- 
versities is not larger, assured that if they 
equalled those in England in number of col- 
leges, you would give him no rest till he had 
engaged them all. It is true, as Lady Hesketh 
told you, that I shall not fear, in the matter 
of subscriptions, a comparison even with 
Pope himself; considered (I mean) that we 
live in the days of terrible taxation, and when 
verse, not being a necessary of life, is ac- 
counted dear, be it what it may, even at the 
lowest price. I am no very good arithme- 
tician, yet I calculated the other day in my 

* See a similar instance, recorded in the Memoirs of 
tfrs. Hannah More, of the Bristol Milk-woman, Mrs. 
jfcarsley. 



morning walk, that my two.flolumes, at the 
price of three guineas, will cost the purchaser 
less than the seventh part of a farthing per 
line. Yet there are lines among them, that 
have cost me the labor of hours, and none 
that have not cost me some labor. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Friday night, March 25, 1791. 

My dear Coz., — Johnson writes me word, 
that he has repeatedly called on Horace Wal- 
pole, and has never found him at home. He 
has also written to him and received no 
answer. I charge thee therefore on thy alle- 
giance, that thou move not a finger more in 
this business. My back is up. and I cannot 
bear the thought of wooing him any farther, 
nor would do it, though he were as pig a 
gentleman (look you!) as Lucifer himself.' 
I have Wekh blood in me, if the pedigree, 
of the Donnes say true, and every drop of it 
says — " Let him alone ! " 

I should have dined at the Hall to-day, 
having engaged myself to do so. But an 
untoward occurrence, that happened last 
night, or rather this morning, prevented me. 
It was a thundering rap at the door, just after 
the clock struck three. First, I thought the 
house was on fire. Then I thought the Hall 
was on fire. Then I thought it was a house 
breaker's trick. Then I thought it was an 
express. In any case I thought, that if it 
should be repeated, it would awaken and 
terrify Mrs. Unwin, and kill her with spasms 
The consequence* of all these thoughts was 
the worst nervous fever I ever had in my life, 
although it was the shortest. The rap was 
given but once, though a multifarious one. 
Had I heard a second, I should have risen 
myself at all adventures. It was the only 
minute since you went, in which I have been 
glad that you were hot here. Soon after I 
came down, I learned that a drunken party 
had passed through the village at that time, 
and they were, no doubt, the authors of this 
witty but troublesome invention. 

Our thanks are due to you for the book 
you sent us. Mrs. Unwin has read to me 
several parts of it, which I have much ad- 
mired. The observations are shrewd and 
pointed ; and there is much wit in the similes 
and illustrations. Yet a remark struck me, 
which I could not help making viva voce on 
the occasion. If the book has any real value, 
and does in truth deserve the notice taken 
of it by those to whom it is addressed, its 
claim is founded neither on the expression, 
nor on the style, nor on the wit of it, but 
altogether on the truth that it contains. 
Now the same truths are delivered, to my 
knowledge, perpetually from the pulpit by 
ministers, whom the admirers of this writer 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



369 



would disdain to hear. Yet the truth is not 
the less important for not being accompa- 
nied and recommended by brilliant thoughts 
and expressions ; neither is God, from whom 
comes all truth, any more a respecter of wit 
than he is of persons. It will appear soon 
whether they applaud the book for the sake 
of its unanswerable arguments, or only 
tolerate the argument for the sake of the 
splendid manner in which it is enforced. 1 
wish as heartily that it may do them good 
as if I were myself the author of it. But, 
alas ! my wishes and hopes are much at vari- 
ance. It will be the talk of the day, as an- 
other publication of the same kind has been ; 
and then the noise of vanity-fair will drown 
the voice of the preacher. 

I am glad to learn that the Chancellor 
does not forget me, though more for his sake 
than my own ; for I see not how he can ever 
serve a man like me. 

Adieu, my dearest coz., 
W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, March 29, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — It affords me sincere 
pleasure that you enjoy serenity of mind 
after your great loss. It is well in all cir- 
cumstances, even in the most afflictive, with 
those who have God for their comforter. 
You do me justice in giving entire credit to 
my expressions of friendship for you. No 
day passes in which I do not look back to 
the days that are fled ; and, consequently, 
none in which I do not feel myself affec- 
tionately reminded of you and of her whom 
you have lost for a season. I cannot even 
see Olney spire from any of the fields in the 
neighborhood, much less can I enter the 
town, and still less the vicarage, without 
experiencing the force of those mementoes, 
and recollecting a multitude of passages to 
which you and yours were parties. 

The past would appear a dream were the 
remembrance of it less affecting. It was in 
the most important respects so unlike my 
present moments that I am sometimes almost 
tempted to suppose it a dream. But the 
difference between dreams and realities long 
since elapsed seems to consist chiefly in this 
— that a dream, however painful or pleasant 
at the time, and perhaps for a few ensuing 
hours, passes like an arrow through the air. 
leaving no trace of its passage behind it ; 
but our actual experiences .niake a lasting 
impression. We review those which inter- 
ested us much when they occurred, with 
hardly less interest than in the first instance ; 
and whether few years or many have inter- 
vened, our sensibility makes them still pres- 
ent, such a mere nullity is time to a creature 

* Private correspondence. 



to whom God gives a feeling heart and the 
faculty of recollection. 

That, you have not the first sight and 
sometimes, perhaps, have a late one of what 
I write, is owing merely to your distant sit- 
uation. Some things I have written not 
worth your perusal ; and a few, a very few, 
of Mich length that, engaged as 1 have been 
t; Homer, it has not been possible that I 
should find opportunity to transcribe them. 
At the same time, Mrs. Unwin's pain in her 
side has almost forbidden her the use of the 
pen. She cannot use it looig without in- 
creasing that pain; for which reason I am 
more unwilling than herself that sue should 
ever meddle with it. But, whether what I 
write be a trifle, or 'whether it be serious, you 
would certainly, were you present, see them 
all. Others get a sight of them by being so, 
who w >uld never otherwise see them ; and I 
should hardly withhold them from you, 
whose claim upon me is of so much older a 
date than theirs. It is not indeed with read- 
iness and good-will that I give them to any- 
body ; for, if I live, I shall probably print 
them; and my friends, who are previously 
well acquainted with them, will have the loss 
reason to value the book in which they shall 
appear. A trifle can have nothing to recom- 
mend it but its novelty. I have spoken of 
giving copies; but, in fact, 1 have given none. 
They who have them made them ; for, till 
my whole work shall have fairly passed tn« ■ 
press, it will not leave me a moment more 
than is necessarily due to my correspondents. 
Their number has of late increased upon 
me, by the addition of many of my maternal 
relatives, who, having found me out about a 
year since, have behaved to me in the most 
affectionate manner, and have been singularly 
serviceable to me in $ie article of my sub- 
scription. Several of them are coming from 
Norfolk to visit me in the course of the 
summer. 

I enclose a copy of my last mortuary ver- 
ses. The clerk for whom they were written 
is since dead; and whether his successor, the 
late sexton, will choose to be his owu dirge- 
maker, or will employ me, is a piece of im- 
portant news which has not yet reached me. 

Our best remembrances attend yourself and 
Miss Catleti, and we rejoice in the kind Prov- 
idence that has given you in her so amiable 
and comfortable a companion. Adieu, my 
dear friend. I am sincerely yours, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 

Weston, April 2, 1791. 

My dear Mrs. Frog, — A word or two be 

fore "breakfast : which is all that I shall have 

time to send you ! You have not, I hope, 

forgot to tell Mr. Frog how much I am 

24 



570 



COWPER'S WORKS 



obliged to him for hi kind th( ugh unsuc- 
cessful attempt in my favor at Oxford. It 
seems not a little extraordinary that persons 
so nobly patronised themselves on the score 
of literature should resolve to give no en- 
couragement to it in return. Should I find 
a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I 
will not neglect it. 

Could Homer come himself. H^tress'tl and poor 
And tune his harp at Rhcdicine's door. 
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear) 
" Begone ! no tramper gets a farthing here." 

I have read your husband's pamphlet 
through and iiirough. You may ihink per- 
haps, and so may lie, that a quesiion so re- 
mote from ail concern of mine could not in- 
terest me ; but if you think so, you are both 
mistaken. He can write nothing that will 
not interest me: in the first place, for the 
writer's sake, and in the next place, because 
he writes better and reasons better than any- 
body; with more candor, and with more suf- 
ficiency, and, consequently, with more satis- 
faction to all his readers, save only his oppo- 
nents. They, I think, by this time, wish that 
they had let him alone. 

Tom is delighted past measure with his 
wooden nag, and gallops at a rate that would 
kill any horse that had a life to lose. 

Adieu ! W. C. 



1'0 JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, April 6, 1791. 

My dear Johnny, — A thousand thanks for 
your splendid assemblage of Cambridge lu- 
minaries! If you are not contented with 
your collection, it can only be because yoa 
are unreasonable ; for I, who may be sup- 
posed more covetous on this occasion than 
anybody, am highly satisfied, and even de- 
lighted with it. If indeed you should find it 
practicable to add still to the number, I have 
not the least objection. But this charge I 
give you : 

' AXXo 6e roi £p£co, av ft iv\ (bptrr'i ftdlXco ffrjiri. 

Stay not an hour beyond the time you have 
mentioned, even though you should be able to 
add a thousand names by doing so ! For I 
cannot afford to purchase them at that cost. 
I long to see you, and so do we both, and will 
not suffer you to postpone your visit for an) r 
such consideration. No, my dear boy ! In 
the affair of subscriptions, we are already il- 
lustrious enough, shall be so at least, when 
you shall have enlisted a college or two more ; 
which, perhaps, you may be able to do in the 
course of the ensuing week. I feel myself 
much obliged to your university, and much 
disposed to admire the liberality of spirit 
wliich they have shown on this occasion. 



Certainly I have not deserved much favor at 
their hands, all things considered. But the 
cause of literature seems to have some weight 
with them, and to have superseded the resent- 
ment they might be supposed to entertain on 
the score of certain censures that you wot of. 
It is not so at Oxford. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, April 29, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — I forget if I told you 
that Mr. Throckmorton had applied through 
the medium of to the university of Ox- 
ford. He did so, but without success. Their 
answer was, "that they subscribe to noth- 
ing." 

Pope's subscriptions did not amount I 
think, to six hundred ; and mine will not fall 
very short of five. Noble doings, at a time of 
day when Homer has no news to tell us, and 
when, all other comforts of life having risen 
in price, poetry has of course fallen. 1 call it 
a "comfort of life;" it is so to others, but 
to myself it is become even a necessary. 

The holiday times are very unfavorable to 
the printer's progress. He and all his demons 
are making themselves merry and me sad, for 
I mourn at every hinderance. W. C. 

. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, May 2, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — Monday being a day in 
which Homer has now no demands upon me, I 
shall give part of the present Monday to you. 
But it this moment occurs to me that the pro- 
position with which I begin will be obscure 
to you, unless followed by an explanation. 
You are to understand, therefore, that Mon- 
day being no post-day, I have consequently 
no proof-sheets to correct, the correction of 
which is nearly all that I have to do with Ho- 
mer at present. I say nearly all, because I am 
likewise occasionally employed in reading 
over the whole of what is already printed, 
that I may make a table of errata to each of 
the poems. How much is already printed ? 
say you : I answer — the whole Iliad, and al- 
most seventeen books of the Odyssey. 

About a fortnight since, perhaps three 
w r eeks, I had a visit from your nephW, Mr 
Bagot, and his tutor, Mr. Hurlock, who came 
hither under conduct of your niece, Miss 
Barbara. So were the friends of Ulysses 
conducted to the palace of Antiphates the 
Lsestrigonian by that monarch's daughter 
But mine is no palace, neither am I a giant, 
neither did I devour one of the party. On 
the contrary, I gave them chocolate, and per- 
mitted them to depart in peace. I was much 
pleased both with the young man and his 
tutor. In the countenance of the former I 
saw much Bagotism, and not less in his man- 
ner. I will leave you to guess what 1 mean 



LIFE OF COWPEK 



371 



by that expression. Physiognomy is a study 
of which I have almost as high an opinion as 
Lavater himself, the professor of it, and for 
this good reason, beeause it never yet deceived 
me. But perhaps I shall speak more truly if 
I say, that I am somewhat an adept in the art, 
although I have never studied it ; for whether 
I will or not, I judge of every human creature 
by the countenance, and, as I say, have never 
yet seen reason to repent of my judgment. 
Sometimes I feel myself powerfully attracted, 
as I was by your nephew, and sometimes with 
equal vehemence repulsed, which attraction 
and repulsion have always been justified in 
t'he sequel. 

I have lately read, and with more attention 
than I ever gave to them before, Milton's 
Latin poems. But these I must make the 
subject of some future letter, in which it will 
be ten to one that your friend Samuel John- 
son gets another slap or two at the hands of 
your humble servant. Pray read them your- 
self, and with as much attention as I did ; 
then read the Doctor's remarks if you have 
them, and then tell me what you think of 
both.* It will be pretty sport for you on 
sucha day as this, which is the fourth that 
we have had of almost incessant rain. The 
weather, and a cold, the effect of it, have con- 
fined me ever since last Tuesday. Mrs. Un- 
win however is well, and joins me in every 
good wish to yourself and family. I am, my 
good friend, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. BUCHANAN. 

Weston, May 11, 1791. 
My dear Sir, — You have sent me a beauti- 
ful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would 
to heaven that you could give it that requisite 
yourself; for he who could make the sketch 
cannot but be well qualified to finish. But 
if you will not, I will ; provided always, 
nevertheless, that God gives me ability, for 
it will require no common share to do justice 
to your conceptions.! 

I am much yours, W. C. 

Your little messenger vanished before I 
could catch him. 

* Johnson's remark on Milton's Latin poems is as fol- 
lows : u The Latin pieces are lusciously elegant : but the 
delight which they afford is rather by the exquisite imi- 
tation of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction 
and the harmony of the numbers, than by any power of 
invention or vigor of sentiment. They are not all of 
equal value ; the elegies excel the odes ; and some of 
the exercises on gunpowder treason might have been 
spared." 

He, however, quotes with approbation the remark of 
Hampton, the translator of Polybius, that " Milton was 
the first Englishman who, after the revival of letters, 
wrote Latin verses with classic elegance." — See Johnson's 
Life of Milton. 

f We are indebted to Mr. Buchanan for having sug- 
gested to Cowper the outline of the poem called "The 
Four Ages," viz., infancy, youth, middle age, and old age. 
the writer was acquainted with this respectable clergy 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 18, 1791. 

My dearest Coz., — Has another of my let 
ters fallen short of its destination ; or where- 
fore is it, that thou writest not? One letter 
in five weeks is a poor allowance for your 
friends at Weston. One, that I received two 
or three days since from Mrs. Frog, has not 
at all enlightened me on this head. But I 
wander in a wilderness of vain conjecture. 

I have had a letter lately from Xew York, 
from a Doctor Cogswell of that place, to thank 
me for my fine verses, and to tell me, which 
pleased me particularly, that, after having 
read " The Task/' my first volume fell intc 
his hands, which he read also, and was equally 
pleased with. This is the only instance I can 
recollect of a reader doing justice to my first 
effusions ; for I am sure, that in point of ex- 
pression they do not fall a jot below my 
second, and that in point of subject they are 
for the most part superior. But enough, and 
too much of this. " The Task," he tells me 
has been reprinted in that city. 

Adieu ! my dearest Coz. 

We have blooming scenes under wintry 
skies, and with icy blasts to fan them. 

Ever -thine, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON", ESQ. 

Weston, May 23, 1791. 

My dearest Johnny, — Did I not know that 
you are never more in your element than 
when you are exerting yourself in my cause, 
I should congratulate you on the hope there 
seems to be that your labor will soon have an 
end.* 

You will wonder, perhaps, my Johnny, that 
Mrs. Unwin, by my desire, enjoined you to 
secrecy concerning the translation of the 
Frogs and Mice.f 'Wonderful it may well 
seem to you, that I should wish to hide for a 
short time from a few what I am just going 
to publish to all. But I had more reasons 
than one for this mysterious management ; 
that is to say, I had two. In the first place, I 
wished to surprise my readers agreeably ; and 
secondly, I wished to allow none of my friends 
an opportunity to object to the measure, who 
might think it perhaps a measure more boun- 
tiful than prudent. But I have had my suffi- 
cient reward, though not a pecuniary one. It 
is a poer.t of much humor, and accordingly I 
found the translation of it very amusing. It 
struck me, too, that I must either make it 
part of the present publication, or never pub- 
lish it at all ; it would have been so terribly 
out of its place in any other volume. 

I long for the time that shall bring you 

man in his declining years. He was considered to be • 
man of cultivated mind and taste. 

* The labor of transcribing Cowper's version. 

t See his version of Homer. 



372 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



once more to Weston, and ail your et ceteras 
with you. Oh ! what a month of May has 
this been ! Let never poet, English poet at 
least, give himself to the praises of May 
again. W. C. 

We add the verses that he composed on 
this occasion. 

THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 

Two nymphs,* both nearly of an age, 

Of numerous charms possess'd, 
A warm dispute once chanc'd to wage, 

Whose temper was the best. 

The worth of each had been complete, 

Had both alike been mild; 
But one, although her smile was sweet, 

Frown'd oftener than she smil'd. 

And in her humor, when she frown'd, 
Would raise her voice and roar; 

And shake with fury to the ground, 
The garland that she wore. 

The other was of gentler cast, 

From all such frenzy clear; 
Her frowns were never known to last, 

And never prov'd severe. 

Tp poets of renown in song, 
The nymphs referr'd the cause, 

Who, strange to tell ! all judged it wrong, 
And gave misplac'd applause. 

They gentle call'd, and kind, and soft, 

The flippant and the scold ; 
And, though she chang'd her mood so oft, 

That failing left untold. 

No judges sure were e'er so mad, 

Or so resolv'd to err ; 
In short, the charms her sister had, 

They lavished all on her. 

Then thus the god, whom fondly they 

Their great inspirer call, 
Was heard one genial summer's day, 

To reprimand them all : 

" Since thus ye have combin'd," he said, 

" My fav'rite nymph to slight, 
Adorning May, that peevish maid ! 

With June's undoubted right ; ' 

" The minx shall, for your folly's sake, 

Still prove herself a shrew ; 
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 

And pinch your noses blue." 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 27, 1791. 

My dearest Coz., — I, who am neither dead, 
nor sick, nor idle, should have no excuse, 
were I as tardy in answering as you in writ- 
ing. I live indeed where leisure abounds, 
and you where leisure is not ; a difference 
that accounts sufficiently both for your si- 
lence and my loquacity. 

* May and June. 



When you told Mrs. that my Homei 

would come forth in May, y &u told her what 
you believed, and, therefore, no falsehood. 
But you told her at the same time what will 
not happen, and therefore not a truth. There 
is a medium between truth and falsehood ; 
and I believe the word mistake expresses it 
exactly. I will therefore say that you were 
mistaken. If instead of May you had men- 
tioned June, I natter myself that you would 
have hit the mark. For in June there is 
every probability that we shall publish. You 
will say, "Hang the printer! for it is his 
fault!" But stay, my dear ; hang him not 
just now ! For to execute him and find an 
other will cost us time, and so much, too, 
that I question if, in that case, we should 
'/publish sooner than in August. To say 
truth, I am not perfectly sure that there will 
be any necessity to hang him at all ; though 
that is a matter which I desire to leave en 
tirely at your discretion, alleging only, in the 
meantime, that the man does not appear to 
me during the last half year to have been at 
all in fault. His remittance of sheets in all 
that time has been punctual, save and except 
while the Easter holidays lasted , when I sup 
pose he found it impossible to keep his devils 
to their business. I shall, however, receive 
the last sheet of the Odyssey to-niorrow, and 
have already sent up the Preface, togethei 
with all the needful. You see, therefore, that 
the publication of this famous work cannot 
be delayed much longer. 

As for politics, I reck not, having no room 
in my head for anything but the Slave bill. 
That is lost; and all the rest is a trifle. I 
have not seen Paine's book,* but refused to 
see it, when it was offered to me. No man 
shall convince me that I am improperly gov- 
erned while I feel the contrary. 

Adieu, W. 0. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, June 1, 1791. 

My dearest Johnny, — Now you may rest. 
Now I can give you joy of the period, of" 
which I gave you hope in my last ; the period 
of all your labors in my service. f 3ut this 
I can foretell you, also, that, if you persevere 
in serving your friends at this rate, your life 
is likely to be a life of labor. Yet persevere ! 
Your rest will be the sweeter hereafter ! In 
the mean time I wish you, if at any time you 
suould find occasion for him, just such a 
friend as you have proved to me ! 

J W. G. 

* The " Rights of Man," a book which created a grea« 
ferment in the country, by its revolutionary character and 
statements. 

t As a transcriber. 



PART THE THIRD 



- Having now arrived at that period in the 
i story of Cowper when he had brought to a 
close his great and laborious undertaking, his 
version of Homer, we suspend for a moment 
the progress of the correspondence, to afford 
room for a few observations. 

We have seen in many of the preceding 
letters, with what ardor cf application and 
liveliness of hope he devoted himself to this 
favorite project of enriching the literature of 
his country with an English Homer, that 
might justly be esteemed a faithful yet free 
translation ; a genuine and graceful repre- 
sentative of the justly a .1 mired original. 

After five years <",f intense ' labor, from 
which nothing could withhold him, except the 
pressure of that unhappy malady which re- 
tarded his exertions for several months, he 
published his complete version in two quarto 
volumes, on the first of July, 1791, having in- 
scribed the Iliad to his young noble kinsman, 
Earl Cowper, and the Odyssey to the dowa- 
ger Countess Spencer — a lady for whose 
virtues he had long entertained a most cordial 
and affectionate veneration. 

He had exerted no common powers of 
genius and of industry in this rreat enterprise, 
yet, we lament to say, he failed in satisfying 
the expectations of the public. Hayley as- 
sign a r?ason for this failure, which we give 
in his own words. "Homer," he observes, 
" is so exquisitely beautiful in his own lan- 
guage, and he has been so long an idol in 
every literary mind, that any copy of him, 
which the best of modern poets can execute, 
must probably resemble in its effect the por- 
trait of a graceful woman, painted by an ex- 
cellent artist for her lover : the lover indeed 
will acknowledge great merit in the work, 
and think himself much indebted to the skill 
of such an artist, but he will never admit, as 
in truth he never can feel, that the best of re- 
semblances exhibits all the grace that he dis- 
cerns in the beloved original." 

This illustration is ingenious and amusing 
but we doubt its justness ; because the paint- 
er may pi oduce a correct and even a fluttering 
likeness of the lover's mistress, though it is 
true that the lover himself will thiiik other- 
wise. But where is the translator that can 
do justice to the rierits of H >mer? Who can 
exhibit his majestic simplify, his sententious 
force, the lofty grandeur of his conceptions, 
ind the* sweet charm of his imagery, embel- 
ished with all the crraeee of a language never 



surpassed either in harmony or richness 
The two competitors, who are alone entitled 
to be contrasted with each other, are Pope 
and Cowper. vv e pass over Ogityy, Chap- 
man, and others. It is Hector alone that is 
worthy to contend with Achilles. To the 
version of Pope must be allowed the praise 
of melody of numbers, richness of poetic dic- 
tion, splendor of imagery and brilliancy of 
effect ; but these merits are acquired at the 
expense of fidelity and justness of interpre- 
tation. The simplicity of the heroic ages is 
exchanged for the refinement of modern taste, 
and Homer sinks under the weight of orna- 
ments not his own. Where Pope fails, Cow- 
per succeeds ; but, on the other hand, where 
Pope succeeds, Cowper seems to fail. Cow- 
per is more faithful, but less rich and spirited. 
He is singularly exempt from the defects at 
tributable to Pope. There is nothing extra- 
neous, no meretricious ornament, no labored 
elegance, nothing added, nothing omitted. 
The integrity of the text, is happily preserved. 
But though it is in the page of Cowper that 
we must seek for the true interpretation of 
Homers meaning — though there are many 
passages distinguished by much grace and 
beauty — yet, on the whole, the lofty spirit, 
the bright glow of feeling, the "thoughts 
that breathe, the words that burn," are not 
sufficiently sustained. Each of these distin- 
guished writers, to a certain extent, has failed, 
not from any w T aut of genius, but because 
complete success is difficult, if not unattaina- 
ble. Two causes may perhaps be assigned 
for this failure ;. first, no copy can equal the 
original, if the original be the production of 
a master artist. The poet who seeks to 
transfuse into his own page the meaning and 
spirit of an author, endowed with extraordi- 
nary powei-s, resembles the chemist in his 
laboratory, who, in endeavoring to condense 
the properties of different substances, and to 
extract their essence, has the misfortune to 
see a great portion of the volatile qualities 
evaporate in the pro<oss, and elude all the 
efforts of his philosophic <kL Secondly, Ho- 
mer still remains untranslated, because of all 
poets he is the most untranslateable. He 
seems to claim the lofty prerogative of stand- 
ing alone, and of enjoying the solitary gran- 
deur of his own unrivalled genius ; allowing 
neither to rival nor to friend, to imitator nof 
to translator, the honors of participation : but 
exercising the exclusive right of interpreting 



374 



COWPER'S WORKS 



the majestic simplicity of his own conceptions, 
in all the fervor of his own poetic fancy, and 
in the sweet melody of his own graceful and 
flowing numbers. He who wishes to under- 
stand and to appreciate Homer, must seek 
him in the charm and beauty of his own in- 
imitable language. 

As Cowper's versions of the Iliad and 
Odyssey have formed so prominent a feature 
in his correspondence, for five successive 
years, we think it may be interesting to sub- 
join a few specimens from each translator, re- 
stricting our quotations to the Iliad, as being 
the most familiar to the reader. 

We extract passages, where poetic skill 
was most likely to be exerted. 

Like leaves on trees, the race of man is found, 
Now green in youth, now with/ring on the ground ; 
Another race the following spring supplies ; 
They fall successive, and successive rise : 
So generations in their course decay ; 
So nourish these, when those are past away. 
Pope's Version, hook vi. line 181. 

For as the leaves, so springs the race of man. 
Chill blasts shake down the leaves, and warm'd 

anew 
By vernal airs the grove puts forth again : 
Age after age, so man is born and dies. 

Cowper's Version, book vi. line 164. 

■ The interview between Hector and Andro- 
mache — 

Yet come it will, the day decreed bv fates ; 
(Ho w my heart trembles while my to ague relates !) 
The day when Thou, imperial Troy, must bend. 
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. 
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, 
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind. 
Not Priam'? hoary hairs defil'd with gore. 
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore ; 
As thine, Andromache ! thy griefs I dread. 
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led ! 
In Argive looms our battles to design 
And woes, of which so large a part was thine ! 
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring 
The weight ©f waters from Hyperia's spring. 
There, while you groan beneath the load of life. 
They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife ! 
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, 
Embitters all thy woes, by naming me. 
The thoughts of glory past and present shame, 
\ thousand griefs shall waken at the name ! 
May I lie cold before that dread till day, 
Press'd with a load of monumental clay ! 
Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, 
Shall neither see thee High, nor see thee weep. 
Pope's Version, book vi. line 570. 

For my prophetic soul foiesees a day 
When Ilium, Ilium's jk-oplc, and. himself, 
Her warlike kiir; shall perish. But no grief 
For Ilium, tor her people, for the king 
My warlike sire : nor even for the queen ; 
Nor for the num'rous and the valiant band, 
My brothers, destin'd all to bite the ground, 
So moves me as my grief for thee alone. 
Doom'd then to follow some imperious Greek, 
A weeping captive to the distant shores 
Df Argos ; there to labor at the loom 



For a task-mistress, and with many % sigh, 
But heav'd in vain, to bear the pone' 'rous urn 
From Hypereia's, or Messeis' fount. 
I Fast flow thy tears the while, and as he eyes 
! That silent shower, some passing Greek shall say 
" This was the wife of Hector, who excell'd 
All Troy in fight, when Ilium was besieg'd." 
While thus he speaks thy tears shall flow afresh ; 
The guardian of thy freedom while he liv'd 
Forever lost ; but be my bones inhum'd, 
A senseless store, or e'er thy parting cries 
Shall pierce mine ear, and thou be dragg'd away. 
Cowper's Version, book vi. line 501. 

We add one more specimen, where the 
beauty of the imagery demands the exercise 
of poetic talent. 

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, 
O'er heaven's clear azure sheds her sacred light, 
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene ; 
Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole ; 
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, 
And tip with silver every mountain's head, 
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies.* 

Book viii. line 687. 

As when around the clear bright moon, the 

stars 
Shine in full splendor, and the winds are hush'd, 
The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland 

heights, 
Stand all apparent, not a vapor streaks 
The boundless blue, but ether open'd wide 
All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheer'd. 
Book viii. line 637. 

We leave the reader to form his own de- 
cision as to the relative merits of the two 
translations. Pope evidently produces effect 
by expanding the sentiments and imagery 
of his author ; Cowper invariably adheres 
to the original text. That full justice may 
be rendered to him, it is necessary not 
merely to compare him with Pope, but with 
his great original. 

After these remarks we once more return 
to the correspondence of Cowper. 

TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, June 13, 1791. 

My dear Sir, — I ought to have thanked you 
for your agreeable and entertaining letter 
much sooner, but I have many correspond- 
ents who will not be said nay ; and have 
been obliged of late to give my last atten- 
tions to Homer. The very last indeed, for 
yesterday I despatched to town, after revis- 
ing them carefully, the proof sheets of sub- 
scribers' names, among which I took speciai 

* There is a similar passage in Mickle's "Lusiad," s« 
full of beauty, that we cannot refrain from inserting it : — 
The moon, full orb'd, forsakes her watery cave, 
And lifts her lovely head above the wave ; 
The snowy splendors of her modest ray 
Stream o'er the liquid wave, and glittering play : 
The masts' tall shadows tremble in the deep * 
The peaceful winds a holy silence keep ; 
The watchman's carol, echoed from the prows, 
Alone, at times, disturbs the calm repose. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



37- 



uotice of yours, and am much obliged to you 
for it. We have eontrhed, or rather my 
bookseller and printer have contrived (for 
they have never waited a moment for me) to 
publish as critically at the wrong time, as if 
my whole interest and success had depended 
upon it. March, April, and May, said John- 
son to me in a letter that I received from him 
in February, are the best months for publica- 
tion. Therefore now it is determined that 
Homer shall come out on the first of July; 
that is to say, exactly at the moment when, 
©"urspt a few lawyers, not a creature will be 
left in town who vril* ever care one farthing 
about him. To which of these two friends 
of mine I am indebted for this management, 
I know not. It does not please, but I w^nid 
be a philosopher as well as a poet, and thore- 
fore make no" complaint, or grumble at all 
about it. You, I presume, have had dealings 
with them both — how did they manaav for 
you? And, if as they have for me, how did 
you behave under it? Some who Jo. e ,ne 
complain that I am too passive ; and 1 she. •! 
bt glad of an opportunity to justify myself 
by your example. The fact is, should I thun- 
der ever so loud, no efforts of that sort will 
avail me now ; therefore, like a good econo- 
mist of my bolts, I choose to reserve them 
for more profitable occasions. 

I am glad to find that your amusements 
have been so similar to mine ; for in this in- 
stance too f seemed in need of somebody to 
keep me in countenance, especially in my at- 
tention and attachment to animals. All the 
notice that we lords of the creation vouch- 
safe to bestow on the creatures is generally 
to abuse them ; it is well, therefore, that here 
and there a man should be found a little 
womanish, or perhaps a b'ttle childish, in this 
matter, who will make some amends, by kiss- 
ing and coaxing and laying them in one's 
bosom. You remember the little ewe lamb, 
mentioned by the prophet Nathan ; the pro- 
phet perhaps invented the tale for the sake 
of its application to David's conscience; but 
it is more probable that God inspired him 
with it for that purpose. If he did, it a mounts 
to a proof, that he does not overlook, but, on 
the contrary, much notices such little partial- 
ities and kindnesses to his dumb creatures, 
as we, because we articulate, are pleased to 
call them. 

Your sisters are fitter to judge than I, whe- 
ther assembly-rooms are the places, of all 
others, in which the ladies may be studied to 
most advantage. I am an old fellow, but I 
had once my dancing days as you have now, 
yet I could never find that I learned half so 
much c f a woman's real character by dancing 
with hei as by conversing with her at home, 
where I could observe her behavior at the 
la^ie- at the fire-side, and in all the trying 
ore aaistanees of domestic life. We are all 



good when we are pleased, but she is the 
good woman who wants not a fiddle to 
sweeten her. If T am wrong, the young 
ladies will set me right; in the meantime I 
will not tease, you with graver arguments on 
the subject, especially as I have a hope, that 
years, and the study of the Scripture, and 
His Spirit whose word it is, will, in due 
time, bring you to" my way of thinking. I 
am not one of those sages who require that 
young men should be as old as themselves 
before they have time to be so. 

With my love to your fair sisters, I remain, 
Dear Sir, most truly yours, 

W. C. 



TO SAMCJEL ROSE, ESQ, 

The Lodge, June 15, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — If it will afford you any 
comfort that you have a share in my affec 
tions, of that comfort you may avail yourself 
at all times. You have acquired it by means 
which, unless I should have become worth- 
less myself to an uncommon degree, will al- 
ways secure you from the loss of it. You 
are learning what all learn, though few at so 
early an age, that man is an ungrateful ani- 
mal ; and that benefits, too often, instead of 
securing a due return, operate rather as prov- 
ocations to ill-treatment. This I take to be 
the summum malum of the human heart. 
Towards God we are all guilty of it more or 
less ; but between man and man, we may 
thank God for it, there are some exceptions, 
He leaves this peccant principle to operate, 
in some degree against himself, in all, for our 
humiliation, I suppose; and because the per- 
nicious effects of it in reality cannot injure 
him, he cannot suffer by them ; but he know r s 
that, unless he should retain its influence on 
the dealings of mankind with each other, the 
bonds of society would be dissolved, and all 
charitable intercourse at an end amongst us. 
It was said of Archbishop Cranmer, " Do hita 
an ill turn, and you make him your friend 
forever :" of others it may be said, " Do them 
a good one, and they will be forever your 
enemies.'''' It is the grace of God only that 
makes the difference. 

The absence of Homer (for we have now 
shaken hands and parted) is well supplied by 
three relations of mine from Norfolk — my 
cousin Johnson, an aunt of his,* and his sis- 
ter.f I love them all dearly, and am well 
content to resign to them the place in my 
attentions so lately occupied by the chiefs 
of Greece and Troy. His aunt and I have 
spent many a merry da/ together, when we 
were some forty years younger; and we 
make shift to be merry together still. His 
sister is a sweet young woman, graceful 



* Mrs. Bodham. 



t Mrs. Hewitt. 



i76 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



good-natured, and gentle, just what I had 
imagined her to be before I had seen her.* 
Farewell, W. C. 



TO DR. JAMES COGSWELL, NEW YORK. 

Weston-Underwood, near Olney, Bucks, 
June 15, 1791. 

Dear Sir, — Your letter and obliging pres- 
ent from so great a distance deserved a 
speedier acknowledgment, and should not 
have wanted one so long, had not circum- 
l stances so fallen out since I received them 
as to make it impossible for me to write 
sooner. It is indeed within this day or two 
that I have heard how, by the help of my 
hookseller, I may transmit an answer to you. 

My title-rpage, as it well might, misled yon. 
It speaks me of the Inner Temple ; and so I 
am, but a member of that society only, not 
as an inhabitant. I live here almost at the 
distance of sixty miles from London, which 
L have not visited these eight-and-twenty 
years, and probably never shall again. Thus 
it fell out that Mr. Morewood had sailed 
again for America before your parcel reached 
me, nor should I (it is likely) have received 
it at all, had not a cousin of mine, who Jives 
in the Temple, by good fortune received it 
first, and opened your letter; finding for 
whom it was intended, he transmitted to me 
both that and the parcel. Your testimony 
of approbation of what I have published, 
coming from another quarter of the globe, 
could not but be exceedingly flattering, as 
was your obliging notice that " The Task" 
had been reprinted in your city. Both vol- 
umes, I hope, have a tendency to discounte- 
nance vice, and promote the best interests 
of mankind. But how far they shall be ef- 
fectual to these invaluable purposes depends 
altogether on His blessing, whose truths I 
have endeavored to inculcate. In the mean- 
time I have sufficient proof, that readers may 
be pleased, may approve, and yet lay down 
the book unedihed. 

During the last five years I have been oc- 
cupied with a work of a very different na- 
ture, a translation of the Iliad and Odyssey 
into blank verse, and the work is now ready 
for publication. I undertook it, partly be- 
cause Pope's is too lax a version, which has 
lately occasioned the learned of tins country 
to call aloud for a new one ; and partly be- 
cause I could fall on no better expedient to 
amuse a mind too much addicted to melan- 
choly. * 

I send you, in return for the volumes with 
which you favored me, three on religious sub- 
jects, popular productions that have not been 

* Mrs. Hewitt fully merited this description. She de- 
parted a few years before her brother, the late Dr, John- 
son. Their remains lie in the same vault, at Yaxham, 
lear Dereham, Norfolk. 



long published, and that may not therefor* 
yet have reached your country : " The Chris, 
tian Officer's Panoply, by a marine officer"—* 
" The Importance of the Manners of the 
Great," and "An Estimate of the Religion 
of the Fashionable World." The two kist 
are said to be written by a lady, Miss Han- 
nah More, and are universally read by people 
of that rank to which she addresses them. 
Your manners, I suppose, may be more pure 
than ours, yet it is not unlikely that even 
among you may be found some to whom hei 
strictures are applicable. I return you my 
thanks, sir, for the volumes you sent me, two 
of which I have read with pleasure, Mr. Ed- 
wards's* book, and the Conquest of Canaan. 
Tin- rest I have not had time to read, except 
j Di\ iHvight's Sermon, which pleased me al- 
most more than any that I have either seen 
or heard. 

I shall account a correspondence with you 
an honor, and remain, dear sir, 

Your obliged and obedient servant, 

w. c. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. f 

Weston, June 24, 1791. 

Ix, iear Friend, — Considering the multi 
plicity of your engagements, and the impor- 
tance, no doubt, of most of them, I am bound 
to set the higher value on your letters, and, 
instead of grumbling that they come seldom, 
to be thankful to you that they come at all. 
You are now going into the country, where, 
I presume, you will have less to do, and I am 
rid of Homer. Let us try, therefore, if, in 
tin- interval between the present hour and 
the next busy season (for I, too, if I live, 
shall probably be occupied again), we can 
continue to exchange letters more frequently 
than for some time past. 

You do justice to me and Mrs. Unwin, 
when you assure yourself that to hear of 
your health will give us pleasure : I know 
not, in truth, whose health and well-being 
could give us more. The years that we have 
seen together will never be out of our remem- 
brance ; and, so long as we remember them, 
we must remember you with affection. In 
the pulpit, and out of ihe pulpit, you have la 
bored in every possible way to serve us ; and 
we must have a short memory indeed for the 
kindness of a friend, could we by any means 
become forgetful of yours. It would grieve 
me more than it does to hear you complain 
of the effects of time, were not I also myself 
the subject of them. While he is wearing 
out you and other dear friends of mine, he 
spares not me ; for which I ought to account 

* The celebrated American Edwards, well known fo/ 
his two great works on "The Freedom of the Humai 
Will," and on " Religious Affections." Dr. Dwighfs Ser 
mons are a body of sound and excellent theology. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



371 



myself obliged to him, since I should other- 
wise be in danger of surviving all that 1 have 
ever loved — the most melancholy lot that can 
befall a mortal. God knows what will be 
my doom hereafter ; but precious as life nec- 
essarily seems to a mind doubtful of its fu- 
ture happiness, I love not the world, I trust, 
so much as to wish a place in it when all my 
? cloved shall have left it. 

Yok speak* of your late loss in a manner 
that affected me much; and when I read that 
[.art of your 'letter, I mourned with you and 
for you. But surely, I said to myself, noi 
man had ever less reason to charge his con- 
duct to a wife with anything blameworthy. 
Thoughts of that complexion, however, are 
no doubt extremely natural on the occasion 
of such a loss ; and a man seems not to have 
valued sufficiently, when he possesses it no 
longer, what, while he possessed it, he valued 
more than life. I am mistaken, too, or you 
can recollect a timr when you kid fears, and 
such as became a Christian, of loving too 
much; and it is likely that you have even 
prayed to be preserved from doing so. I 
suggest this to you as a plea against those 
self-accusations, which I am satisfied that you 
do not reserve, and as an effectual answer 
to them all. Y^u Biay do well too to con- 
sider, that had the deceased been the survivor 
she would have char^-d herself in the same 
manner, and, I am sure you will acknowledge, 
without any sufficient reason. The truth is, 
that you both loved at least as much as you 
ought, and, I dare say, had not a friend in the 
world who did not frequently observe it. 
To love just enough, and not a bit too much, 
is not for creatures who can do nothing well. 
If we fail in duties less arduous, how should 
we succeed in this, the most arduous of all ? 

I am glad to learn from yourself that you 
aie about to quit a scene that probably keeps 
your tender recollections too much alive. 
Another place and other company may have 
their uses; and, while your church is under- 
going repair, its minister may be repaired 
a'so. 

As to Homer, I am sensible that, except as 
an amusement, he was never worth my med- 
dling with ; but, as an amusement, he was to 
ree invaluable. As such he served me more 
than five years ; and, in that respect, I know 
net where I shall find his equal. You oblige 
me by saying, that you will read him for my 
sake. I verily think that any person of a 
spiritual turn may read him to some advan- 
tage. He may suggest reflections that may 
cot be unserviceable even in a sermon ; for I 
Irncw not whert v/e can find more striking 
ixemplars of the pride, the arrogance, and 
the insignificance of man; at the srjne time 
(hat, by ascribing all events to a divine inter- 
oosi'i; , he indicate 3 constantly the belief of 
t pr j vidence ; insists much on the duty of 



charity towards the poor and the stranger 
on the respect that is due to superiors, an$ 
to our seniors in particular; and on the ex« 
pedience and necessity of prayer and piety 
toward the gods, a piety mistaken, indeed, in 
its object, but exemplary for the punctuality 
of its performance. Thousands, who will 
not learn from scripture to ask a blessing 
either on their actions or on their food, may 
learn it, if they please, from Homer. 

My Norfolk cousins are now with us. We 
are both as, well as usual; and with our af- 
fectionate remembrances to Miss Catlett, 
I remain sincerely yours, W. C. 



We are indebted to the kindness of a friend 
for the following letter : — 

TO MRS. BODHAM, SOUTH GREEN, MATTISHALL, 
NORFOLK. 
Weston-Underwood, July 7, 1791. 

My dearest Cousin, — Most true it is, how- 
ever strange, that on the 25th of last month 
I wrole you a long letter, and verily thought 
I sent it; but, opening my desk the day 
before yesterday, there I found it. Such a 
memory have I — a good one never, but at 
present worse than usual, my head being 
filled with the cares of publication,* and the 
bargain that I am making with my book- 
seller. 

I am sorry that through this forgetfulness 
of mi tie you were disappointed, otherwise 
should not at all regret that my letter never 
reached you ; for it consisted principally of 
such reasons as I could muster to induce you 
to consent to a favorite measure to which you 
have consented without them. Your kind- 
ness and self-denying disinterestedness on 
this occasion have endeared you to us all, if 
possible, still the more, and are truly worthy 
of the Rosef that used to sit smiling on my 
knee, I will not say how many years ago. 

Make no apologies, my dear, that thou 
dost not write more frequently ; — write when 
thou canst, and I shall be satisfied. I am 
sensible, as I believe I have already told you, 
that there is an awkwardness in writing to 
those with whom we have hardly ever con- 
versed ; in consideration of which, I feel my 
self not a»t all inclined either to wonder at or 
to blame your silence. At the same time, be 
it known to you, that you must not take en. 
couragement from this my great moderation, 
lest, disuse increasing the labor, you shoula 
at last write not at all. 

That I should visit Norfolk at present is 
not possible. I have heretofore pleaded my 
engagement to Homer as the ~eason, and a 
reason it was, while it subsisted, that was ah 

* The publication of the translation of Homer. 

t The name he gave to Mrs. Bodham when a chile* . 



87b 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



solutely insurmountable. But there are still 
other impediments, which it would neither be 
pleasant to me to relate, nor to you to know, 
and which could not well be comprised in a 
letter. Let it suffice for me to say that, could 
they be imparted, you would admit the force 
jf them. It shall be our mutual consolation, 
that, if we cannot meet at Mattishall, at least 
we may meet at Weston, and that we shall 
meet here with double satisfaction, being now 
so numerous. 

Your sister is well ; Kitty,* I think, better 
than when she came ; and Johnnyf ails 
nothing, except that if he eat a little more 
supper than usual, he is apt to be riotous in 
his sleep. We have an excellent physician 
at Northampton, whom our dear Catharine 
wishes to consult, and I have recommended 
it to Johnny to consult him at the same time. 
His nocturnal ailment is, I dare say, within 
the reach of medical advice ; and, because it 
may happen some time or other to be very 
hurtful to him, I heartily wish him cured of 
it. Light suppers and early rising perhaps 
might alone be effectual — but the latter is a 
difficulty that threatens not to be easily sur- 
mounted. 

We are all of one mind respecting you ; 
therefore I send the love of all, though I 
shall see none of the party till breakfast calls 
us together. Great preparation is making in 
the empty house. The spiders have no rest, 
and hardly a web is to be seen where lately 
there were thousands. 

I am, my dearest cousin, with the best re- 
spects to Mr. Bodham, most affectionate ty 
yours, W. C. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J 

Weston, July 22, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — I did not foresee, when I 
challenged you to a brisker correspondence, 
that a new engagement of all my leisure was 
at hand : a new and yet an old one. An in- 
terleaved copy of my Homer arrived soon, 
after from Johnson, in which he recom- 
mended it to me to make any alterations 
that might yet be expedient, with a view to 
another impression. The alterations that T 
make are indeed but few, and they are also 
short ; not more, perhaps, than half a line in 
two thousand. But the lines are, I suppose, 
nearly forty thousand in all, and to revise 
them critically must consequently be a work 
of labor. I suspend it, however, for your 
sake, till the present sheet be filled, and that 
I may not seem to shrink from my own 
offer. 

Mr. Bean has told me that he saw you at 
Bedford, and gave us your reasons for not 
toming our way. It is well, so far as your 

* Miss Johnson, afterwards Mrs. Hewitt. 

t Mr. Johnson. 

i Private correspondence. 



own comfortable lodging and our gratifica- 
tion were concerned, that you did not ; for 
our house is- brimful, as it has been all the, 
summer, with my relations from Norfolk. 
We should all have been mortified, both you 
and we, had you been obliged, as you must 
have been, to seek a residence elsewhere. 

I am sorry that Mr. Venn's* labors below 
are so near to a conclusion, I have seen 
few men who m I could have hwed more, hud 
opportunity been given nio to know him 
better. So, at least, I have thought as often 
as I have seen him. But when J saw him 
last, which is some years since, ru:. appeared 
then so much broken that I could not have 
imagined that he would last so long 1 . Were 
I capable of envying, in the strict sense of 
the word, a good man, I should envy him. 
and Mr. Berridge,f and yourself, who have 
spent,, and while they last, will continue tc 
spend, your lives in the service of the only 
Master worth serving; laboring always fcr 
the souls of men, and not to tickle their ears, 
as I do. But this I can say — God knows 
how much rather I would be the obscure 
tenant of a lath-and-plaster cottage, with a 
lively sense of my interest in a Redeemer, 
than the most admired object of public no- 
tice without it. Alas! what is a whole 
poem, even one of Homer's, compared with 
a single aspiration that finds its way imme- 
diately to God, though clothed in ordinary 
language, or perhaps not articulated at all ! 
These are my sentiments as much as ever 
they were, though my days are all running 
to waste among Greeks and Trojans. The 
night cometh when no man can work; and, 
if I am ordained to work to better purpose, 
that desirable period cannot be very distant. 
My day is beginning to shut in, as every 
man's must who is on the verge of sixty. 

All the leisure that 1 have had of late foi 
thinking, ha^ been given to the riots at Bir 
mingham. What a horrid zeal for the <ahurch 
and what a horrid loyalty to government 
have manifested themselves there ! Hov, 
little do they dream .that they could not hav« 
dishonored their idol, the Establishment 
more, and that the great Bishop of soul? 
himself with abhorrence rejects their ser- 
vice ! But I have not time to enlarge , 
breakfast calls me ; and all my post-break- 
fast time must be given to poetry. Adieu 
Most truly yours, W. C. 

* The Rev. Henry Venn, successively vicar of Hug 
dersfleld, Yorkshire, and rector of Yelling, Huntingdon- 
shire, eminent for his piety and usefulness. He was the 
author of "The Complete Duty of Man," the design oi 
which was to correct the deficiencies so justly imputable 
to " The Whole Duty of Man," by laying the foundation 
of moral duties in the principles inculcated by the gos- 
pel. There is an interesting and vabiiible memoir of this 
excellent man, edited by the Eev. Henry Venn, B.D., hia 
grandson, which we recommend to the notice of the 
reader. 

t Mr. Eerridge was vicar of Everton, Beds; a moaJ 
zealous and pious minister. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



37% 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, August 2, 1791. 

My oear friend,— I was much obliged, and 
•-.tili feci nyself much obliged, to Lady Bagot 
'or the visit with which she favored me. 
Had it beer, possible that I could have seen 
Lord Bagot too, I should have teen com- 
pletely happy. Fcr, as it happened, I was 
that, morning in better spirits than usual, 
md, though I arrived late, and after a long 
walk, and extremely hot, which is a circum- 
stance very apt to disconcert me, yet I was 
not disconcerted half so much as I generally 
.am at the sight of a stranger, especially of a 
stranger lady, and more especially at the 
sight of a fctmnger lady of quality. When 
the servant told me that Lady Bagot was in 
the parlor, I felt ray spirits •> k ten degrees; 
but, the moment i saw her, at least, when I 
had been a minute in her company, I felt 
them rise again, and they soon rose . even 
above their former pitch. I know two ladies 
of fashion now whose manners have this 
effect upon me, the lady in question and the 
Lady Spencer. I am a shy animal, and want 
much kindness to make me easy. Such I 
shall be to my dying day. 

Here sit 7, calling myself shy, yet have 
just published by the bye, two great volumes 
of poetry. 

This reminds me of Ranger's observation 
in the " Suspicious Husband," who says to 
somebody, I forget whom, " There is a de- 
gree of assurance in you modest men thai we 
impudent fellows can never arrive at? — As- 
surance, indeed ! Have you seen 'em ? What 
do you think they are ? Nothing less, I can 
tell you, than a translation of Homer, of the 
sublimest poet in the world. That's all. 
Can I ever have the impudence to call my- 
self shy again \ 

You live, I think, in the neighborhood of 
Birmingham. What must you not have felt 
on the late alarming occasion ! You, I sup- 
pose, could see the fires from your windows. 
We, who only heard the news of them, have 
trembled. Never sure was religious zeal 
more terribly manifested or more to the 
prejudice of its own cause.* 

Adieu, my dear friend. I am," with Mrs. 
Unwin's best compliments, 

Ever yours, 

W. C. 



* The riots at Birmingham originated in the imprudent 
seal of Dr. Priestley, and his adherents, the Unitarian dis- 
senters, who assembled together at a public dinner, to 
commemorate the events of the French revolution. 
Toasts were given of an inflammatory tendency, and 
handbills were previously circulated of a similar charac- 
ter. The town of Birmingham being distinguished for 
its loyalty, became deeply excited by these acts. The 
mob collected in great multitudes, and proceeded to the 
house of Dr. Priestley, which they destroyed with fire. 
All his valuable philosophical apparatus and manu- 
scripts perished on this occasion. We concur with Cow- 
•*-- in lamenting such outrages. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Weston, Au.j. 4, 1791. 

My dear Madam, — Your last letter, which 
gave us so unfavorable an account of youi 
health, and which did not speak much mort 
comfortably of Mr. King's, affected us with 
much concern. Of Dr. Raitt we may say, 
in the words of Milton, 

" His long experience did attain 
To something like prophetic strain;" 

for as he foretold to you, so he foretold to 
Mrs. Unwin, that, though her disorders might 
not much threaten life, they would yet cleave 
to her to the last ; and she and perfect health 
must ever be strangers to each other. Such 
was his prediction, and it has been hitherto 
accomplished. Either, headache or pain in the 
side has been her constant companion ever 
since we had the pleasure of seeing you. As 
for myself, I cannot properly say that I enjoy 
a good/ state of health, though in general I have 
it, because I have it accompanied with fre- 
quent fits of dejection, to which less health 
and better spirits would, perhaps, be infinitely 
preferable. But it pleased God that I should 
be born in a country where melancholy is 
the national characteristic. To say the truth, 
I have often wished myself a Frenchman. 

N. B. I write this in very good spirits. 

You gave us so little hope in your last 
that we should have your company this sum- 
mer at Weston, that to repeat our invitation 
seems almost like teasing you. 1 will only 
say, therefore, that, my Norfolk friends hav- 
ing left us, of whose expected arrival here J 
believe I told you in a former letter, we 
should be happy could you succeed them. 
We now, indeed, expect Lady Hesketh, but 
not immediately : she seldom sees Weston 
till all its summer beauties are fled, and red, 
brown, and yellow, have supplanted the uni- 
versal verdure. 

My Homer is gone forth, and I can de- 
voutly say, " Joy go with it !" What place 
it holds in the estimation of the generality I 
cannot tell, having heard no more about it 
since its publication than if no such work 
existed. I must except, however, an anony- 
mous eulogium from some man of letters, 
which I received about a week ago. It was 
kind in a perfect stranger, as he avows him- 
self to be, to relieve me, at so early a day, 
from much of the anxiety that I could not 
but feel on such an occasion. I should be 
glad *o know who ne is, only that I might 
thanit him. 

Mrs. Unwin, who is at this moment come 
down to breakfast, joins me in affectionate 
compliments to yourself and Mr. King ; and 
I am, my dear madam, 

Most sincerely yours, W. C. 

* Private correspondence. 



180 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, August 9, 1791. 

My dear Sir, — I never make a correspond- 
ent wait for an answer through idleness, or 
want of proper respect for him ; but if I am 
silent it is because I am busy, or not well, 
or' because I stay till something occur that 
may make my letter at least a little better 
than mere blank paper. I therefore write 
speedily in reply to yours, being at present 
neither much occupied, nor at all indisposed, 
nor forbidden by a dearth of materials. 

I wish always, when I have a new piece in 
hand, to be as secret as you, and there was a 
time when I could be so. Then I lived the 
life of a solitary, was not visited by a single 
neighbor, because I had none with whom I 
could associate ; nor ever had an inmate. 
This was when I dwelt at Olney ; but since 
I have removed to Weston the case is differ- 
ent. Here I am visited by all around me, 
and study in a room exposed to all manner of 
inroads. It is on the ground floor, the room 
in which we dine, and in which I am sure to 
be found by all who seek me. They find 
me generally at my desk, and with my work, 
whatever it be, before me, unless perhaps I 
have conjured it into its hiding-place before 
they have had time to enter. This, however, 
is not always the case ; and, consequently, 
sooner or later, 1 cannot fail to be detected. 
Possibly you, who I suppose have a snug 
study, would find it impracticable to attend 
to anything closely in an apartment exposed 
as mine, but use has made it familiar to me, 
and so familiar, that neither servants going 
and coming disconcert me ; nor even if a 
lady, with an oblique glance of her eye, 
catches two or three lines of my MSS., do I 
feel myself inclined to blush, though natu- 
rally the shyest of mankind. 

You did well, I believe, to cashier the sub- 
ject of which you gave me a recital. It cer- 
tainly wants those agremens which are nec- 
essary to the success of any subject in verse. 
It is a curious story, and so far as the poor 
young lady was concerned a very affecting 
one ; but there is a coarseness in the char- 
acter of the hero that would have spoiled all. 
In fact, I find it myself a much easier matter 
to write, than to get a convenient theme to 
write on. 

I am obliged to you for comparing me as 
you go both with Pope and with Homer. It 
is impossible in any other way of manage- 
ment to know whether the translation be well 
executed or not, and if well, in what degree. 
It was in the course of such a process that I 
irst became dissatisfied with Pope. More 
than thirty years since, and when I was a 
young Templar, I accompanied him with his 
original, line by line, through both poems. 
A fellow student of mine, a person of fine 
classical taste, joined himself with me in the 



labor. We were neither of us, as you may 
imagine, very diligent in our proper business. 

I shall be glad if my reviewers, whosoevei 
they may be, will be at the pains to read me 
as you do. I want no praise' that I .*m no« 
entitled to, but of that to which I am entitled 
I should be loath to lose a tittle, 'fiaving 
worked hard to earn it 

I would heartily second the Bishop of 
Salisbury* in recommending to you a close 
pursuit of your Hebrew studies, wers it not 
that I wish you to publish what I may un- 
derstand. Do both, and I shall be satisfied. 

Your remarks, if I may b>:t receive thcin 
soon enough to serve me in case o* a new 
edition, will be extremelv welcome 

W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Aug. 9, 1791. 
My dearest Johnny, — The little that I have 
heard about Homer myself has been equally 

or more flattering than Dr. 's intelligence, 

so that I have good reason to hope that I 
have not studied the old Grecian, and how to 
dress him, so long and so intensely, to nc 
purpose. At present I am idle, both on ac- 
count of my eyes and because I know not tc 
what to attach myself in particular. Many 
different plans and projects are recommended 
to .me. Some call aloud for original verse^ 
others for more translation, and others for 
other things. Providence, I hope, will direct 
me in my choice, for other guide I have none, 
nor wish for another. 

God bless you, my dearest Johnny, 

W. C. 

The active mind of Cowper, and the neces- 
sity of mental exertion, in order to arrest the 
terrible incursions of his depressing malady 
soon led him to contract a new literary en- 
gagement. A splendid edition of Milton was 
at that time contemplated, intended to rival 
the celebrated Shakspeare of Boydell ; and to 
combine all the adventitious aid that editorial 
talent, the professional skill of a most dis- 
tinguished artist, ani the utmost embellish- 
ment of type could command, to ensure suc- 
cess. Johnson, the bookseller, invited the 
co-operation of C jwper, in the responsible 
office of Editor. For such an undertaking he 
was unquestiona 1 ly qualified, by his refined 
critical taste and discernment, and by his pro- 
found veneration for this first 0i modern epic 
poets. Cowper readily entered into this pro- 
ject, and by his admirable translations of the 
Latin and Italian poems of Milton, justly 
added to the fame which he had already ac- 
quired. But to those who know how to ap- 
preciate his poetic powers, and his noble 
ardor in proclaiming the most important 
■ Dr. Douglas. 



truths, it must ever be a source of unfeigned 
regret that the hours given to translation, 
and especially to Homer, were not dedicated 
to the composition of some original work. 
Who would not have hailed with delight 
another poem, rivalling all the beauties and 
moral excellences of "The Task," and en- 
dearing to the mind, with still higher claims, 
the sweet poet of nature, and the graceful 
yet sublime teacher of heavenly truth and 
wisdom 1 



Ihe grief is this — that, sunk in Homer's mine, 
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail, 

Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 
Proves dross when halanc'd in the Christian 



It was this literary engagement that first 
laid the foundation of that intercourse, which 
commenced at this time between Cowper and 
Hayley ; an intercourse which seems to have 
ripened into subsequent habits of friendship. 
As their names have been so much associated 
together, and Hayley eventually became the 
poet's biographer, we shall record the cir- 
cumstances of the origin of their intimacy in 
Hayley's own words. 

"As it is to Milton that. I am in a great 
measure indebted for what I must ever regard 
as a signal blessing, the friendship of Cow- 
per, the reader will pardon me for dwelling 
a little on the circumstances that produced it ; 
circumstances which often lead me to repeat 
those sweet verses of my friend, on the 
casual origin of our most valuable attach- 
ments : 

' Mysterious are his ways, whose power. 
Brings forth that unexpected hour, 
When minds that never met before, 
Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
It is th' allotment of the skies, 
The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
That guides and governs our affections, 
.And plans and orders our connexions.' 

These charming verses strike with peculiar 
force on my heart, when I recollect, that it 
was an idle endeavor to make us enemies 
»*7 1 ! i kh gave rise to our intimacy, and that I 
* c .n providentially conducted to Weston at a 
sea --on when my presence there afforded pe- 
2uJi.ir comfort to my affectionate friend under 
the pressure of a domestic affliction, which 
threatened to overwhelm his very tender 
•♦pints.* 

" Tho entreaty of many persons, whom I 
wished to oblige, had engaged me to write a 
Life of Milton, before I had the slightest 
suspicion that my work could interfere with 
'.he projects of any man ; but I was soon sur- 
prised and concerned in hearing that I was 

* Se*t verses addressed to John Johnson, Esq. 
T An alarming attack with which Mrs. Unwin was 
Suited. 



represented in a newspaper as an antagonist 
of Cowper. 

" I immediately wrote to him on the subject, 
and our correspondence soon endeared us to 
each other in no common degree." 

We gave credit to Hayley for. the kind and 
amiable spirit which he manifested on this 
delicate occasion ; and for the address with 
which he converted an apparent collision of 
interests' into a magnanimous triumph of lit- 
erary and courteous feeling. 



The succeeding letters will be found to 
contain frequent allusions both to his past 
and newly contracted engagement. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Sept. 14, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — Whoever reviews me wil 
in fact have a laborious task of it, in the per 
formance of which he ought to move leisurely 
and to exercise much critical discernment. 
In the meantime, my courage is kept up by 
the arrival of such testimonies in my favor as 
give me the greatest pleasure ; coming from 
quarters the most respectable. I have reason, 
therefore, to hope that our periodical judges 
will not be very averse to me, and that per 
haps they may even favor me. If one man of 
taste and letters is pleased, another man so 
qualified can hardly be displeased; and if 
critics of a different description grumble, they 
will not however materially hurt me. 

You, who know how necessary it is to me 
to be employed, will be glad to hear that 1 
have been 'called to a new literary engage- 
ment, and that I have not refused it. A Mil- 
toil, that is to rival, and, if possible, to exceed 
in splendor, Boydell's Shakspeare, is in con- 
templation, and I am in the editor's office. 
Fuseli is the painter. My business will be to 
select notes from others, and to write original 
notes ; to translate the Latin and Italian 
poems, and to give a correct text. I shall 
have vears allowed me to do it in. 

w. a 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Sept. 21, 1791. 
My dear Friend, — Of all the testimonies in 
favor of my Homer that I have received, none 
has given me so sincere a pleasure as that of 
Lord Bagot. It is an unmixed pleasure, ^id 
without a drawback ; because I know him tc 
be perfectly, and in all respects, whether eru- 
dition or a fine taste be in question, so well 
qualified to judge me, that I can neither ex 
pect nor wish a sentence more valuable thai 
his — 

sht6k' avrpli 

'Ef crrfidtffoi [itvti, kou pot $i\a yovvar 1 dpwpcu 



882 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



I hope by this time you have received your 
rolumes, and are prepared to second the ap- 
plauses of your brother — else, woe be to you ! 
I wrote to Johnson immediately on the receipt 
of your last, giving him a strict injunction to 
despatch them to you without delay. He had 
sold some time since a hundred of the unsub- 
scribed-for copies. 

I have not a history in the world except 
Baker's Chronicle, and that I borrowed three 
years ago from Mr. Throckmorton. Now the 
case is this : I am translating Milton's third 
Elegy — his Elegy on the death of the Bishop 
of Winchester.* He begins it with saying, 
that, while he was sitting alone, dejected, and 
musing on many melancholy themes, first, the 
idea of the Plague presented itself to his mind, 
and of the havoc made by it among th*e great. 
Then he proceeds -thus : 

Turn memini clarique ducis, fratrisque verendi 

Intempestivis ossa cremata rogis : 
Et memini Heroum quos vidit ad sethera raptos ; 

Flevit et amissos Belgia tota duces. 

I cannot learn from my only oracle, Baker, 
who this famous leader and his reverend 
brother were. Nor does he at all ascertain 
"or me the event alluded to in the second of 
these couplets. I am not yet possessed of 
Warton, who probably explains it, nor can 
be for a month to come. Consult him for 
me if you have him, or, if you have him not, 
consult some other. Or you may find the 
intelligence perhaps in your own budget ; no 
matter how you come by it, only send it to 
me if you can, and as soon as you can, for I 
nate to leave unsolved difficulties behind me.f 
In the first year of Charles the First, Milton 
was seventeen years of age, and then wrote 
this elegy. The period therefore to which I 
would refer you, is the two or three last 
years of James the First. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. KING.J 

Weston, Sept. 23, 179 J. 
Dear Sir, — We are truly concerned at your 
account of Mrs. King's severe indisposition ; 
and, though you had no better news to tell 
us, are much obliged to you for writing to 
inform us of it, and to Mrs. King for desir- 
ing you to do it. We take a lively interest 
in what concerns her. I should never have 
asqfibed her silence to neglect, had she nei- 
ther written to me herself nor commissioned 

* Moestus eram, et tacitus nullo comitante sedebam, 
Haerebantque animo tristia plura meo : &c. &c. 

t Warton informs us that the distinguished brothers 
alluded to in Milton's elegy are the Duke of Brunswick 
•uid Count Mansfelt, who fell in the war of the Palatinate, 
jhat fruitful scene of warlike operations. The two latter 
are the Earls of Oxford and Southampton, who died at 
the siege of Breda, in the year 1625. 

} Private correspondence. 



you to write for her. I had, indeed, for som 
time expected a letter from her by ever} 
post, but accounted for my continual disap- 
pointment by supposing her at Edgeware, to 
which place she intended a visit, as she tola 
me long since, and hoped that she w >uld 
write immediately on her return. 

Her sufferings will be felt here till we 
learn that they are removed ; for which rea- 
son we shall be much obliged by the earliest 
notice of her recovery, which we most sin- 
cerely wish, if it please God, and which will 
not fail to be a constant subject of pn-yei at 
Woston. 

*I beg you, sir, to jxesent Mrs. Ucvin's 
and my affectionate remembrances t Mrs. 
King, in which you arc equally & partaker, 
and to believe me, with tnu 6siee.r and 
much sincerity, 

Yours, W. 0. 



to mrs. znw "* 

Weston, Oct. 21, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — You could not have sent 
me more agreeable »*:.ws than that of your 
better health, and T am greatly obliged to you 
for making me the first of your correspond* 
ents to whom you have given that welcome 
intelligence. This is a favor which I should 
have acknowledged much sooner, had not a 
disorder in my eyes, to which I have always 
been extremely subject, required that I should 
make as little use of my pen as possible. T 
felt much for you, when I read that part of 
your letter in which you mention your visit- 
ors, and the fatigue which, indisposed as you 
have been, they could not foil to occasion 
you. Agreeable as you would have found 
them at another time, and happy as you 
would have been in their company, you could 
not but feel the addition they necessarily 
made to your domestic attentions as a 
considerable inconvenience. But I have al- 
ways said, and shall never say otherwise, that 
if patience under adversity, and submission 
to the afflicting- hand of God, be true forti- 
tude — which no reasonable person can den;.' 
— then your sex have ten times more tru* 
fortitude to boast than ours ; and 1 have not 
the least doubt that you carried yourself with 
infinitely more equanimity on that occasion 
than I should have done, or any he of my 
acquaintance. Why is it, since the fir^t of- 
fender on earth was a woman, that the women 
are nevertheless, in all the most important 
points, superior to the men ? That they are 
so I will not allow to be disputed, having ol 
served it ever since I was capable of making 
the )bservation. I believe, on recollection 
that, when I had the happiness to see yon 
here we agitated this question a little ; but I 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



38S 



do not remember that we arrived at any de- 
cision of it. The scripture calls you the 
weaker vessels ; and perhaps the best solution 
of the difficulty, therefore, may be found in 
those other words of Scripture — My strength 
is perfected in weakness. Unless you can 
furnish me with a better key than this, I 
shall be much inclined to believe that I have 
found the true one. 

I am deep in a new literary engagement, 
being retained by my bookseller as editor of 
an intended most magnificent publication of 
Milton's Poetical Works. This will occupy 
me as much as Homer did for a year or two 
to come ; and when I have finished it, I shall 
have run through all the degrees of my pro- 
fession, as author, translator, and editor. 
I know not that a fourth could be found ; 
but if a fourth can be found, I dare say I 
shall find it. 

I remain, my dear madam, your affec- 
tionate friend and humble servant, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Oct. 25,1791. 
My dear Friend, — Your unexpected and 
transient visit, like everything else that is 
past, has now the appearance of a dream, but 
it was a pleasant one, and I heartily wish that 
Buch dreams could recur more frequently. 
Your brother Chester repeated his visit yes- 
terday, and I never saw him in better spirits. 
At such times he has, now and then, the very 
look that he had when he was a boy, and 
when I see it I seem to be a boy myself, and 
entirely forget fur a short moment the years 
that have intervened since I was one. The 
look that I mean is one that you, I dare say, 
have observed. — Then we are at Westminster 
again. He left with me that poem of your 
brother Lord Bagot's which was mentioned 
when you were her^. It was a treat tome, 
and I read it to my cousin Lady. »Hesketh 
and to Mrs. Unwin, to whom it was a treat 
also. It has great sweetness of numbers 
and much elegance of ev ression, and is just 
such a poem as I should be happy to have 
composed myself about a year ago, when- 1 
was loudly called upon by a certain noble- 
man* to celebrate the beauties of his villa. 
But 1 had two insurmountable difficulties to 
contend with. One was that I had never 
seen his villa, and the other, that I had no 
eyes at that time for anything but Homer. 
Should 1 at any time hereafter undertake the 
task, I shall now at least know how to go 
about it, which, till I had seen Lord Bagot's 
poem, I verily did not. I was particularly 
charmed with the parody of those beautiful 
lines of Milton : 

* Lord B'agot. 



** The song was partial, but the harmony 

("What could it less, when spirits immortal sing 1) 
Suspended hell, and took with ravishment 
The thronging audience." 

There's a parenthesis for you ! The paren- 
thesis it seems is out of fashion, and perhaps 
the moderns are in the right to proscribe 
what they cannot attain to. I will answer 
for it that had we the art at this day of in- 
sinuating a sentiment in this graceful man 
ner, no reader of taste would quarrel with 
the practice. Lord Bagot showed his by 
selecting the passage for his imitation. 

•I would beat Warton, if he were living, 
for supposing that Milton ever repented of 
his compliment to the memory of Bishop 
Andrews. I neither do, nor can, nor will 
believe it. Milton's mind could not be nar- 
rowed by anything, and, though he quarrelled 
with episcopacy in tfce church of England 
idea of* it, I am persuaded that a good bish- 
op, as well as any other good man, of what- 
soever rank or order, had always a share 
of his veneration.* 

Yours, my dear friend, 

Very affectionately, W 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 31, 1791 

My dear Johnny, — Your kind and affec- 
tionate letter well deserves my thanks, and 
should have had them long ago, had I not 
been obliged lately to give my attention to 
a mountain of unanswered letters, which 1 
h ; . <e just now reduced to a mole-hill ; yours 
lay at the bottom , and I have at last worked 
my way down to it. 

It gives me great pleasure that you have 
found a house to your minds. May you all 
three be happier in it than the happiest that 
ever occupied it before you ! But my chief 
delight of all is to learn that you and Kitty 
are so completely cured of your long and 
threatening maladies. I always thought 
highly of Dr. Kerr, but his extraordinary 
success in your two instances has even in- 
spired me with an affection for him. 

My eyes are much better than when I 
wrote last, though seldom perfectly well 
many days together. At this seasojj of the 
year I catch perpetual colds, and shall con- 
tinue to do so till I have got the better of 
that tenderness of habit with which the 
summer never fails to affect me. 

I am glad that you have heard well of 
my work in your country. Sufficient proof* 
have reached me from various quarters that 
I have not ploughed the field of Troy in 
vain. 

Were you here, I would gratify you with 

* How much more charitable is ,Cowper's com- 
ment, than the injurious surmise of Warton ! 



384 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



an enumeration of particulars, but since 
you are not, it must content you to be told 
that I have every reason to be satisfied. 

Mrs. Unwin, I think, in her letter to Cous- 
in Balls, made mention of my new engage- 
ment . I have ju st entered on it , and therefore 
can at present say little about it It is a very 
creditable one in itself, and may I but acquit 
myself of it with sufficiency it will do me 
honor. The commentator's part however is 
a new one to me, and one that I little thought 
to app'ear in. Remember your promise that 
I shall see you in the spring. 

The Hall has been full of company ever 
since you went, and at present my Catharina* 
is there, singing and playing like an angel. 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH ^HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 14, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — I have waited and wished 
for your opinion with the feelings that belong 
to the value that I have for it, and am very 
happy to find it so favorable. In my table 
drawer I treasure up a bundle of suffrages 
sent me by those of wljose approbation I was 
most ambitious, and shall presently insert 
yours among them. 

I know not why we should quarrel with 
compound epithets ; it is certain, at least, 
they are as agreeable to the genius of our 
language as to that of the Greek, which is 
sufficiently proved by their being admitted 
into our common and colloquial dialect. 
Black-eyed, nut-brown, crook-shanked, 
hump-backed, are all compound epithets, 
and, together with a thousand other such, 
are used continually, even by those who pro- 
fess a dislike to such combinations in poetry. 
TV hy, then, do they treat with so much famil- 
iarity a thing that they say disgusts them 1 I 
doubt if they could give this question a rea- 
sonable answer, unless they should answer it 
by confessing themselves unreasonable. 

I have made a considerable progress in the 
translation of Milton's Lat\n poems. I give 
them, as opportunity offers, all the variety of 
measure that 1 can. Some I render in heroic 
rhyme, some in stanzas, some in seven and 
some in eight syllable measure, and some in 
blank verse. They will, altogether, I hope, 
make an agreeable miscellany for the English 
reader. They are certainly good in them- 
selves, and cannot fail to please but by the 
fault of their translator. 

W. C. 



TO THE RET. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weston, Nov. 16, 1791. 
My dear Friend, — I am weary of making 

* The present Dowager Lady Throckmorton. 
t Private corresponderce. 



you wait for an answer, and therefore rescva 
to send you one, though without the lines 
you ask for. Such a?s they are they have 
been long ready ; and could I have found a 
conveyance for them, should have been with 
you weeks ago. Mr. Bean's last journey to 
town might have afforded me an opportunity 
to send them, but he gave me not sufficient 
notice. They must, therefore, be still de- 
layed till either he shall go to London again, 
or somebody else shall offer. I thank you 
for yours, which are so much better than 
mine as gold is better than feathers. 

It seems necessary that I should account 
for my apparent tardiness to comply with the 
obliging request of a lady, and of a lady who 
employed you as her intermedium. None 
was wanted, as you well assured her. But 
had there been occasion for one, she could 
not possibly have found a better. 

I was much pleased with your account oi 
your visit to Cowslip Green,* both for the 
sake of what you saw there, and because I 
am sure you must have been as happy in such 
company as any situation in this world can 
make you. Miss More has been always em- 
ployed, since 1 first heard of her doings, as 
becomes a Christian. So she was while en- 
deavoring to reform the unreformable great ; 
and so she is, while framing means and op- 
portunities to instruct the more tractable 
little. Horace's Virginibus, puerisquc, may be 
her motto, but in a sense much nobler than 
he has annexed to it. I cannot, however, be 
entirely reconciled to the thought of her be- 
ing henceforth silent, though even for the 
sake of her present labors. f A pen useful 
as hers ought not, perhaps, to be laid aside; 
neither, perhaps, will she altogether re- 
nounce it, but, when she has established her 
schools, and habituated them to the discipline 
she intends, will find it desirable to resume it. 
I rejoice that she has a sister like herself, 
capable of bidding defiance to fatigue and 
hardship, to dirty roads and wot raiment, in 
so excellent a cause. | 

I beg t?hat when you write next to either 
of those ladies, } 7 ou will present my best 
compliments to Miss Martha, and tell her 
that I can never feel myself nattered more 
than I was by her application. God knows 
how unworthy I judge myself, at the same 
time, to be admitted into a collection^ of 
which you are a member. Were there not 
a crowned head or two to keep me in coun- 
tenance, I should even blush to think of it. 

I would that I could see some of the mount- 
ains which you have seen ; especially, because 

* The residence of the late Mrs. Hannah More, near 
Bristol. 

t The establishment of her schools, comprising the 
children of several parishes, then in a most neglected 
and uncivilized state. See the interesting account of, tht 
origin and progress of these schools in the Memoir of 
Mrs. More. 

f Mrs. Martha More. § Of autographs. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



38£ 



Dr. Johnson has pronounced that no man is 
qualified to be a poet who has never seen a 
mountain. But mountains I shall never see, 
unless perhaps in a dream, or unless there 
are such in heaven. Nor those, unless I re- 
ceive twice as much mercy as ever yet was 
shown to any man. 

I am now deep in Milton, translating his 
Latin poems for a pompous edition, of which 
you have undoubtedly heard. This amuses 
me for the present, and will for a year or two. 
So long, I presume, I shall be occupied in the 
several functions that belong to my present 
engagement. 

Mrs. Unwin and I are about as well as 
usual ; always mindful of you, and always 
affectionately so. Our united love attends 
yourself and Miss Catlett. 

Believe me, most truly yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston-Underwood, Dec. 5, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — Your last brought me 
two cordials ; for what can better deserve that 
name than the cordial approbation of two 
such readers as your brother, the bishop, and 
your good friend and neighbor, the clergy- 
man. The former I have ever esteemed and 
honored with the justest cause, and am as 
ready to honor and esteem the latter as you 
can wish me to be, and- as his wishes and tal- 
ents deserve. Do I hate a parson ? Heaven 
forbid ! I love you all when you are good 
for anything, and, as to the rest, I would 
mend them if I could, and that is the worst 
of my intentions towards them. ' • 

I heard above a month since that this first 
edition of my work was at that time nearly 
sold. It will not, therefore, I presume, be 
long before I must go to press again. This 
I mention merely from an earnest desire to 
avail myself of all other strictures that either 
your good neighbor, Lord Bagot, the bishop, 
or yourself, 

iravruv CKnay^oraT 1 avSpcoVf 

may happen to have made, and will be so 
good as to favor me with. Those of the 
good Evander contained in your last have 
served me well, and I have already, in three 
different places referred to, accommodated 
the text to them. And this I have done in 
one instance even a little against the bias of 
my own opinion. 



£yo) 6c ksv (ivros s\o>fiai 

The sense I had given of these words is the 
sense in which an old scholiast has under- 
stood them, as appears in Clarke's note in 
loco. Clarke indeed prefers the other, but it 
does not appear plain to me that he does it 



with good reason against the judgment of a 
very ancient commentator and a Grecian. 
And I am the rather inclined to this per- 
suasion, because Achilles himself seems to 
have apprehended that Agamemnon would 
not content himself with Briseis only, when 
he says, 

But I have other precious things on board, 
Of these take none away without my leave, &c. 

It is certain that the words are ambiguous, 
and that the sense of them depends altogether 
on the punctuation. But I am always undei 
the correction of so able a critic as your 
neighbor, and have altered, as I say, my ver- 
sion accordingly. 

As to Milton, the die is cast. I am engaged, 
have bargained with Johnson, and cannot re- 
cede. I should otherwise have been glad to 
do as you advise, to make the translation of 
his Latin and Italian part of another volume; 
for, with such an addition, I have nearly as 
much verse in my budget as would be re- 
quired for the purpose. This squabble, in 
the meantime, between Fuseli and Boy dell* 
does not interest me at all ; let it terminate 
as it may, I have only to perform my job, 
and leave the event to be decided by the 
combatants. 

Suave mari Vnagno turbantibus aequora ventis 
E terra ingentem alterius spectare laborem. 

Adieu, my dear friend, I am most sincere 
ly yours, W. C. 

Why should you suppose that I did not ad- 
mire the poem you showed me? I.did admire 
it, and told you so, but you carried it off in 
your pocket, and so doing left me to forget 
it, and without the means of inquiry. 

I am thus nimble in answering, merely with 
a view to ensure myself the receipt of other 
remarks in time for a new impi ession. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, Dec. 10, 1791. 

Dear Sir, — I am much obliged to you for 
wishing that I were employed in some origi- 
nal work rather than in translation. To tell 
the truth, I am of your mind; and, unless I 
could find another Homer, I shall promise (I 
believe) and vow, when I have done with 
Milton, never to translate again. But my 
veneration for our great countryman is equal 
to what I feel for the Grecian ; and conse- 
quently I am happy, and feel myself honor- 
ably employed whatever I do for Milton. I 
am now translating his Epilaphium Damo- 
ras, a pastoral in my judgment equal to any 

* Fuseli was associated with Cowper's Milton, and Boy 
dell interested in Hayley's, which produced a collision oi 
feeling between them. 

25 



386 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of Virgil's Bucolics, but of which Dr. John- 
son (so it pleased him) speaks, as I remem- 
ber, contemptuously. But he who never saw 
any beauty in a rural scene, was not likely 
to have much taste for a pastoral. In pace 
quiescat ! 

I was charmed with your friendly offer to 
be my advocate with the public; should I want 
one, I know not where I could find a better. 
The reviewer in the Gentleman's Magazine 
grows more and more civil. Should he con- 
tinue to sweeten at this rate, as he proceeds, 
I know not what will become of all the little 
modesty I have left. I have availed myself 
of some of his strictures, for I wish to learn 
from everybody. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Dec. 21, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — It grieves me, after hav- 
ing indulged a little hope that I might see you 
in the holidays, to be obliged to disappoint 
myself. The occasion, too, is such as will 
ensure me your sympathy. 

On Saturday last, while I was at my desk 
near the window, and Mrs. Unwin at the 
fireside opposite to it, I heard her suddenly 
exclaim, "Oh! Mr. Cowper, don't let me 
fall !" I turned and saw her actually falling, 
together with her chair, and started to her 
side just in time to prevent her. She was 
seized with a violent giddiness, which lasted, 
though with some abatement, the whole day, 
and was attended too with some other very, 
very alarming symptoms. At present, how- 
ever, she is relieved from the vertigo, and 
seems in all respects better. 

She has been my faithful and affectionate 
nurse for many years, and consequently has 
a claim on all my attentions. She has them, 
and will have them as long as she wants 
them ; which will probably be, at the best, a 
considerable time to come. I feel the shock, 
as you may suppose, in every nerve. God 
grant that there may be no repetition of it. 
Another such a stroke upon her would, I 
think, overset me completely ; but at present 
I hold up bravely. W. C. 



Few events could have afflicted the tender 
and affectionate mind of Cowper more acutely 
than the distressing incident recorded in the 
preceding letter. Mrs. Unwin had for some 
time past experienced frequent returns of 
headache, sensations of bodily pain, and an 
increasing incapacity even for the common 
routine of daily duties. By an intelligent 
observer these symptoms might have been 
interpreted as the precursors of some im- 
pending dispensation, in the same manner as 
the gathering clo 'ds and the solemn stillness 



of nature announce the approaching storm 
and tempest. But the stroke is not the less 
felt because it is anticipated. Among the 
sorrows which inflict a wound on the feeling 
heart, to see a beloved object, idontified in 
character, in sentiment, and pursuit, endeared 
to us by the memory of the past, and by the 
fears and anxieties of the present, sinking 
under the slow yet consuming incursions of 
disease ; and to be assured, as we contem- 
plate the fading form, that the moment of 
separation is drawing nigh ; this is indeed a 
trial, where the mind feels its own bitterness,- 
and is awakened to the strongest emotions 
of tenderness and love. 

The cheering prospect of a happy change, 
founded on an interest in the promises of the 
gospel, can alone mitigate the mournful an- 
ticipation. It is a subject for deep thank- 
fulness when we can cherish the persuasion 
for ourselves, or, like Cowper, feel its con- 
soling support for others ; and when we are 
enabled to exclaim with the poet, 

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, 
Lets in new light thro' chinks that time has made; 
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 
As they draw near to their eternal home. 
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
That stand upon the threshold of the new. 

Waller's Divine Poesie. 

The following letter communicates some 
further details of Mrs. Unwin's severe attack, 
and of Cowper's feelings on this distressing 
occasion. 

TO MRS. KING* 
r Weston, Jan. 26, 1792. 

My dear Madam, — Silent as I have long 
been, I have had but too good a reason for 
being so. About six weeks since, Mrs. Un- 
win was seized with, a sudden and most 
alarming disorder, a vertigo, which would 
have thrown her out of her chair to the 
ground, had I not been quick t-nough to 
catch her while she was falling. For some 
moments her knees and ancles were so en- 
tirely disabled that she had no use of them , 
and it was with the exertion of all my 
strength that I replaced her in her seat. 
Many days she kept her bed, and for some 
weeks her chamber ; but, at length, she has 
joined me again in the study. Her recovery 
has been extremely slow, and she is still fee- 
ble ; but, I thank God, not so feeble but that 
I hope for her perfect restoration as the 
spring advances. I am persuaded, that with 
your feelings for your friends, you will know 
how to imagine what I must have suffered - 
on an occasion so distressing, and to pardon 
a silence owing to such a cause. 

The account you give me of the patience 
with w hich a lady of your acquaintance has 

Private correspondence. 



.ately endured a terrible operation, is a 
strong proof that your sex surpasses ours 
in heroic fortitude. I call it by that name, 
because I verily believe, that in God's ac- 
count, there is nore true heroism in suffer- 
ing his will with meek submission than in 
doing our own, or that of our fellow-mortals 
who may have a right to command us, with 
the utmost valor that was ever exhibited in 
a field of battle. Renown and glory are, in 
general, the incitements to such exertions ; 
but no laurels are to be won by sitting pa- 
tiently under the knife of a surgeon. The 
virtue is, therefore, of a less suspicious char- 
acter ; the principle of it more simple, and 
the practice more difficult ; — considerations 
that seem sufficiently to warrant my opinion, 
that the infallible Judge of human conduct 
may possibly behold with more complacency 
a suffering than an active courage. 

I forget if I told you that I am engaged 
for a new edition of Milton's Poems. In 
fact, I have still other engagements, and so 
various, that I hardly know to which of them 
all to give my first attentions. I have only 
time, therefore, to condole with you on the 
double loss you have lately sustained, and 
to congratulate you on being female ; be- 
iause, as such, you will, I trust, acquit your- 
self well under so severe a trial. 
1 remain, my dear madam, 

Most sincerely yours, W. C. 



10 THE REV. WALTER BAG0T. 

Weston-Underwood, Feb. 14, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — It is the only advantage 
I believe, that they who love each other de- 
rive from living at a distance, that the news 
of such ills as may happen to either seldom 
reaches the other till the cause of complaint 
is over. Had I been your next neighbor, I 
should have suffered with you during the 
whole indisposition of your two children and 
your own. As it is, I have nothing to do 
Dut to rejoice in your own recovery and 
theirs, which I do sincerely, and wish only 
to learn from yourself that it Is complete. 

I thank you for suggesting the omission 
of the line due to the helmet of Achilles. 
How the omission happened I know not, 
whether by my fault or the printer's ; it is 
certain, however, that I had translated it, 
and I have now given it its proper place. 

I purpose to keep back a second edition 
-bill 1 have had opportunity to avail myself 
of the remarks of both friends and strangers. 
The ordeal of criticism still awaits me in the 
reviews, and probably they will all in their 
turn mark many things that may be mended. 
By the Gentleman's Magazine I have already 
profited in several instances. My reviewer 
here, though favrfuble in the main, is a 



pretty close observer, and, though not al- 
ways right, is often so. 

In the affair of Milton I will have no hor- 
rida bella if I can help it.* It is at least my 
present purpose to avoid them, if possible 
For which reason, unless I should soon see 
occasion to alter my plan, I shall confine 
myself merely to the business of an anno- 
tator, which is my proper province, and shaL 
sift out of Warton's notes every tittle that 
relates to the private character, political or 
religious principles, of my author. These 
are properly subjects for a biographer's hand- 
ling, but by no means, as it seems to me, for 
a commentator's. 

In answer to your question, if I have had 
a correspondence with the Chancellor, I re- 
ply — yes. We exchanged three or four let- 
ters on the subject of Homer, or rather on 
the subject of my Preface. He was doubt- 
ful whether or not my preference of blank 
verse, as affording opportunity for a closer 
version, was well founded. On this subject 
he wished to be convinced; defended rhyme 
with much learning, and much shrewd rea 
soning ;, but at last allowed me the honor* 
of the victory, expressing himself in these 
words: — " I am clearly convinced that Homer 
may be best rendered in blank verse, and you 
have succeeded in the passages that I have- 
looked into.'''' 

Thus it is when a wise man differs in 
opinion. Such a man will be candid; and 
conviction, not triumph, will be his object. 

Adieu ! — The hard name I gave you I 
take to myself, and am your 



EKizayXoraTOS) 



w. c. 



We are indebted to a friend for the oppor- 
tunity of inserting nine additional letters, 
addressed by Cowper to Thomas Park, Esq., 
known as the author of " Sonnets and Mis- 
cellaneous Poems," and subsequently as the 
editor of that splendid work, "Walpole's 
Royal and Noble Authors." 

TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, Feb. 19, 1792. 

Dear Sir, — Yesterday evening your parcel 
came safe to hand, containing the " Cursory 
Remarks," "Fletcher's Faithful Shepherd- 
esse," and your kind letter, for all which I 
am much obliged to you. 

Everything that relates to Milton must be 
welcome to an editor of him ; and I am so 
unconnected with the learned world, that, 
unless assistance seeks me, I am not very 
likely to find it. Fletcher's work was not in 
my possession ; nor, indeed, was I possessed 
of any other, when I engaged in this under- 

* He alludes to the dispute between Boydell and Fuseli 
the painter. 



388 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



taking, that could serve me much in the per- 
formance of it. The various untoward inci- 
dents of a very singular life have deprived 
me of a valuable collection, partly inherited 
from my father, partly from my brother* 
and partly made by myself; so that I have 
at present fewer books than any man ought 
to have who writes for the public, especially 
who assumes the character of an editor. At 
the present moment, however, I find myself 
tolerably well provided for this occasion by 
the kindness of a few friends, who have not 
been backward to pick from their shelves 
everything that they thought might be use- 
ful to me. I am happy to be able to num- 
ber you among these friendly contributors. 

You will add a considerable obligation to 
those you have already conferred, if you will 
be so good as to furnish me with such no- 
tices of your own as you offer. Parallel 
passages, or, at least, a striking similarity of 
expression, is always worthy of remark ; and 
I shall reprint, I believe, all Mr. Warton's 
notes of that kind, except such as are rather 
trivial, and some, perhaps, that are a little 
whimsical, and except that I shall diminish 
the number of his refererces, which are not 
seldom redundant. Where a word only is 
in question, and that, perhaps, not an uncom- 
mon one in the days of Milton, his use of it 
proves little or nothing ; for it is possible 
that authors writing on similar subjects may 
use the same words by mere accident. Bor- 
rowing seems to imply poverty, and of pov- 
erty 1 can rather suspect any man than Mil- 
ton. But I have as yet determined nothing 
absolutely concerning the mode of my com- 
mentary, having hitherto been altogether 
busied in the translation of his Latin poems. 
These I have finished, and shall immediately 
proceed to a version of the Italian. They, 
being few, will not detain me long; and, 
when they are done, will leave me at full 
liberty to deliberate on the main business, 
and to plan and methodise my operations. 

I shall be always happy in, and account 
myself honored by, your communications, 
and hope that our correspondence thus begun 
will not terminate in limine primo. 

I am, my dear sir, with much respect, 
Your most obliged and humble servant, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weston, Feb. 20, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — When I wrote the lines 
in question, I was, as I almost always am, so 
pressed for time, that I was obliged to put 

* The Rer. John Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, 
Cambridge. 

" I had a brother .once, 
Peace to the memory of a man of worth," &c. fcc. 
Private correspondence. 



them down in a great hurry.* Perhaps J 
printed them wrong. If a lull stop be made 
at the end of the second line, the appearance 
of inconsistency, perhaps, will vanish ; but 
should you still think them liable to that ob- 
jection, they may be altered thus : — 

In vain to live from age to age 

We modern bards endeavor; 
But write in Patty's book one page,f 

You gain your point forever. 

Trifling enough I readily confess they are : 
but I have always allowed myself to trifle oc- 
casionally ; and on this occasion had not, nor 
have at present, time to do more. By the 
way, should you think this amended copy 
worthy to displace the former, I must wait 
for some future opportunity to send you them 
properly transcribed for the purpose. 

Your demand of more original composition 
from me will, if Ilive, and it please God to 
afford me health, in all probability be sooner 
or later gratified. In the mean time, you need 
not, and, if you turn the matter in youi 
thoughts a little, you will perceive that you 
need not, think me unworthily employed in 
preparing a new edition of Milton. His two 
principal poems are of a kind that call for 
an editor who believes the gospel and is well 
grounded in all evangelical doctrine. Such an 
editor they have never had yet, though only 
such a one can be qualified for the office. 

We mourn for the mismanagement at Bot- 
any Bay, and foresee the issue. The Romans 
were, in their origin, banditti ; and if they be- 
came in time masters of the world, it was not 
by drinking grog, and allowing themselves in 
all sorts of licentiousness. The African colo- 
nization, and the manner of conducting it, has 
long been matter to us of pleasing speculation. 
God has highly honored Mr. Thornton ; and I 
doubt not that the subsequent history of the 
two settlements will strikingly evince the su- 
perior wisdom of his proceedings.! 

Yours, ' W. C. 

P. S. Lady Hesketh made the same objec 
tion to my vecses as you ; but, she being a 
lady-critic, I did not heed her. As they stand 
at present, however, they are hers ; and I be- 
lieve you will think them much improved. 

* Mrs. Martha More had requested Cowper to furnish 
a contribution to her collection of autographs. The re- 
sult appears in the sequel of this letter. 

f In the present edition of the Poems the lines stand 
thus, on a farther suggestion of Lady HeskethV ■ 
In vain to live from age to age, 

While modern bards endeavor, 
/ write my name in Patty's page, 
And gain my point for ever. 

W. Cowper. 
March 6, 1792. 

X This alludes to the new colony for liberated Africans, 
at Sierra Leone ; in the origin of which Mr. Henry Thorn* 
ton and Mr. Zachary Macauley were mainly instrumental. 
For interesting accounts of this colony, see the "Mission 
ary Register of the Church Missionary Society," pissim. 



My heart bears me witness how glad I shall 
oe to see you at the time you mention ; and 
Mrs. Unwin says the same. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, Feb. 21, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — My obligations to you on 
the score of your kind and frieadly remarks 
demanded from me a much more expeditious 
acknowledgment of the numerous packets 
that contained them ; but I have been hindered 
by many causes, each of which you would 
admit as a sufficient apology, but none of 
which I will mention, lest I should give too 
much of my paper to the subject. My ac- 
knowledgments are likewise due to your f£ir 
sister, who has transcribed so many sheets in 
a neat hand, and with so much accuracy. 

At present I have no leisure for Homer, but 
shall certainly find leisure' to examine him 
with reference to your strictures, before I send 
him a second time to the printer. This I am 
at present unwilling to do, choosing rather to 
wait, if that may be, till I shall have under- 
gone the discipline of all the reviewers; none 
of which have yet taken me in hand, the Gen- 
tleman's Magazine excepted. By several of 
his remarks I have benefitted, and shall no 
doubt be benefitted by the remarks of all. 

Milfon at present engrosses me altogether. 
His Latin pieces I have translated, and have 
begun with the Italian. These are few, and 
will not detain me long. I shall then proceed 
immediately to deliberate upon and to settle 
the plan of my commentary, which I have 
hitherto had but little time to consider. I 
look forward to it, for this reason, with some 
anxiety. I trust at least that this anxiety will 
cease when I have once satisfied myself about 
the best manner of conducting it. But, after 
all, I seem to fear more about the labor to 
which it calls me than any great difficulty 
with which it is likely to be attended. To the 
labors of versifying I have no objection, but 
to the labors of criticism I am new, and ap- 
prehend that I shall find them wearisome. 
Should that be the case, I shall be dull, and 
must be contented to share the censure of 
being so with almost all the commentators 
that have ever existed. 

I have expected, but not wondered that I 
have not received, Sir Thomas More and the 
other MSS. you promised me ; because my 
silence has been such, considering how loudly 
[ was called upon to write, that you must 
nave concluded me either dead or dying, and 
did not choose perhaps to trust them to ex- 
leutors. W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, March 2, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — I have this moment finished 



a comparison of your remarks with my text 
and feel so sensibly my obligations to youf 
great accuracy and kindness, that I canno 
deny myself the pleasure of expressing them 
immediately. I only wish that instead of re- 
vising the two first books of the Iliad, you 
could have found leisure to revise the whole 
two poems, sensible how much my work 
would have benefitted. 

I have not always adopted your lines, 
though often, perhaps, at least as good as my 
own ; because there will and must be dissimi 
larity of manner between two so accustomed 
to the pen as we are. But I have let few 
passages go unamended which you seemed to 
think exceptionable ; and this not at all from 
complaisance; for in such a cause I would 
not sacrifice an iota on that principle, but on 
clear conviction. 

I have as yet heard nothing from Johnson 
about the two MSS. you announced, but feel 
ashamed that I should want your letter to re- 
mind me of. your obliging offer to inscribe 
Sir Thomas More to me, should you resolve 
to publish him. Of my consent to such a 
measure you need not doubt. I am covetous 
of respect and honor from all such as you. 

Tame hare, at present, I have none. But, 
to make amends, I have a beautiful little 
spaniel, called Beau, to whom I will give the 
kiss your sister Sally intended for the former, 
unless she should command me to bestow it 
elsewhere ; it shall attend on her directions. 

I am going to take a last dinner with a most 
agreeable family, who have been my only 
neighbors ever since I have lived at Weston. 
On Monday they go to London, and in the 
summer to an estate in Oxfordshire, which is 
to be their home in future. The occasion is 
not at all a pleasant one to me, nor does it 
leave me spirits to add more, than that I am, 
dear sir, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 

Weston, March 4, 1792. 
My dear Friend, — All our little world is 
going to London, the gulf that swallows most 
of our good things, and, like a bad stomach, 
too often assimilates them to itself. Our 
neighbors at the Hall go thither to-morrow 
Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorton, as we lately 
called them, but now Sir John and my Lady, 
are no longer inhabitants here, but henceforth 
of Bucklands, in Berkshire. 1 feel the loss of 
them, and shall feel it, since kinder or more 
friendly treatment I never can receive at any 
hands than I have always found at theirs. 
But it has long been a foreseen change, and 
was, indeed, almost daily expected long before 
it happened. The desertion of the Hall, how. 
ever, will not be total. The second brother 
* Private correspondence. 



390 



COWPER S WORKS. 



George, now Mr. Courtenay * intends to re- 
side there : and, with him, as with his elder 
brother, I have always been on terms the 
most agreeable. 

Such is this variable scene : so variable, that, 
had the reflections I sometimes make upon it 
a permanent influence, I should tremble at the 
thought of a new connexion, and, to be out of 
the reach of its mutability, lead almost the 
ife of a hermit. It is well with those who, 
ike you, have God for their companion. 
Death cannot deprive them of Him, and he 
changes not the place of his abode. Other 
changes, therefore, to them are all supporta- 
ble ; and what you say of your own experi- 
ence is the strongest possible proof of it. 
Had you lived without God, you could not 
have endured the loss you mention. May He 
preserve me from a similar one ; at least, till 
he shall be pleased to draw me to himself 
again ? Then, if ever that day come, it will 
make me equal to any burden ; but at present 
I can bear nothing well. 

I am sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

Weston, March 8, 1792. 

My dear Madam, — Having just finished all 
my Miltonic translations, and not yet begun 
my comments, I find an interval that cannot 
be better employed than in discharging ar- 
rears due to my correspondents, of whom I 
begin first a letter to you, though your claim 
be of less ancient standing than those of all 
the rest. 

I am extremely sorry that you have been 
so much indisposed, and especially that your 
indisposition has been attended with such ex- 
cessive pain. But may I be permitted to ob- 
serve, that your going to church on Christ- 
mas-day, immediately after such a sharp fit 
of rheumatism, was not according to the 
wisdom with which I believe you to be en- 
dued, nor was it acting so charitably toward 
yourself as I am persuaded you would have 
acted toward another. To another you 
would, I doubt not, have suggested that text 
— " I will have mercy and not sacrifice," as 
^implying a gracious dispensation, in circum- 
stances like yours, from the practice of so 
severe and dangerous a service. 

Mrs. Unwin, 'I thank God, is better, but 
still wants much of complete restoration. 
We have reached a time of life when heavy 
blows, if not fatal, are at least long felt. 

I have received many testimonies concern- 
ing my Homer, which do me much honor, and 
afford me great satisfaction ; but none from 
which I derive, or have reason to derive, more 
Jinn that of Mr. Martyn. It is of great use 
It me, when I write, to suppose some such 

* Afterwards Sir George Throckmorton, 
t Private correspondence. 



person at my elbow, witnessing what I do 
and I ask myself frequently — Would this 
please him? If I think it would, it stands: 
if otherwise, I alter it. My work is thus fin 
ished, as it were, under the eye of some ot 
the best judges, and has the better chance to 
win their approbation when they actually 
see it. 

I am, my dear madam 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, March 10, 1792. 

Dear Sir, — You will have more candor, aa 
I J^ope and believe, than to impute my delay 
to answer your kind and friendly letter to 
inattention or want of a cordial respect for 
the writer of it. To suppose any such cause 
of my silence were injustice both to yourself 
and me. The truth is, I am a very busy man, 
and cannot gratify myself with writing to my 
friends so punctually as I wish. 

You have not in the least fallen in my es- 
teem on account of your employment ,* as 
you seemed to apprehend that you might. 
It is an elegant one, and, when you speak 
modestly, as you do, of your proficiency in 
it, I am far from giving you entire credit for 
the whole assertion. I had indeed supposed 
you a person of independent fortune, who 
had nothing to do but to gratify himself; 
and whose mind, being happily addicted to 
literature, was at full leisure to enjoy its in- 
nocent amusement. But it seems I was mis- 
taken, and your time is principally due to an 
art which has a right pretty much to engross 
your attention, and which gives rather the 
air of an intrigue to your intercourse and 
familiarity with the muses than a lawful con- 
nexion. No matter : I am not prudish in this 
respect, but honor you the more for a passion, 
virtuous and laudable in itself; and which 
you indulge not, I dare say, without benefit 
to yourself and your acquaintance. I, for 
one, am likely to reap the fruit of your 
amours, and ought therefore, to be one of 
the last to quarrel with til em. 

You are in danger, I perceive, of thinking 
of me more highly than you ought to think 

* Mezzotinto engraving. Mr. Park, in early youth, flue* 
tuated in the choice between the sister arts of poetry 
music, and painting, and composed the following lires to 
record the result. 

By fancy warm'd, I seiz'd the quill, 

And poetry the strain inspir'd ; 
Music improv'd it by her skill, 

Till I with both their charms was fir'd. 

Won by the graces each display'd, 

Their younger sister I forgot ; 
Though first to her my vows were paid, — 

By fate or choice it matters not. 

She, jealous of their rival powers, 

And to repay the injury done, 
Condemn'd me through life's future hours, 

All to admire, but wed with none. 

T.P. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



3Si 



i am not one of the literati, among whom 
you seem disposed to place me. Far from 
it. I told you in my last how heinously I 
am unprovided with the means of being so, 
having long since sent all my books to 
market. My learning accordingly lies in a 
very narrow compass. It is school-boy learn- 
ing somewhat improved, and very little more. 
From the age of twenty to twenty-three, I 
was occupied, or ought to have been, in the 
study of the law. From thirty-three to sixty 
J have spent my time in the country, where 
my reading has been only an apology for 
'dleness, and where, when I had not either a 
.nagazine or a review in my hand, I was some- 
times a carpenter, at others a birdcage maker, 
or a gardener, or a drawer of landscapes. 
At fifty years of age I commenced an author. 
It is a whim that has served me longest and 
best, and which will probably be my last. 

Thus you see .1 have had very little oppor- 
tunity to become what is property called — 
learned. In truth, having given myself so 
entirely of late to poetry, I am not sorry for 
this deficiency, since great learning, I have 
been sometimes inclined to suspect, is rather 
a hindrance to the fancy than a furtherance. 

You will do me a favor by s'ending me a 
copy of Thomson's monumental inscription. 
He was a poet, for whose memory, as you 
iustly suppose, I have great respect ; in com- 
mon, indeed, with all who have ever read him 
with taste and attention. 

Wishing you heartily success in your pres- 
ent literary undertaking and in all profes- 
sional ones, I remain, 

Dear sir, with great esteem, 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 

P. S. After what I have said, I will not 
Dlush to confess, that I am at present per- 
fectly unacquainted with the merits of Drum- 
mond,* but shall be happy to see him in due 
time, as I should be to see see any author 
edited by you. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, March 11, 1792. 
My dear Johnny, — You talk of primroses 
that you pulled on Candlemas-day ; but what 
think you of me that heard a nightingale on 
new-year's day ? Perhaps I am the only man 
in England who can boast of such good for- 
tune ; good indeed, for if it was at all an 
omen it could not be an unfavorable one. 
The winter, however, is now making himself 

* Drummond, an elegant Scottish poet, born in 1585. 
His works, though not free from the conceits of the 
ftalian School, are characterised by much delicacy of 
taste and feeling. There is a peculiar melody and sweet- 
ness in his verse, and his sonnets particularly have pro- 
cured for him a fame, which has survived to the present 
time. An edition of his Poems was published in 1791, 
»y Cowper's correspondent, Mr. Park. 



amends, and seems the more peevish for hav 
ing been encroached on at so undue a season. 
Nothing less than a large slice out of the 
spring will satisfy him. 

Lady Hesketh left us yesterday. She in- 
tended to have left us four days sooner; but 
in the evening before the day fixed for her 
departure, snow enough fell to occasion just 
so much delay of it. 

We have faint hopes that in the month of 
May we shall see her again. I know that 
you have had a letter from her, and you will 
no doubt have the grace not to make her 
wait long for an answer. 

We expect Mr. Rose on Tuesday ; but he 
stays with us only till the Saturday follow- 
ing. With him I shall have some conferen- 
ces on the subject of Homer, respecting a 
new edition I mean, and some perhaps on 
the subject of Milton; on him I have not 
yet begun to comment, or even fix the time 
when I shall. 

Forget not your promised visit ! 

W. C. 

We add the verses composed by Cowper 
on the extraordinary incident mentioned at 
the beginning of the preceding letter. 

to the nightingale which the author heard 
on new-year's day, 1792. 

Whence is it, that amaz'd I hear, 

From yonder wither'd spray, 
This foremost morn of all the year, 

-The melody of May % 

And why, since thousands would be proud 

Of such a favor shown, 
Am I selected from the crowd, 

To witness it alone 1 

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, 

For that I also long 
Have practis'd in the groves like theo 

Though not like thee, in song. 

Or sing'st thou rather under force 

Of some divine command, 
Commission'd to presage a course 

Of happier days at hand 1 

Thrice welcome then ! for many a long 

And joyless year have I, 
As thou to-day, put forth my song 

Beneath a wintry sky. 

But thee no wintry skies can harm, 

Who only need'st to sing, 
To make e'en January charm, 

And ev'ry season spring. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, March 18, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — We are now once mon 
reduced to our dual state, having lo?t oui 
* Private correspondence. 



592 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



neighbors at the Hall and our inmate Lady 
Hesketh. Mr. Rose indeed, has spent two 
or three days here, and is still with us, but 
he leaves us in the afternoon. There are 
those in the world whom we love, and whom 
we are happy to see ; but we are happy like- 
wise in each other, and so far independent 
of our fellow mortals as to be.able to pass 
our time comfortably without them : — as com- 
fortably, at least, as Mrs. Unwin's frequent 
indispositions, and my no less frequent trou- 
bles of mind, will permit. When I am much 
distressed, any company but hers distresses 
me more, and makes me doubly sensible of 
my sufferings, though sometimes, I confess, 
it falls out otherwise ; and, by the help of 
more general conversation, I recover that 
elasticity of mind which is able to resist the 
pressure. On the whole, I believe I am situ- 
ated exactly as I should wish to be, were my 
situation to be determined by my own election ; 
and am denied no comfort that is compatible 
with the total absence of the chief of all. 
Adieu, my dear friend, 

I remain, affectionately yours. 

W. C. 



many pieces wrote each jn particular, there 
can be no better criterion by which to de- 
termine the point than the more or less pro- 
ficiency manifested in the composition. Of 
this proficiency, where it appears, and of 
those plays in which it appears not, you seem 
to have judged well and truly, and, conse- 
quently, I approve of your arrangement. 

I- attended, as you desired me, in reading 
the character of Cecilia, to the hint you gave 
me concerning your sister Sally, and give 
you joy of such a sister. This, however, not 
exclusively of the rest, for, though they may 
not all be Cecilias, I have a strong persuasion 
that they are all very amiable. W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HTJRDIS. 

Weston, March 23, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — I have read your play care- 
fully, and with great pleasure : it seems now I 
to be a performance that cannot fail to do j 
you much credit. Yet, unless my memory 
deceives me, the scene between Cecilia and 
Heron in the garden has lost something that 
pleased me much when I saw it first ; and I 
am not sure that you have not likewise ob- 
literated an account of Sir Thomas's execu- 
tion, that I found very pathetic. It would 
be strange if, in these two particulars, I 
should seem to miss what never existed ; you 
will presently know whether I am as good at 
remembering what I never saw as I am at 
forgetting what I have seen. But if I am 
right, I cannot help recommending the omit- 
ted passages to your re-consideration. If 
the pky were designed for representation, I 
should be apt to think Cecilia's first speech 
rather too long, and should prefer to have it 
broken into dialogue, by an interposition now 
and then from one of her sisters. But, 
since it is designed, as I understand, for the 
closet only, that objection seems of no im- 
portance ; at no rate, however, would I ex- 
punge it, because it is both prettily imagined 
a^d elegantly written. 

I have read your cursory remarks, and am 
much pleased both with the style and the 
argument. Whether the latter be new or 
not I am not competent to judge ; if it be, 
you are entitled to much praise for the in- 
vention of it. Where other data are want- 
ing to ascertain the time when an author of 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 25, 1792. 
My dearest Coz., — Mr. Rose's longer stay 
than he at first intended was the occasion of 
the longer delay of my answer to your note, 
as you may both have perceived by the date 
thereof, and learned from his information. 
It was a daily trouble to me to see it lying 
in the window-seat, while I knew you were 
in expectation of its arrival. By this time I 
presume you have seen him, and have seen 
likewise Mr. Hayley's friendly letter and com- 
plimentary sonnet, as well as the letter of 
the honest Quaker; all of which, at least 
the two former, I shall be glad to receive 
again at a fair opportunity. Mr. Hayley's 
letter slept six weeks in Johnson's custody.* 
It was necessary that I should answer it 
without delay, and .accordingly I answered it 
the very evening on which I received it, giv- 
ing him to understand, among other things, 
how much vexation the bookseller's folly had 
cost me, who had detained it so long : espe- 
cially on account of the distress that I knew 
it must have occasioned to him also. From his 
reply, which the return of the post brought 
me, I learn that in the long interval of my 
non-correspondence, he had suffered anxiety 
and mortification enough; so much, that I 
dare say he made twenty vows never to haz- 
ard again either letter or compliment to an 
unknown author. What, indeed, could he 
imagine less than that I meant by such an 
obstinate silence to tell him that I valued 
neither him nor his praises, nor his proffered 
friendship ; in short, that I considered him as 
a rival, and therefore, like a true author, 
hated and despised him ? He is now, how- 
ever, convinced that I love him, as indeed I 

* We have already stated that Hayley was engaged m 
a life of Milton, when Cowper was announced as editor 
of Johnson's projected work. With a generosity that re- 
flects the highest credit on his feelings, he addressed a 
letter on this occasion to Cowper, accompanied by a com- 
plimentary sunnet, and offering his kind aid in any way 
that might prove most acceptable. The letter was en 
trusted to the bookseller, who delayed transmitting u 
six weeks, and thereby created great anxiety in Hay ley '• 
mind. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



393 



do, and I account him the chief acquisition 
that my own verse has ever procured me. 
Brute should I be if I did not, for he prom- 
ises me every assistance in his power. 

I have likewise a very pleasing letter from 
Mr. Park, which T wish you were here to 
read ; and a very pleasing poem that came 
enclosed in it for my revisal, written when he 
t was only twenty years of age, yet wonder- 
fully well written, though 'wanting some cor- 
rection. 

To Mr. Hurdis I return Sir Thomas More 
to-morrow, having revised it a second time. 
He is now a very respectable figure, and will 
do my friend, who gives him to the public 
this spring, considerable credit. W. C. 



TO THOMAS tARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, March 30, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — If you have indeed so favor- 
able an opinion of my judgment as you pro- 
fess, which I shall not allow myself to ques- 
tion, you will think highly and honorably of 
your poem,* for so I think of it. The view 
vou give of the place that you describe is 
slear and distinct, the sentiments are just, the 
reflections touching, and the numbers uncom- 
monly harmonious. I give you joy of having 
been able to produce, at twenty years of age, 
what would not have disgraced you at a 
much later period; and, if you choose to 
print it, have no doubt that it will do you 
great credit. 

You will perceive, however, when you re- 
ceive your copy again, that I have used all 
the liberty you gave me. I have proposed 
many alterations ; but you will consider them 
as only proposed. My lines are by no means 
obtruded on you, but are ready to give place 
to any that you shall choose to substitute of 
your own composing. They will serve at 
least to mark the passages which seem to me 
susceptible of improvement, and the manner 
in which I think the change may be made. I 
have not always, seldom, indeed, given my 
reasons ; but without a reason I have altered 
nothing, and the decision, as I say, is left 
with you in the last instance. Time failed 
me to be particular and explicit always, in 
accounting for my strictures, and I assured 
myself that you would impute none of them 
to an arbitrary humor, but all to their true 
cause — a desire to discharge faithfully the 
trust committed to me. 

I cannot but add, I think it a pity that you, 
who have evidently such talents for poetry, 
should be so loudly called another way, and 
want leisure to cultivate them , for if such 
was the bud, what might we not have ex- 
pected to see in the full-blown flower ? Per- 
haps, however, I am not quite prudent in 

* A juvenile offering of gratitude to the place where 
lie wiitei had recei *ed his educp-ica. 



saying all this to you, whose proper function 
is not that of a poet, but I say it, trusting to 
your prudence, that you will not suffer it to 
seduce you. 

I have not the edition of Milton's juvenile 
poems which you mention, but shall be truly 
glad to see it, and thank you for the offer. 

No possible way occurs to me of return- 
ing your MS. but by the Wellingborough 
coach ; by that conveyance, therefore, I shall 
send it on Monday, and my remarks, rough 
as I made them, shall accompany it. 

Believe me, with much sincerity, 

Yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, March 30, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — My mornings, ever since 
you went, have been given to my corre- 
spondents ; this morning I have already writ- 
ten a long letter to Mr. Park, giving my 
opinion of his poem, which is a favorable 
one. I forget whether I showed it to you 
when you were here, and even whether I had 
then received it. He has genius and delicate 
taste ; and, if he were not an engraver, might 
be one of our first hands in poetry. 

w. a 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, April 5, 1792. 

You talk, my dear friend, as John Bunyan 
says, "like one that has the egg-shell still 
upon his head." You talk of the mighty 
favors that you have received from me, and 
forget entirely those for which I am indebted 
to you ; but though you forget them, I shall 
not, nor ever think that I have requited you, 
so long as any opportunity presents itself of 
rendering you the smallest service; small 
indeed is all that I can ever hope to render. 

You now perceive, and sensibly, that not 
without reason I complained, as I use to do, 
of those tiresome rogues, the printers. Bless 
yourself that you have not two thick quartos 
to bring forth, as I had. My vexation was 
always much increased by this reflection — 
they are every day, and all day long, em- 
ployed in printing fcr somebody, and why 
not for me ? This was adding mortification 
to disappointment, so that I often lost all 
patience. 

The suffrage of Dr. Robertson makes 
more than amends for the scurvy jest passed 
upon me by the wag unknown. I regard 
him not ; nor, except for about two momenta 
after I first heard of his doings, have I ever 
regarded him. I have somewhere a secret 
enemy ; I know not for what cause he should 
be so, but he, I imagine, supposes that he has 
a cause : it is well, however, to have bul 



394 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



one ; and I will take all the care I can not to 
increase Lie number. 

I have begun my notes, and am playing 
the commentator manfully. The worst of it 
is that I am anticipated in almost all my op- 
portunities to shine by those who have gone 
before rne. W. C. 



The following letter is the commencement 
of Cowper's correspondence with Hayley, 
originating in the circumstances already de- 
tailed to the reader. 

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, April 6, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — God grant that this 
friendship of ours may be a comfort to us 
all the rest of our days, in a world where true 
friendships are rarities, and, especially where 
suddenly formed, they are apt soon to ter- 
minate ! But, as I said before, I feel a dis- 
position of heart toward you that I never felt 
for one whom I had never seen, and that 
shall prove itself, I trust, in the event, a pro- 
pitious omen. 

Horace says somewhere, though I may 
quote it amiss, perhaps, for I have a terrible 
memory, 

" Utrumque nostrum incredibili modo 
Consentit astrum." 

. . . Our stars consent, at least have had 
an influence somewhat similar, in another 
and more important article. . . . 

It gives me the sincere st pleasure that I 
may hope to see you at Weston ; for, as to 
any migrations of mine, they must, I fear, 
notwithstanding the joy I should feel in be- 
ing a guest of yours, be still considered in 
the light of impossibilities. Come, then, my 
friend, and be as welcome (as the country 
people say here) as the flowers in May ! I 
am happy, as I say, in expectation ; but the 
fear, or rather the consciousness, that I shall 
not answer on a nearer view, makes it a 
trembling kind of happiness and a doubtful. 

After the privacy which I have mentioned 
above, I went to Huntingdon ; soon after my 
arrival there, I took up my quarters at the 
house of the Rev. Mr. Unwin ; I lived with 
him while he lived, and ever since his death 
have lived with his widow. Her, therefore, 
you will find mistress of the house ; and I 
judge of you amiss, or you will find her just 
such as you would wish. To me she has 
been often a nurse, and invariably the kind- 
est friend, through a thousand adversities 
that I have had to grapple with in the course 
of almost thirty years. I thought it better 
io introduce her to you thus, than to present 
ner to you at your coming, quite a stranger. 

Briiig with you any books that you think 



may be useful to my commentatorship, for 
with you for an interpreter, I shall be afraid 
of none of them. And, in truth, if you think 
that you shall want them, you must bring 
books for your own use also, for they are an 
article with which I am heinously unprovided . 
being much in the condition of the man whose 
library Pope describes as 

< 
" No mighty store ! 
His own works neatly bouud, and little more !" 

You shall know how this has come to pass 
hereafter. 

Tell me, my friend, are your letters in your 
own hand- writing ? If so, I am in pain foi 
your eyes, lest by such frequent demands 
upon them I should hurt them. I had rather 
write you three letters for one, much as I 
prize your letters, than that should happen. 
And now, for the present, adieu, — I am going 
to accompany Milton into the lake of fire 
and brimstone, having just begun my an- 
notations. W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, April 8, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — Your entertaining and 
pleasant letter, resembling in that respect all 
that I receive from you, deserved a more ex- 
peditious answer, and should have had what 
it so well deserved, had it not reached me ai 
a time when, deeply in debt to all my corre 
spondents, I had letters to write without 
number. Like autumnal leaves that strew 
the brooks in Vallombrosa, the unanswered 
farrago lay before me. If I quote at all, you 
must expect me henceforth to quote none but 
Milton, since for a long time to come I shall 
be occupied with him only. 

I was much pleased with the extract you 
gave me from your sister Eliza's letter ; she 
writes very elegantly, and (if I might say it 
without seeming to flatter you) I should say 
much in the manner of her brother. It is 
well for your sister Sally that gloomy Dis is 
already a married man, else perhaps finding 
her, as he found Proserpine, studying botany 
in the fields, he might transport her to his 
own flowerless abode, where all her hopes of 
improvement in that science would be at an 
end forever. 

What letter of the 10th December is that 
which you say you have not yet answered 
Consider, it is April now, and I never remem- 
ber anything that I write half so long. But 
perhaps it relates to Catenas, for I do re- 
member that you have not yet furnished me 
with the secret history of him and his family 
which I demanded from you. 

Adieu ! Yours most sincerely, 

W. C. 



i,IFE OF COWPER. 



392 



I rejoice that you are so well with the 
.earned Bishop of Sarum,* and well remem- 
ber how he ferreted the vermin Lauderf out 
of all his hidings, when I was a boy at West- 
minster. 

I have not yet studied with your last re- 
marks before me, but hope soon to find an 
opportunity. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. J 

Weston, April 15, 1792. 
My dear Friend, — I thank you for your re- 
mittance ; which, to use the language of a 
song much in use when we were boys, 

" Adds fresh beauties to the spring, 
And makes all nature look more gay." 

What the author of the song had particularly 
in vit v when he thus sang, I know not ; but 
probab ./ it was not the sum of fifty pounds : 
whir h, as probably, he never had the happi- 
ness to possess. It was, most probably, 
some beautiful nymph, — beautiful in his eyes, 
at least, — who has long since become an old 
woman. 

I have heard about my wether mutton from 
various quarters. First, from a sensible little 
man, curate of a neighboring village ;§ then 
from Walter Bagot; then from Henry 
Cowper ; and now from you. It was a blun- 
der hardly pardonable in a man who has 
lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by 
sheep, almost these thirty years. I .have ac- 
cordingly satirized myself in two stanzas 
which I composed last night, when I lay 
awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed 
with laudanum. If you find them not very 
brilliant, therefore, you will know how to 
account for it. 

Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse 

If, bound in rhyming tethers, 
He had committed this abuse 

Of changing ewes for wethers ; 

• But male for female is a trope, 
Or rather bold misnomer, 
That would have startled even Pope 
When he translated Homer. 

Having translated all the Latin and Italian 
Mil tonics, I was proceeding merrily with a 
Commentary on the Paradise Lost, when I 
was seized, a week since, with a most tor- 
menting disorder; which has qualified me, 
however, to make some very feeling obser- 
vations on that passage, when I shall conie 
to it : 

" 111 fare our ancestor impure !" 

For this we may thank Adam; — and you 

* Dr. Douglas. 

t Lauder endeavored to depreciate the fame of Milton 
by a charge of plagiarism. Dr. Douglas successfully vin- 
dicated the great poet from such an imputation, and 
proved that it was a gross Action on the part of Lauder. 

t Private correspondence. 

$ The Rev. John Buchanan. 



may thank him, too, that I am not able to fill 
my sheet, nor endure a writing posture any 
longer. I conclude abruptly, therefore, but 
sincerely subscribing myself, with my l»est 
compliments to Mrs. Hill, 

Your affectionate, W. C. 



TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 

Weston, April 16, 1792. 

My dear Lady Frog, — I thank you for youl 
letter, as sweet as it was short, and as sweet 
as good news could make it. You encourage 
a hope that has made me happy ever since I 
have entertained it. And if my wishes can 
hasten the event, it will not be long sus- 
pended.* As to your jealousy, I mind it not, 
or only to be pleased with it ; I shall say no 
more on the subject at present than this, that 
of all ladies living, a certain lady, whom I 
ne'ed not name, would be the lady of my 
choice for a certain gentleman, were the 
whole sex submitted to my ejection. 

What a delightful anecdote is that which 
you tell me of a young lady detected in thb 
very act of stealing our Catharina's praises ; 
is it possible that she can survive the shame, 
the mortification of such a discovery 1 Can 
she ever see the same company again, or any 
company that she can suppose, by the re- 
motest possibility, may have heard the tid- 
ings 1 If she can, she must have an assur- 
ance equal to her vanity. A lady in London 
stole my song on the broken Rose, or rather 
would have stolen and have passed it for her 
own. But she too was unfortunate in her 
attempt ; for there happened to be a female 
cousin of mine in company, who knew that 
I had written it. It is very flattering to a 
poet's pride that the ladies should thus 
hazard everything for the sake of appropriat- 
ing his verses. I may say with Milton that 
I am fallen on evil tongues, and evil days, be- 
ing not only plundered of that which belongs 
to me, but being charged with that which 
does not. Thus it seems (and I have learned 
it from more quarters than one) that a report 
is, and has been sometime, current in this 
and the neighboring counties, that, though 
I tfave given myself the air of declaiming 
against the Slave Trade in " The Task," I 
am in reality a friend to it ; and last night I 
received a letter from Joe Rye, to inform me 
that I have been much traduced and calum- 
niated on this account. Not knowing how 
I could better or more effectually refute the 
scandal, I have this morning sent a copy 
to the Northampton paper, prefaced by a 
short letter to the printer, specifying the oc- 
casion. The verses are in honor of Mr 
Wilberforce, and sufficiently expressive of 

* The prospect of a marriage between Miss Stapleton, 
the Catharina of Cowper, and Mr. Courtenay, Sir John 
Throckmorton's brother. 



S96 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



my present sentiments on the subject. You 
are a wicked fair one for disappointing us of 
our expected visit, and therefore, out of mere 
spite, I will not insert them. I have been 
very ill these ten days, and for the same 
spite's sake will not tell you what has ailed 
me. But, lest you should die of a fright, I 
will have the mercy to tell you that I am re- 
covering. 

Mrs. Giftord and her. little ones are gone, 
but your brother is still here. He told me 
that he had some expectations of Sir John at 
Weston; if he come, I shall most heartily re- 
ioice once more to see him at a table so many 
years his own. W. C. 

We subjoin the verses addressed to Mr. 
Wilberforce, intended to vindicate Cowper 
from the charge of lukewarmness in such a 
cause. 



TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ,. 

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, 
Hears thee by cruel men and impious, call'd 
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd 
From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain. 
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, 
Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain ! 
Thou hast achiev'd a part, hast gain'd the ear 
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause : [pause 
Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho : cold caution 
And weave delay, the better hour is near, 
That shall remunerate thy toils severe 
By peace for Afric, fenc'd with British laws. 
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
From all the just on earth and all the blest above ! 



In detailing the incidents that occur in the 
life of Cowper, we have just recorded a ma- 
levolent report, highly injurious to his integ- 
rity and honor. In order to recall the fact 
to the memory of the reader, we insert the 
statement itself, in the words of Cowper: 
* A report is, and has been some time cur- 
rent, in this and the neighboring counties, 
that, though I have given myself the air of 
declaiming against the slave trade in 'The 
Task,' I am in reality a friend to it ; and last 
night I received a letter from Joe Rye, to^in- 
form me, that I have been much traduced and 
calumniated on this account." 

That the author of " The Task," a poem 
distinguished by its tone of pure and elevated 
morality, and breathing a spirit of most un- 
compromising hostility against the slave trade 
—that such a man, at that time in the very 
zenith of his fame, should be publicly accused 
of favoring the very cause which he had so 
eloquently denounced, is one of those circum- 
stances which, for the honor of human nature, 
we could wish not to have been compelled to 
record. 

With this painful fact before us, we would 



ask, what is popularity, and what wise man 
would attach value to so fleeting a posses, 
sion ? It is a gleam of sunshine, which em- 
bellishes for a moment the object on which it 
falls, and then vanishes away. In the course 
of a life not passed without observation, we 
have had occasion to remark, in the political, 
the literary, and even in the religious world, 
the evanescent character of popular favor. 
We ha" seen men alternately caressed and 
deserted, praised and censured, and made to 
feel the vanity of human applause and ad- 
miration. The idol of to-day is dethroned 
by the idol of to-morrow, which, in its turn, 
yields to the dominion of some more favored 
rival. 

The wisdom of God evidently designs, by 
these events, to check the thirst for human 
praise and distinction, by showing us the pre- 
carious tenure by which they are held. We 
are thus admonished to examine our motives, 
and to be assured of the integrity of our in- 
tentions ; neither to despise public favor, nor 
yet to overvalue it; but to preserve that calm 
and equable temper of mind, and that full 
consciousness of the rectitude of our princi- 
ples, that we may learn to enjoy it without 
triumph, or to lose it without dejection. 

" Henceforth 
Thy patron He whose diadem has dropp'd 
Yon gems of heaven ; eternity thy prize ; 
And leave the racers of this world their own." 

The reader will be amused in finding the 
origin of the injurious report above men- 
tioned disclosed in the following letter. 
Mr. Rye was unjustly supposed to have 
aided in propagating this misconception; but 
Cowper fully vindicates him from such a 
charge. 

TO THE REV. J. JEKYLL RYE* 

Weston, April 16, 1792. 

My. dear Sir, — I am truly sorry that yon 
should have suffered any apprehensions, such 
as your letter indicates, to molest you for a 
moment. I believe you to be as honest a man 
as lives, and consequently do not believe it 
possible that you could in your letter to Mr. 
Pitts, or any otherwise, wilfully misrepresent 
me. In fact you did not ; my opinions on 
the subject in question were, when I had the 
pleasure of seeing you, such as in that letter 
you stated them to be, and such they still 
continue. 

If any man concludes, because I allow my- 
self the use of sugar and rum, that therefore 
I am a friend to the slave trade, he concludes 
rashly, and does me great wrong; for the man 
lives not who abhors it more than I do. My 
reasons for my own practice are satisfactory 
to myself, and they whose practice is contra- 
ry, are, I suppose, satisfied with theirs. Sc 
* Vicar of Dalington, near Northampton. 



LIFE OF COWPER, 



391 



far is good. Let every man act according to 
his own judgment and conscience ; but if we 
condemn another for not seeing with our 
eyes, we are unreasonable; and if we re- 
proach him on that account, we are unchari- 
table, which is a still greater evil. 

I had heard, before I received the favor of 
vours, that such a report of me as you men- 
tion had spread about the country. But my 
information told me that it was founded 
thus — The people of Olney petitioned parlia- 
ment for the abolition — My name was sought 
among the subscribers, but was not found. 
A question was asked, how that happened ? 
Answer was made, that I had once indeed 
been an enemy to the slave trade, but had 
changed my mind, for that, having lately read 
a history, or an account of Africa, I had seen 
it there asserted, that till the commencement 
of that traffic, the negroes, multiplying at a 
prodigious rate, were necessitated to devour 
each other; for which reason I had judged it 
better that the trade should continue, than 
that they should be again reduced to so hor- 
rid a custom. 

Now all this is a fable. I have read no 
such history; I never in my life read any 
such assertion; nor, had such an assertion 
presented itself to me, should I have drawn 
any such conclusion from it. On the contra- 
ry, bad as it were, I think it would be better 
the negroes should even eat one another, 
than that we should carry them to market. 
The single reason why I did not sign the 
petition was, because I was never asked to 
do it; and the reason why I was never 
asked was, because I am not a parishioner 
of Olney. 

Thus stands the matter. You will do me 
the justice, I dare say, to speak of me as of 
a man who abhors the commerce, which is 
now, I hope, in a fair way to be abolished, 
as often as you shall find occasion. And I 
beg you henceforth to do yourself the just- 
ice to believe it impossible that I should, for 
a moment, suspect you of duplicity or mis- 
representation. I "have been grossly slan- 
dered, but neither by you, nor in conse- 
quence of anything that you have either said 
or written. I remain, therefore, still, as 
heretofore, with great respect, much and tru- 
ly yours, W. C. 

Mrs. Unwin's compliments attend you. 

Cowper, on this occasion, addressed the 
following letter to the editors of the North- 
ampton Mercury, enclosing the verses on Mr. 
Wilberforce which have just been inserted. 

TO THE PRINTERS OF THE NORTHAMPTON 
MERCURY. 
Weston-Underwood, April 16, 1792. 
Sirs*, — Having lately learned that it is pret- 
ty generally reported, both in your county 



and in this, that my present opinion, concern 
ing the slave trade, differs totally from thai 
which I have heretofore given to the public 
and that I am no longer an enemy, but a 
friend to that horrid traffic ; I entreat you to 
take an early opportunity to inseit in your 
paper the following lines,* written no longer 
since than this very morning, expressly for 
the two purposes of doing just honor to the 
gentleman with whose name they are in 
scribed, and of vindicating myself from an as 
persion so injurious. 

I am, &c, W. Cowper. 

The last two lines in the sonnet, addressed 
to Mr. Wilberforce, were originally thus ex- 
pressed : — 

Then let them scoff, two priz* thou hast won ; 
Freedom for captives, and thy God's " Well 
done." 

These were subsequently altered as fol 
low : 

Enjoy what thou bast won, esteem and love 
From all the just on earth and all the blest above. 

Cowper's version of Homer, which has 
formed so frequent a subject in the preced- 
ing pages, led to a public discussion, in which 
the interests of literature and the success of 
his own undertaking were deeply concerned. 
The question agitated was the relative merits 
of rhyme and blank verse, in undertaking a 
translation of that great poet. Johnson, the 
great dictator in the republic of letters, in his 
predilection for rhyme, had almost proscribed 
the use of blank verse in poetical composi- 
tion. " Poetry," he observes, in his life of 
Milton, " may subsist without rhyme ; but 
English poetry will not please, nor can rhyme 
ever be safely spared, but where the subject 
is able to support itself. Blank verse makes 
some approach to that which is Called the 
lapidary style ,* has neither the easiness of 
prose, nor the melody of numbers; and there- 
fore tires by long continuance. Of the Italian 
writers without rhyme, whom Milton alleges 
as precedents, not one is popular. What 
reason could urge in its defence, has been 
confuted by the ear." 

Johnson, however, makes an exception in 
the instance of Milton. 

" But, whatever be the advantages of 
rhyme," he adds, " I cannot prevail on my 
self to wish that Milton had been a rhymer 
for I cannot wish his work to be other than 
it is ; yet, like other heroes, he is to be ad- 
mired rather than imitated. He that thinks 
himself capable of astonishing, may write 
blank verse ; but those that hope only to 
please must condescend to rhyme." 

In his critique on the " Night Thoughts," 
he makes a similar concession. " This is on« 
* See page 396. 



398 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of the few poems in which blank verse could 
not be changed for rhyme but with disad- 
vantage. The wild diffusion of the senti- 
ments, and the digressive sallies of imagina- 
tion, would have been compressed and con- 
strained by confinement to rhyme."* 

Cowper, it will be remembered, questions 
the correctness of Johnson's taste on this 
subject, and vindicates the force and majesty 
of blank verse with much weight of argu- 
ment. With respect, however, to the im- 
portant question, how a translation of Homer 
might be best executed, his sentiments are 
delivered so much at large in the admirable 
preface to his version of the Iliad, that we 
shall lay a few extracts from it before the 
reader. 

" Whether a translation of Homer," he re- 
marks, "may be best executed in blank verse 
or in rhyme, is a question in the decision of 
which no man can find difficulty, who has 
ever duly considered what translation ought 
to be, or who is in any degree practically 
acquainted with those very different kinds 
of versification. I will venture to assert, 
that a just translation of any ancient poet in 
rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity 
can be equal to the task of closing every 
couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing 
at the same time the full sense, and only the 
full sense, of his original. The translator's 
ingenuity, indeed, in this case, becomes itself 
a snare ; and the readier he is at invention 
and expedient, the more likely he is to be 
betrayed into the widest departure from the 
guide whom he professes to follow." 

It was this acknowledged defect in Pope, 
that led Cowper to engage in his laborious 
undertaking of producing a new version. 

We admire the candor with which he ap- 
preciates the merits of Pope's translation, 
and yet we cannot refuse to admit the just- 
ness of his strictures. 

"I have no contest," he observes, "with 
my predecessor. None is supposable be- 
tween performers on different instruments. 
Mr. Pope has surmounted all difficulties in 
his version of Homer that it was possible to 
surmount in rhyme. But he was fettered, 
and his fetters were his choice." " He has 
given us the Tale of Troy divine in smooth 
verse, generally in correct and elegant lan- 
guage, and in diction often highly poetical. 
But his deviations are so many, occasioned 
chiefly by the cause already mentioned, that, 
much as he has done, and valuable as his 
work is on some accounts, it was yet in 
the humble province of a translator, that I 
thought it possible even for me to follow him 
vith son!" advantage." 

* Young's testimony in favor of blank verse is thus 
rorcibly, though rather pompously expressed :— 

"Blank verse is verse unfnllen, uncursed; verse re- 
claimed, re-enthroned in the true language of the gods." 
See Conjectures on Original Composition. 



What the reader may expect to discover 
in the two respective versions is thus de- 
scribed : — " The matter found in me, whether 
he like it or not, is found also in Homer ', 
and the matter not found in me, how much 
soever he may admire it, is only found in Mr. 
Pope. I have omitted nothing; I have in- 
vented nothing." " Fidelity is indeed the 
very essence of translation, and the term 
itself implies it. For which reason, if we 
suppress the sense of our original, and force 
into its place our own, we may call our work 
an imitation, if we please, or perhaps a para- 
phrase, but it is no longer the same author 
only in a different dress, and therefore it is 
not a translation." 

After dwelling upon the merits and defects 
of the free and the close translation, and ob- 
serving that the former can hardly be true to 
the original author's style and manner, and 
that the latter is apt to be servile, he thus 
declares his view of the subject : — " On the 
whole, the translation which partakes equally 
of fidelity and liberality, that is close, but 
not so close as to be servile ; free, but not 
so free as to be licentious, promises fairest; 
and my ambition will be sufficiently gratified, 
if such of my readers as are able and will 
take the pains to compare me in this respect 
with Homer, shall judge that I have in any 
measure attained a- point so difficult." 

He concludes his excellent preface with 
these interesting words : — 

" And now I have only to regret that my 
pleasant work is ended. To the illustrious 
Greek I owe the smooth and easy flight of 
many thousand hours. He has been my 
companion at home and abroad, in the study, 
in the garden, and in the field ; and no meas- 
ure of success, let my labors succeed as they 
may, will ever compensate to me the loss of 
the" innocent luxury that I have enjoyed as a 
translator of Homer." 

Having thus endeavored to do justice to 
the excellent preface of Cowper, we have re- 
served an interesting correspondence, which 
passed between Lord Thurlow and Cowpei 
on this subject, and now introduce it to the 
notice of the reader. It is without date. 

TO THE LORD THURLOW. 

My Lord, — A letter reached me yesterday 
from Henry Cowper, enclosing another from 
your lordship to himself; of which a pas- 
sage in my work formed the subject. It 
gave me the greatest pleasure : your stric- 
tures are perfectly just, and here follows the 
speech of Achilles accommodated to them. 

I did not expect to find your lordship on 
the side of rhyme, remembering well with 
how much energy and 1 interest I have heard 
you repeat passages from the "Paradise 



Lost," which you could not have recited as 
you did, unless you had been perfectly sen- 
sible of their music. It comforts me. there- 
fore, to know that if you have an ear for 
rhyme, you have an ear for blank verse also. 

Jt seems to me that I may justly complain 
of rhyme as an inconvenience in translation, 
even though I assert in the sequel that to 
me it has been easier to rhyme than to write 
without, because I always suppose a rhym- 
ing translator to ramble, and always obliged 
to do so. Yet I allow your lordship's ver- 
sion of this speech of Achilles to be very 
'.lose, and closer much than mine. But 1 
Delieve that, should either your lordship or I 
give them burnish or elevation, your lines 
would be found, in measure as they acquired 
stateliness, to have lost the merit of fidelity — ■ 
in which case nothing more would be done 
than Pope has done already. 

I cannot ask your lordship to proceed in 
your strictures, though I should be happy to 
receive more of them. Perhaps it is pos- 
sible that when you retire into the country, 
you may now and then amuse yourself with 
my translation. Should your remarks reach 
me, I promise faithfully that they shall be all 
most welcome, not only as yours, but be- 
cause I am sure my work will be the better 
for them. 

With sincere and fervent wishes for your 
lordship's health and happiness, I remain, 
my lord, &c. W. C. 



The following is Lord Thurlow's reply : — 

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

Dear Cowper. — On coming to town this 
morning, I was surprised particularly at re- 
ceiving from you an answer to a scrawl I 
sent Harry, which I have forgot too much to 
resume now. But I think I could not mean 
to patronize rhyme. I have fancied that it 
was introduced to mark the measure in 
modern languages, because they are less 
numerous and metrical than the ancient, and 
the name seems to import as much. Per- 
haps there was melody in ancient song with- 
out straining it to musical notes, as the com- 
mon Greek pronunciation is said to have had 
the compass of five parts of an octave. But 
surely that word is only figuratively applied 
to modern poetry. Euphony seems to be 
the highest term it will bear. I have fancied 
also, that euphony is an impression derived 
a good deal from habit, rather than suggested 
Dy nature; therefore in some degree acci- 
dental, and consequently conventional. Else, 
why can't we bear a drama with rhyme, or 
the French, one without it? Suppose the 
'Rape of the Lock," "Windsor Forest," 
* L' Allegro," " II Penseroso," and many other 
(ittle poems which please, stripped of the 



rhyme, which might easily be done, would 
they please us as well ? It would be unfair 
to treat rondeaus, ballads, and odes in the 
same manner, because rhyme makes in some 
sort a part 1 of the conceit. It was this way 
of thinking which made me suppose that 
habitual prejudice would miss the rhyme; 
and that neither Dryden nor Pope would 
have dared to give their great authors in 
blank verse. 

I wondered to hear you say you thought 
rhyme easier in original compositions ; but 
you explained it, that you could go further 
a-field if you were pushed for want of a 
rhyme. An expression preferred for the 
sake of the rhyme looks as if it were worth 
more than you allow. But, to be sure, in 
translation, the necessity of rhyme imposes 
very heavy fetters upon those who mean 
translation, not paraphrase. Our common 
heroic metre is enough ; the pure iambic 
bearing only a sparing introduction of spon 
dees, trochees, &c, to vary the measure. 

Mere translation I take to be impossible, 
if no metre were required. But the differ- 
ence of the iambic and heroic measure de- 
stroys that at once. It is also impossible to 
obtain the same sense from a dead language 
and an ancient author, which those of his 
own time and country conceived : words and 
phrases contract, from time and use, such 
strong shades of difference from their origi- 
nal import. In a living language, with the 
familiarity of a whole life, it is not easy to 
conceive truly the actual sense of current 
expressions, much less of older authors. No 
two languages furnish equipollent words,— 
their phrases differ, their syntax and their 
idioms still more widely. But a translation, 
strictly so called, requires an exact conform- 
ity in all those particulars, and also in 
numlters ; therefore it is impossible. I really 
think at present, notwithstanding the opinion 
expressed in your preface, that a translator 
asks himself a good question, Ho\fr would 
my author have expressed the sentence I am 
turning, in English, as literally and fully as 
the genius, and use, and character of the 
language will admit o*'? 

In the passage before us, arra was the 
fondling expression of childhood to its pa- 
rent; and to those who first translated the 
lines, conveyed feelingly that amiable senti- 
ment. Fepau expressed the reverence which 
naturally accrues to age. Aiorpctim implies 
an history. Hospitality was an article of re- 
ligion ; strangers were supposed to be sent 
by God, and honored accordingly. Jove's 
altar was placed in ^tvoSo^^v. Phcenix had 
been describing that as his situation in the 
court of Peleus ; and his Ac>rp^£<r refers to it. 
But you must not translate that literally — 

Old daddy Phoenix, a God-send for us to main- 
tain. 



400 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



" Precious limbs," was at first an expression 
of great feeling, till vagabonds, draymen, &c., 
brought upon it the character of coarseness 
and ridicule. ' 

It would run to great length, if I were to go 
through this one speech thus — this is enough 
for an example of my idea, and to prove the 
necessity of farther deviation; which still is 
departing from the author, and justifiable only 
by strong necessity, such as should not be ad- 
mitted, till the sense of the original had been 
labored to the utmost and been found irre- 
ducible. 

I will end this by giving you the strictest 
translation I can invent, leaving you the dou- 
ble task of bringing it closer, and of polish- 
ing it into the style of poetry. 

Ah Phoenix, aged father, guest of Jove ! 
I relish no such honors ; for my hope 
Is to be honor'd by Jove's fated will, 
Which keeps me close beside these sable ships, 
Long as the breath shall in my bosom stay, 
Or as my precious knees retain their spring. 
Further I say — and cast it in your mind ! — 
Melt not my spirit down by weeping thus, 
And wailing only for that great man's sake, 
Atrides : neither ought you love that man ; 
Lest I should hate the friend I love s "» well. 
With me united, 'tis your nobler part 
To gall his spirit who has galled mint. 
With me reign equal, half my honors share. 
These will report ; stay you here, and repose 
On a soft bed ; and with the beaming morn 
Consult we, whether to go home or stay. 

Iliad, Book ix. 

I have thought that herb has contracted a 
different sense than it had in Homer's time, 
and is better rendered great man ; but I am 
aware that the enclitics and other little words, 
falsely called expletives, are not introduced 
even so much as the genius of our language 
would admit. The euphony I leave entirely 
to you. Adieu ! 



TO THE LORD THURLOW. 

My Lord, — We are of one mind as to the 
agreeable effect of rhyme, or euphony, in the 
lighter kinds of poetry. The pieces which 
your lordship mentions would certainly be 
spoiled by the loss of it, and so would all such. 
The " Alma" would lose all its neatness and 
smartness, and "Hudibras" all its humor. 
But in grave poems of extreme length, I ap- 
prehend that the case is different. Long be- 
fore I thought of commencing poet myself, I 
have complained, and heard others complain, 
of the wearisomeness of such poems. Not 
that I suppose that tedium the effect of rhyme 
itself, but rather of the perpetual recurrence 
of the same pause and cadence, unavoidable 
in the English couplet. I hope, I may say 
truly, it was not in a spirit of presumption 
that I undertook to do what, in your lordship's 



opinion, neither Dryden nor Pope would hav« 
dared to do. On the contrary, I see not U « 
I could have escaped that imputation, had I 
followed Pope in his own way. A closer 
translation was called for. I verily believed 
' that rhyme had betrayed Pope into his devia- 
tions. For me, therefore, to have used his 
mode of versifying, would have been to ex- 
pose myself to the same miscarriage,, at the 
same time that I had not his talents to atone 
for it. 

I agree with your lordship that a transla- 
tion perfectly close is impossible, because time 
has sunk the original strict import of a thou- 
sand phrases, and we have no means of re- 
covering it. But if we cannot be unimpeacha- 
bly faithful, that is no reason why we should 
not be as faithful as we can ; and if blank 
verse affords the fairest chance, then it claims 
the preference. 

Your lordship, I will venture to say, can 
command me nothing in which I will not 
obey with the greatest alacrity. 

Et Svvapai reXecai ye, km ti Tr.reXtcr^cvov eori. 

But when, having ma<Je as close a translation 
as even you can invent, you enjoin me to make 
it still closer, and in rhyme too, I can only re- 
ply, as Horace to Agustus, 

cupidum, pater optime, vires 



Deficiunt 

I have not treacherously departed from my 
pattern that I might seem to give some proof 
of the justness of my own opinion, but have 
fairly and honestly adhered as closely to it as 
I could. Yet your lordship will not have to 
compliment me on my success, either in re- 
spect of the poetical merit of my lines, or of 
their fidelity. They have just enough of each 
to make them deficient in the other. 

Oh Phoenix, father, friend, guest sent from Jove, 
Me no such honors as they yield can move, 
For I expect my honors from above. [sense 

Here Jove has fix'd me ; and while breath and 
Have place within me. I will never hence, [ears 
Hear, too, and mark me well — haunt not mine 
With sighs, nor seek to melt me with thy tears 
For yonder chief, lest, urging such a plea 
Through love of him, thou hateful prove to me. 
Thy friendship for thy friend shall brighter shine 
— Wounding his spirit, who has wounded mine. 
Divide with me the honors of my throne— 
These shall return, and make their tidings known, 
But go not thou — thy couch shall here bedress'd 
With softest fleeces for thy easy rest, 
And with the earliest blush of op'ning day 
We will consult to seek our home or stay. 

Since I wrote these I have looked at Pope's. 
I am certainly somewhat closer to the original 
than he, but farther I say not. I shall wait 
with impatience for your lordship's conclu- 
sions from these premises, and remain, in the 
meantime, with great truth, my lord, &c. 

W. C. 



LIFE*OF COWPER. 



401 



TO WILLIAM COWTER, ESQ. 

Dear Cowper, — I have received your letter 
on my journey through London, and as the 
chaise waits I shall be short. I did not mean it 
as a sign of any presumption that you have at- 
tempted what neither Dryden nor Pope would 
have dared ; but merely as a proof of their ad- 
diction to rhyme ; for I am clearly convinced 
that Homer may be better translated than into 
rhyme, and that you have succeeded in the 
places I have looked into. But T have fancied 
that it might have been still more literal, pre- 
serving the ease of genuine English and melo- 
dy, and some degree of that elevation which 
Homer derives from simplicity. But I could 
not do it, or even near enough to form a 
judgment, or more than a fancy about it. 
Nor do I fancy it could be done " stans pede 
in uno." But when the mind has been fully 
impregnated with the original passage, often 
revolving it, and waiting for a happy moment, 
may still be necessary to the best trained 
mind. Adieu. rmjuLOW'. 



TO THE LORD THTJRLOW. 

My Lord, — I haunt you with letters, but will 
trouble you now with a short line, only to tell 
your lordship how happy I am that any part 
of my work has pleased you. I have a com- 
fortable consciousness that the whole has 
been executed with equal industry and atten- 
tion ; and am, my lord, with many thanks to 
you for snatching such a hasty moment to 
write to me, your lordship's obliged and af- 
fectionate humble servant. W. Cowfer. 

These letters cannot fail to be read with 
great interest. 

Having in a former part of this work con- 
trasted the two versions of Cowper and Pope, 
we shall now close the subject, by quoting 
Cowper's translation of some well-known 
and admired passages in the original poem. 
The classical reader will thus be enabled to 
determine how far the poet has succeeded in 
the application of his own principle, and re- 
tained the bold and lofty spirit of Homer, while 
ne aims at transfusing his noble simplicity, 
and adhering strictly to his genuine meaning. 
We have selected the following specimens. 

Hector extending his arms to caress his son 
Astyanax, in his interview with Andromache : 

The hero ended, and his hands put forth 
To reach his boy ; but with a scream the child 
Still closer to his nurse's bosom clung, 
Shunning his touch ; for dreadful in his eyes 
The brazen armor shone, and dreadful more 
The shaggy crest that swept his father's brow 
Both parents smil'd, delighted ; and the chief 
Set down the crested terror on the ground. 
Then kiss'd him, play'd away his infant fears, 
And thus to Jove and all the Pow'rs above : 
Grant, O ye gods ! such eminent renown 



And might in arms, as ye have giv'n to me, 
To this my son, with strength to govern Troy. 
From fight return'd be this his welcome home — 
; ' He far excels his sire" — and may he rear 
The crimson trophy to his mother's joy !* 

He spake, and to his lovely spouse consign'd 
The darling boy : with mingled smiles and tear- 
She wrapp'd him in her bosom's fragrant folds* 
And Hector, pang'd with pity that she wept, 
Her dewy cheek strok'd softly, and began. 
Weep not for me. my love ! no mortal arm 
Shall send me prematurely to the shades. 
Since, whether brave or dastard, at his birri 
The fates ordain'd to each his hour to die. 
Hence, then, to our abode ; there weave or spin 
And task thy maidens. War to men belongs ; 
To all of Troy ; and most of all to me. 

Rook vi. line 524. 

The fatal conflict between Hector and 
Achilles : 

So saying, his keen falchion from his side 
He drew, well tempered, ponderous, and rush'd 
At once 'o combat. As the eagle darts 
Right do wnw ird through a sullen cloud to seize 
Weak lamb o: tim'rous hare, so he to fight 
Impetuous sprang, and shook his glittering blade. 
Achilles opposite, with fellest ire 
Pull-fraught came on ; his shield with various art 
Divine portray'd, o'erspread his ample chest; 
And on his radiant casque terrific wav'd, 
By Vulcan spun, his crest of bushy gold, 
Bright as. among the stars, the star of all 
Most splendid, Hesperus, at midnight moves; 
So in the right hand of Achilles beam'd 
His brandish'd spear, while, meditating woe 
To Hector." he explor'd his notle form, 
Seeking where he was vulnerable most. 
But every part, his dazzling armor, torn 
Prom brave Patroclus' body, well-secur'd, 
Save where the circling key-bone from the neck 
Disjoins the shoulder ; there his throat appear'd, 
Whence injur' d life with swiftest flight escapes. 
Achilles, plunging in that s part his spear, 
ImpelPd it through the yielding flesh beyond. 
The ashen beam his power of utt'rance left 
Still unimpair'd, but in the dust he fell. 

Hector's prayer to Achilles : 

By thy own life, by theirs who gave thee birth, 
And by thy knees, oh let not Grecian dogs 
Rend and devour me, but in gold accept 
And brass a ransom at my father's hands, 
And. at thy mother's, an illustrious price ; 
Send home my body, grant me burial rites 
Among the daughters and the sons of Troy. 
Book xxii. line 354. 

The indingant answer of Achilles to the 
prayer of Hector : 

Dog ! neither knees nor parents name to me. 
I would my fierceness of revenge were such, 
That I could carve and eat thee, to whose arms 
Such griefs I owe ; so true it is and sure. 
That none shall save thy carcass from the dogs. 
No. Would they bring ten ransoms by the scale, 
Or twice ten ransoms, and still promise more ; 
Would Priam buy thee with thy weight in gold, 

* For two other versions of '.his passage, see Jetton, 
dated Dec. 17, 1793, and Jan. ^ MM. 
26 



402 



COWPER'S W\)RKS, 



Not even then should she who bare thee weep 
Upon thy bier ; for dogs and rav'ning fowls 
Shall rend thy flesh, till ev'ry bone be bare. 

Hector's last dying words : 

£ knew thee ; knew that I should sue in vain ; 
For in thy breast of steel no pity dwells. 
But oh, be cautious now. lest Heav'n perchance 
Requite thee on that day, when, pierc'd thyself 
By Paris and Apollo, thou shalt fall. 
Brave as thou art, within the Scaean gate. 
He ceas'd, and death involved him dark around. 
His spirit, from his lips dismiss'd, the house 
Of Hades sought, deploring as she went 
Youth's prime and vigor lost/lisasfaous doom ! 
But him, though dead, Achilles thus bespake : 
Die thou. My death shall find me at what hour 
Jove gives commandment, and the gods above. 
Ibid, line 39G. 

The interview between Achilles and Priam, 
who comes to ransom the body of Hector : 

One I had, 

One, more than all my sons the strength of Troy, 

Whom standing for his country thou hast slain — 

Hector — His body to redeem I come, 

In Achaia's fleet, and bring, myself, 

Ransom inestimable to thy tent. 

O, fear the gods ! and for remembrance' sake 

Of thy own she, Achilles ! pity me, 

More hapless still ; who bear what, save myself, 

None ever bore, thus lifting to my lips 

Hands dyed so deep with slaughter of my sons. 

So saying, he waken'd in his soul regret 

Of his own sire ; softly he plac'd his hand 

On Priam's hand, and push'd him gently away. 

Remembrance melted both. Stretch'd prone 

Achilles' feet, the king his son bewail'd, [before 

Wide-slaughtering Hector ; and Achilles wept 

By turns his father, and by turns his friend. 

Patroclus ; sounds of sorrow fill'd the tent. 

Book xxiv. line 822. 

Without entering upon any minute analysis 
of the above passages, we consider them as 
exhibiting a happy specimen of poetic talent ; 
and that Cowper has been successful in ex- 
emplifying the rules and principles which, in 
his preface, he declares to be indispensable 
in a version of Homer. 

It may be interesting to literary curiosity 
to be presented with a summary of facts, re- 
specting Cowper's two versions^ of Homer. 

This important undertaking commenced 
Nov. 21st, 1784, and was completed August 
25th, 1790. During eight months of this 
intervening time, he was hindered by indis- 
position, so that he was occupied in the work, 
on the whole, five years and one month. 
On the 8th of September, 1790, his kinsman, 
the Rev. John Johnson, conveyed the trans- 
lation to Johnson, the bookseller in St. Paul's 
Churchyard, with a view to its consignment 
to the press. During this period Cowper 
gave the work a second revisal, which he 
concluded March 4th, 1791. On July 1st of 
the same year the publication issued from the 
press. In 1793 there was a further revision, 



with the addition of explanatory notes, a 
second edition having been called for. In 
•1796 he engaged in a revisal of the whole 
work, which, owing to his state of mind and 
declining health, was not finished till March 
8th, 1799. In January, 1800, he newmod- 
elled a passage in his translation of the Iliad, 
where mention is made of the very ancient 
sculpture, in which Dsedalus had represented 
the Cretan dance for Ariadne. This proved 
to be the last effort of his pen.* 

We have thought it due to Cowper's vei- 
sion to enter thus largely into an examination 
of its merits, from a persuasion that an un- 
dertaking of this magnitude, executed by the 
author of " The Task," claims to be consid- 
ered as a part of our national literature. It 
remains only to be observed that the for- 
eigner whom he mentions with so much esti- 
mation, as having aided him with his critical 
taste and erudition, was Fuseli the painter. 
He gratefully acknowledges his obligations 
in the following letters to Johnson the book- 
seller. 

Weston, Feb. 11, 1790. 

Dear Sir, — I am very sensibly obliged by 
the remarks of Mr. Fuseli, and beg that you 
will tell him so ; they afford me opportunities 
of improvement which I shall not neglect. 
When he shall see the press-copy, he will be 
convinced of this, and will be convinced like- 
wise, that, smart as he sometimes is, he 
spares me often, when I have no mercy on 
myself. He will see almost a new transla- 
tion. ... I assure you faithfully, that 
whatever my faults may be, to be easily or 
hastily satisfied with what I have written is 
not one of them. 



Sept. 7, 1790. 

It grieves me that, after all, I am obliged 
to go into public without the whole advant- 
age of Mr. Fuseli's judicious strictures. The 
only consolation is, that I have not forfeited 
them by my own impatience. Five years 
are no small portion of a man's life, especially 
at the latter end of it, and in those five years, 
being a man of almost no engagements, I 
have done more in the way of hard work, 
than most could have done in twice the num- 
ber. I beg you to present my compliments 
to Mr. Fuseli, with many and sincere thanks 
for the services that his own more important 
occupations would allow him to render me. 



We add one more letter in this place, ad- 
dressed to his bookseller, to show with what 
becoming resolution he could defend his po- 
etical opinions when he considered them to 
be just. 

Some accidental reviser of the manuscript 
had taken the liberty to alter a line in a poena 

* See Dr. Johnson's sketch of the I ife of Cowper. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



402 



of Cowper's : — this liberty drew from the of- 
fended poet the following very just and ani- 
mated remonstrance, which we are anxious 
to preserve, because it elucidates with great 
felicity of expression his deliberate ideas on 
English versification. 

"I did not write the line that has been 
tampered with, hastily, or without due atten- 
tion to the construction of it ; and what ap- 
peared to me its only merit is, in its present 
state, entirely annihilated. 

" I know that ears of modern verse-writers 
are delicate to an excess, and their readers 
are troubled with the same squeamishness as 
themselves. So that if a line do not run as 
smooth as quicksilver, they are offended. A 
critic of the present day serves a poem as a 
200k serves a dead turkey, when she fastens 
the legs of it to a post, and draws out all the 
sinews. For this we may thank Pope : but 
unless we could imitate him in the closeness 
and compactness of his expression, as well as 
in the smoothness of his numbers, we had 
better drop the imitation, which serves no 
other purpose than to emasculate and weaken 
all we write. Give me a manly rough line, 
with a deal of meaning in it, rather than a 
whole poem full of musical periods, that 
have nothing but their oily smoothness to 
"recommend them! 

" I have said thus much, as I hinted in the 
beginning, because I have just finished a much 
longer poem than the last, which our common 
friend will receive by the same messenger 
that has the charge of this letter. In that 
poem there are many lines which an ear so 
nice as the gentleman's who made the above- 
mentioned alteration w T ould undoubtedlv con- 
demn, and yet (if I may be permitted to say 
it) they cannot be made smoother without 
being the worse for it. There is a rough- 
ness on a plum, which nobody that under- 
stands fruit would rub off, though the plum 
would be much more polished without it. 
But, lest I tire you, I will only add, that I 
wish you to guard me from all such med- 
dling, assuring you, that I always write as 
smoothly as I can, but that I never did, never 
will, sacrifice the spirit or sense of a passage 
to the sound of it." 

Cowper was much affected at this time by 
a severe indisposition, to which he alludes in 
the following letter. 

TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston Underwood, April 27, 1792. 

DeM- Sir, — I write now merely to prevent 
any mspicion in your mind that I neglect 
you. I have been very ill, and for more than 
a fortnight unable to use the pen, or you 
Bhou d have heard long ere now of the safe 
irnval of your packet. I have revised the 



Elegy on Seduction,* but have not as yet 
been able to proceed farther. The best way 
of returning these which I have now in hand, 
will be to return them with those which you 
propose to send hereafter. I will make no 
more apologies for any liberties that it may 
seem necessary to me to take with your copies. 
Why do you send them, but that I may exer- 
cise that freedom, of which the very act of 
sending them implies your permission? I 
will only say, therefore, that you must neither 
be impatient nor even allow yourself to think 
me tardy, since assuredly 1 will not be more 
so than I needs must be. My hands are 
pretty full. Milton must be forwarded, and 
is at present hardly begun ; and I have beside 
a numerous correspondence, which engrosses 
more of my time than I can at present well 
afford to it. I cannot decide with myself 
whether the lines in which the reviewers are 
so smartly noticed had better be expunged 
or not. These lines are gracefully introduced 
and well written ; for which reasons I should 
be loath to part with them.- On the other 
hand, how far it may be prudent to irritate a 
body of critics, who certainly much influence 
the public opinion, may deserve consideration 
It may be added too, that they are not equally 
worthy of the lash: there are among them 
men of real learning, judgment, and candor. 
I must leave it, therefore, to your own de- 
termination. 

I thank you for .-Thomson's Epitaph, on 
which I have only to remark (and I am sure 
that I do it not in a captious spirit) that, since 
the poet is himself the speaker, I cannot but 
question a little the propriety of the quota- 
tion subjoined. It is a prayer, and when the 
man is buried, the time of prayer is over. I 
know it may be answered, that it is placed 
there merely for the benefit of the reader ; 
but all readers of tombstones are not wise 
enough to be trusted for such an interpre- 
tation. 

I was well pleased with your poem on 
* * and equally well pleased with your in- 
tention not to publish it. It proves two 
points of consequence to an author : — both 
that you have an exuberant fancy, and dis- 
cretion enough to know how to deal with it. 
The man is as formidable for his ludicrous 
talent, as he has made himself contemptible 
by his use of it. To despise him therefore 
is natural, but it is wise to do it in secret. 

"Since the juvenile poems of Milton were 
edited by Warton, you need n »t trouble 
yourself to send them. I have them of hia 
edition already. 
I am, dear sir, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

The marriage of Miss Stapleton, the Catli« 

* This Elegy is r„*erted in Mr. Park's volume of son 
nets and miscellaneous poems. 



404 



COWPER'S WORKS 



arina of Cowper, to Sir John Throckmorton's 
brother, (now Mr. Courtenay,) was one. of 
those events which the muse of Cowper 
had ventured to anticipate ; and he had now 
the happiness of finding his cherished wish 
amply fulfilled, and of thereby securing them 
as neighbors at the Hall.* 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, May 20, 1792. 

My dearest Coz, — I rejoice as thou reason- 
ably supposest me to do, in the matrimonial 
news communicated in your last. Not that 
it was altogether news to me, for twice I had 
received broad hints of it from Lady Frog, 
by letter, and several times viva voce while 
she was here. But she enjoined me secrecy 
as well as you, and you know that all secrets 
are safe with me ; safer far than the winds in 
the bags of iEolus. I know not, in fact, the 
lady whom it would give me more pleasure 
to call Mrs. Courtenay, than the lady in 
question ; partly because I know T her, but es- 
pecially because I know her to be all that I 
can wish in a neighbor. 

I have often observed, that there is a reg- 
ular alternation of good and evil in the lot 
of men, so that a favorable incident may be 
considered as the harbinger of an unfavor- 
able one, and vice versa. Dr. Madan's ex- 
perience witnesses to the truth of this obser- 
vation. One day he gets a broken head, and 
the next a mitre to heal it. I rejoice that he 
has met with so effectual a cure, though my 
joy is not unmingled with concern; for till 
now I had some hopes of seeing him, but 
since I live in the north, and his episcopal 
call is in the west, that is a gratification, I 
suppose, which I must no longer look for. 

My sonnet, which I sent you, was printed 
in the Northampton paper, last week, and 
this week it produced me a complimentary 
one in the same paper, which served to con- 
vince me, at least by the matter of it, that 
my own was not published without occasion, 
and that it had answered its purpose.f 

* This wish is expressed in the following lines : — 
" With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, 
To wing all her moments at home, 
And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 
As oft as it suits her to roam ; 
She will have just the life she prefers, 
With little to hope or to fear, 
And ours would be pleasant as hers, 
Might we view her enjoying it here?'' 

See Verses addressed to Miss Staplcton, p. 343. 
t We have succeeded in obtaining these verses, and 
think them worthy of insertion : 

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ., 

tN READING HIS SONNET OF THE SIXTEENTH INSTANT 
ADDRESSED TO MR. WILBERFORCE. 

Desert the cause of liberty!— the cause 
Of human nature! — sacred flame that burn'd 
So late, so bright within thee '.—thence descend 
The monster Slavery's unnatural friend ! 
'Twere vile aspersion ! justly, while it draws 
Thy virtuous indignation, greatly spurn'd. 



My correspondence with Ha} ley proceeds! 
briskly, and is very affectionate ( n both sides. 
I expect him here in about a fortnight, and 
wish heartily, with Mrs. Unv in, that you 
would give him a meeting. I } ave promisee 
him, indeed, that he shall find us alone, but 
you are one of the family. 

I wish much to print the following lines in 
one of the daily papers. Lord S.'s vindica- 
tion of the poor culprit* in the affair of Cheit 
Sing, has confirmed me in the belief that he 
has been injuriously treated, and I think it an 
act merely of justice to take a little notice oi 
him. 

TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. 

BY AN OLD SCHOOL-FELLOW OF HIS AT WEST- 
MINSTER. 

Hastings ! I knew thee young, and of a mind 
While young, humane, conversable, and kind ; 
Nor can 1 well believe thee, gentle then, 
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men : 
But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd 
And worried thee, as not themselves the best. 

If thou wilt take the pains to send them 
to thy news-monger, I hope thou wilt do 
well. 

Adieu! W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, May, 20, 1792. 
My dearest of all Johnnies, — I am not 
sorry that your ordination is postponed. A 
year's learning and wisdom, added to your 
present stock, will not be more than enough 
to satisfy the demands of your function. 
Neither am I sorry that you find it difficult 
to fix your thoughts to the serious point at 
all times. It proves, at least, that you &C 
tempt, and wish to do it, and these are good 
symptoms. Woe to those who enter on the 
ministry of the gospel without having pre- 
viously asked, at least from God, a mind and 
spirit suited to their occupation, and whose 
experience never differs from itself, because 
they are always alike vain, light, and incon- 
siderate. It is, therefore, matter of great joy 
to me to hear you complain of levity, and 
such it is to Mrs. Unwin. She is, I thank 
God, tolerably well, and loves you. As to 
the time of your journey hither, the sooner 
after June the better ; till then we shall have 
company. 

As soon the foes of Afric might expect 
The altar's blaze, forgetful of the law 
Of its aspiring nature, should direct 
To hell its point inverted ; as to draw 
Virtue like thine, and genius, grovelling base, 
To sanction wrong, and dignify disgrace. . 
Welcome detection ! grateful to the Cause, 
As to its Patron, Cowper's just applause ! 

S. M'Clkllan. 
April 25, 1792. 

* Warren Hastings, at that time under impeachment 
as GcTCrnor-general of India. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



404 



I forget not ray debts to your dear sister, 
and your aunt Balls. Greet them both with 
a brother's kiss, and place it to my account. 
I will write to them when Milton, and a 
thousand other engagements will give me 
leave. Mr. Hayley is here on a visit. We 
have formed a friendship that I trust will 
last for life, and render us an edifying ex- 
ample to all future poets. 

Adieu ! Lose no time in coining after the 
time mentioned. W. C. 

The reader is informed, by the close of the 
last letter, that Hayley was at this time the 
guest of Cowper. The meeting, so singu- 
larly produced, was a source of reciprocal 
delight ; and each looked cheerfully forward 
to the unclouded enjoyment of many social 
and literary hours. 

Hayley's account of this visit is too inter- 
esting not to be recorded in his own words. 

"My host, though now in his sixty-first 
year, appeared as happily exempt from all 
the infirmities of advanced life, as friendship 
could wish him to be ; and his more elderly 
companion, not materially oppressed by age, 
discovered a benevolent alertness of charac- 
ter that seemed to promise a continuance of 
their domestic comfort. Their reception of 
me was kindness itself: — 1 was enchanted to 
find that the manners and conversation of 
Cowper resembled his poetry, charming by 
unaffected elegance, and the graces of a be- 
nevolent spirit. I looked with affectionate 
veneration and pleasure on the lady, who, 
having devoted her life and fortune to the 
service of this tender and sublime genius, in 
watching over him with maternal vigilance 
through many years of the darkest calamity, 
appeared to be now enjoying a reward justly 
due to the noblest exertions of friendship, in 
contemplating the health and the renown of 
the poet, whom she had the happiness to 
preserve. 

"It seemed hardly possible to survey hu- 
man nature in a more touching and a more 
satisfactory point of view. Their tender at- 
tention to each other, their simple, devout 
gratitude for the mercies which they had ex- 
perienced together, and their constant, but 
unaffected propensity to impress on the mind 
and heart of a new friend, the deep sense 
which they incessantly felt, of their mutual 
obligations to each other, afforded me a very 
singular gratification ; which my reader will 
conceive the more forcibly, when he has pe- 
rused the following exquisite sonnet, ad- 
dressed by Ccwper to Mrs. Unwin. 

" SONNET. 

" Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings : 
Such aid from Heaven, as some h q ve feign 'd 

they drew ! 
&.n eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, 
ind undel&s'd by praise of meaner things ! 



That ere through age or woe I shed my wing? 
I may record thy worth, with honor due, 
In verse as musical as thou art true, — 
Verse that immortalizes whom it sings ! 

But thou hast little need : There is a book, 
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 
On which the eyes of God not rarely look ; 
A chronicle of actions, just and bright ! 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thet 
mine. 

" The delight that I derived from a perfect 
view of the virtues, the talents, and the pres- 
ent domestic enjoyments of Cowper, was 
suddenly overcast by the darkest and most 
painful anxiety. 

"After passing our mornings in social 
study, we usually walked out together at 
noon. In returning from one of our rambles 
around the pleasant village of Weston, we 
were met by Mr. Greatheed, an accomplished 
minister of the gospel, who resides at New- 
port-Pagnel, and whom Cowper described to 
me in terms of cordial esteem. 

" He came forth to meet us as we drew 
near the fcouse, and it was soon visible, from 
his countenance and manner, that he had ill 
news to impart. After the most tender prep- 
aration that humanity could devise, he ac- 
quainted Cowper that Mrs. Unwin was under 
the immediate pressure of a paralytic attack. 

" My agitated friend rushed to the sight of 
the sufferer; — he returned to me in a state 
that alarmed me in the highest degree for his 
faculties; — his first speech to me was wild in 
the extreme ; — my answer would appear little 
less so : but it was addressed to the predom- 
inant fancy of my unhappy friend, and, with 
the blessing of Heaven, it produced an in 
stantaneous calm in his troubled mind. 

"From that moment he rested on my 
friendship, with such mild and cheerful con- 
fidence, that his affectionate spirit regarded 
me as sent providentially to support him in 
a season of the severest affliction." 

The kindness of Hayley, at this critical 
moment, reflects the highest credit on his 
humanity and presence of mind. By means 
of an electrical machine, which the village 
of Weston fortunately supplied, he succeed- 
ed in relieving his suffering patient with the 
happiest effect. With this seasonable aid, 
seconded by a course of medicine recom- 
mended by Dr. Austen, an eminent London 
physician, and a friend of Hayley's, the violence 
of the attack was gradually mitigated, and the 
agitated mind of Cowper greatly relieved. 

The progress of her recovery, and its in- 
fluence on the tender spirit of Cowper, wilj 
sufficiently appear in the following letters 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, May 24, 1792. 

I wish with all my heart, my dearest Coz. 



406 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



that I had not ill news for the subject of the 
present letter. My friend, my Mary, has 
again been attacked by the same disorder 
that threatened me last year with the loss 
of her, and of which you were yourself a 
witness. Gregson would not allow that first 
stroke to be paralytic, but this he acknowl- 
edges to be so ; and v/ith respect to the for- 
mer, I never had myself any doubt that it 
was, but this has been much the severest. 
Her speech has been almost unintelligible 
from the moment that she was struck; it is 
with difficulty that she opens her eyes, and 
she cannot keep them open; the muscles 
necessary to the purpose being contracted; 
and as to self-moving powers, from place to 
place, and the use of her right hand and arm, 
she has entirely lost them. 

It has happened well, that of all men liv- 
ing, the man most qualified to assist and 
comfort me is here ; though till within these 
few days I never saw him, and a few weeks 
since had no expectation that I ever should. 
You have already guessed that I mean Hay- 
ley — Hayley, who loves me as if he had 
known me from my cradle. Wheii he re- 
turns to town, as he must, alas! too soon, 
he will pay his respects to you. 

I will not conclude without adding, that 
our poor patient is beginning, I hope, to re- 
cover from this stroke also ; but her amend- 
ment is slow, as must be expected at her 
time of life and in such a disorder. I am as 
w r ell myself as you have ever known me in a 
time of much trouble, and even better. 

It was not possible to prevail on Mrs. Un- 
win to let me send for Dr. Kerr, but Hayley 
has written to his friend, Dr. Austen, a re- 
presentation of her case, and we expect his 
opinion and advice to-morrow. In the mean- 
time, we have borrowed an electrical ma- 
chine from our neighbor Socket, the effect 
of which she tried yesterday and the day be- 
fore, and we think it has been of material 
service. 

She was seized while Hayley and I were 
walking, and Mr. Greatheed, who called while 
we were absent, was with her. 

I forgot in my last to thank thee for the 
proposed amendments of thy friend. Who- 
ever he is, make my compliments to him, 
and thank him. The passages to which he 
objects have been all altered, and when he 
shall see ihern new dressed, I hope he will 
like them better* W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 26, 1792. 

My dearest Cousin, — Knowing that you 
wilt be anxious to learn how we go on, I 
write a few lines to inform you that Mrs. 

* This friend was Mrs. Carter. 



Unwin daily recovers a little strength and i 
little power of utterance; but she seems 
strongest, and her speech is more distinct, 
in a morning. Hayley has been all in all to 
us on this very afflictive occasion. Love him 
I charge you, dearly, for my sake. Where 
could I have found a man, except himself 
who could have made himself so necessary 
to me in so short a time, that I absolutely 
know not how' to live without him. 

Adieu, my dear sweet coz. Mrs. Unwin. 
as plainly as her poor lips can speak, sends 
her best love, and Hayley threatens in a few 
days to lay close siege to your affections in 
person. * W. C. 

There is some hope, I find, that the chan- 
cellor may continue in office, and I shall be 
glad if he does, because we have no single 
man worthy to succeed him. 

I open my letter again to thank you, my 
dearest coz., for yours justr eceived. Though 
happy, as you well know, to see you at all 
times, we have no need, and I trust shall 
have none, to trouble you with a journey 
made on purpose ; yet once again, I am will- 
ing and desirous to believe, we shall be a 
happy trio at Weston : but unless necessity 
dictates a journey of charity, I wish all yours 
hither to be made for pleasure. Farewell ! 
thou shalt know how we go on. 



The tender and grateful mind of Cowper, 
sensible of the kind and able services of Dr. 
Austen, led him to pour out the effusions of 
his heart in the following verses. 

TO DR. AUSTEN, 

OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. 

Austen ! accept a grateful verse from me ! 
The poet's treasure ! no inglorious fee ! 
Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind 
Pleasing requital in a verse may find ; 
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, 
Immortalizing names which else had died : 
And. oh ! could I command the glittering wealth 
With which sick kings are glad to purchase 

health : . 
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, 
Were in the power of verse like mine to give, — 
I would not recompense his art with less, 
Who. giving Mary health, heals my distress. 

Friend of my friend, I love thee, though un- 
known, 
And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 



TO MRS. BODHAM. 

Weaton, June 4, 1792. 
My dearest Rose,— I am not such an un. 
grateful and insensible animal, as to hav« 
neglected you thus long withou* i reason. . . 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



4(T, 



I cannot say that I am sorry that our dear 
Johnny finds the pulpit-door shut against 
him at present.* He is young, and can af- 
ford to wait another year ; neither is it to be 
regretted that his time of preparation for an 
office of so much importance as that of a 
minister of God's word should have been a 
little protracted. It is easier to direct the 
movements of a great army than to guide a 
few souls to heaven; the way is narrow and 
full of snares, and the guide himself has the 
most difficulties to encounter. But I trust 
he will do well. He is single in his views, 
honest-hearted, and desirous, by prayer and 
study of the scripture, to qualify himself for 
the service of his great Master, who will suf- 
fer no such man to fail for want of his aid 
and protection. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLET, ESQ. 

Weston, June 4, 1792. 

All's well. 

Which words I place as conspicuously as 
possible, and prefix them to my letter, to save 
you the pain, my friend and brother, of a mo- 
ment's anxious speculation. Poor Mary pro- 
ceeds in her amendment still, and improves, 
I think, eve,n at a swifter rate than when you 
left her. The stronger she grows the faster 
she gathers strength, which is perhaps the 
natural course of recovery. She walked so 
well this morning, that she told me at my 
first visit she had entirely forgot her illness, 
and she spoke so distinctly, and had so much 
of her usual countenance, that had it been 
possible she would have made me forget 
it too. 

Returned from my walk, blown to tatters 
— found two dear things in the study, your 
ietter and my Mary ! She is bravely well, 
and your beloved epistle does us both good. 
I found your kind pencil-note in my song- 
book as soon as I came down on the morn- 
ing of your departure, and Mary was vexed 
to the heart that the simpletons who watched 
her supposed her asleep when she was not, 
for she learned, soon after you were gone, 
that you would have peeped at her, had you 
known her to have been awake : I perhaps 
might have had a peep too, and was as vexed 
as she : but if it please God, we shall make 
ourselves large amends for all lost peeps by- 
and-by at Eartham. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, June 5, 1792. 

Yesterday was a noble day with us — 

speech almost perfect — eyes open almost 

the whole day, without any effort to keep 

them so ; and the step wonderfully improved. 

* Some unexpected difficulties had occurred in obtain- 
ing a curacy, with a tiUe for orders. 



But the night has been almost a sleepless 
one, owing partly I believe to her having had 
as much sleep again as usual the night be 
fore ; for even when she is in tolerable health 
she hardly ever sleeps well two nights to- 
gether. I found her accordingly a little out 
of spirits this morning, but still insisting on 
it that she. is better. Indeed she always tells 
me so, and will probably die with those very 
words upon her lips. They will be true then 
at least, for then she will be best of all. She 
is now (the clock has just struck eleven) en- 
deavoring, I believe, to get a little sleep, for 
which reason I do not yet let her know that 
I have received your letter. 

Can I ever honor you enough for your zeal 
to serve me ? Truly I think not : 1 am how- 
ever so sensible of the love I owe you on 
this account, that I every day regret the 
acuteness of your feelings for me, convinced 
that they expose you to much trouble, morti- 
fication, and disappointment. I have in short 
a poor opinion of my destiny, as I told you 
when you were here, and, though I believe 
that if any man living can do me good you 
will, I cannot yet persuade myself, that even 
you will be successful in attempting it. But 
it is no matter; you are yourself a good, 
which I can never value enough, and, whether 
rich or poor in other respects, I shall always 
account myself better provided for than I de- 
serve, with such a friend at my back as you. 
Let it please God to continue to me my 
William and Mary, and I will be more rea- 
sonable than to grumble. 

I rose this morning wrapt round with a 
cloud of melancholy, and with a heart full of 
fears, but if I see Mary's amendment a little 
advanced when she rises, I shall be better. 

I have just been with her again. Except 
that she is fatigued for want of sleep, she 
seems as well as yesterday. The post 
brings me a letter from Hurdis, who is bro- 
ken-hearted for a dying sister. Had we eyes 
sharp enough, we should see the arrows of 
death flying in all directions, and account it 
a wonder that we and our friends escape 
them but a single day. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, June 7, 1792. 
Of what materials can you suppose me 
made, if after all the rapid proofs that you 
have given me of your friendship, I do not 
love you with all my heart, and regret your 
absence continually % But you must permit 
me to be melancholy now and then ; or if you 
will not, I must be so without your permission, 
for that sable thread is so intermixed witk 
the very thread of my existence as to be in- 
separable from it, at least while I exist in the 
body. Be content, therefore ; let me sigh and 



408 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



groan, but always be sure that I love you ! 
You will be well assured that I should not 
have indulged myself in this rhapsody about 
myself and my melancholy, had my present 
mood been of that complexion, or had not 
our poor Mary seemed still to advance in her 
recovery. So in fact she does, and has per- 
formed several little feats to-day; such as 
either she could not perform at all, or very 
feebly, while you were with us. 

I shall be glad if you have seen Johnny as 
I call him, my Norfolk cousin ; he is a sweet 
lad, but as shy as a bird. It costs him always 
two or three days to open his mouth before a 
stranger; but when he does, he is sure to 
please by the innocent cheerfulness of his 
conversation. His sister too is one of my 
idols, for the resemblance she bears to my 
mother. 

Mary and you have all my thoughts ; and 
how should it be otherwise ? She looks well, 
is better, and loves you dearly. 

Adieu ! my dear brother. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, June 10, 1792. 

I do indeed anxiously wish that everything 
you do may prosper; and should I at last 
prosper by your means, shall taste double 
sweetness in prosperity for that reason. 

I rose this morning, as I usually do, with a 
mind all in sables. In this mood I presented 
myself to Mary's bedside, whom I found, 
though after many hours lying awake, yet 
cheerful, and not to be affected with my de- 
sponding humor. It is a great blessing to us 
both, that, poor feeble thing as she is, she has 
a most invincible courage, and a trust in God's 
goodness, that nothing shakes. She is now 
in the study, and is certainly in some degree 
better than she was yesterday, but how to 
measure that little I know not, except by say- 
ing that it is just perceptible. 4 

I am glad that you have seen my Johnny 
of Norfolk, because I know it will be a com- 
fort to you to have seen your successor. He 
arrived to my great joy, yesterday; and, not 
having bound himself to any particular time 
of going, will, I hope, stay long with us. You 
are now once more snug in your retreat, and 
I give you joy of your return to it, after the 
bustle in which you have lived since you left 
Weston. Weston mourns your absence, and 
will mourn it till she sees you again. What is 
to become of Milton I know not ; I do nothing 
but scribble to you,.and seem to have no relish 
for any other employment. I have however, 
in pursuit of your idea to compliment Darwin, 
put a few stanzas together, which I shall 
subjoin; you will easily give them all that 
you find they want, and match the song with 
mother. 
I am now going to wa> \ with Johnny, much 



cheered since I began writing to you, and bj 
Mary's looks and good spirits. W. C. 

TO DR. DARWIN, 

AUTHOR OF THE BOTANIC GARDEN. 

Two poets (poets by report 

Not oft so well agree) 
Sweet harmonist of Flora's court ! 

Conspire to honor thee. 

They best can judge a poet's worth, 
Who oft themselves have known 

The pangs of a poetic birth, 
By labors of their own. 

We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy song, 
Though various, yet complete, 

Rich in embellishment as strong, 
And learn'd as it is sweet. 

No envy mingles with our praise ; 

Though, could our hearts repine, 
At any poet's happier lays, 

They would, they must, at thine 

But we, in mutual bondage knit 

Of friendship's closest tie, 
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit 

With an unjaundic'd eye : 

And deem the bard, whoe'er he be, 

And howsoever known, 
Who would not twine a wreath for thee, 

Unworthy of his own.* 

* The celebrated poem of "the Botanic Garden," 
originated in a copy of verses, addressed by Miss Seward 
to Dr. Darwin, complimenting him on his sequestered 
retreat near Lichfield. In this retreat there was a mossy 
fountain of the purest water ; aquatic plants bordered ita 
summit, and branched from the fissures of the rock. 
There was also a brook, which he widened into small 
lakes. The whole scene formed a little paradise, and 
was embellished with various classes of plants, uniting 
the Linnean science, with all the charm of landscape. 

When Miss Seward presented her verses to Dr. Darwin, 
he was highly gratified, she observes, and said, '• I shall 
send this poem to the periodical publications ; but it 
ought to form the exordium of a great work. The Lin- 
nean system is unexplored poetic ground, aud a happy 
subject for the muse. It affords fine scope for poetic 
landscape; it suggests metamorphoses of the Ovidian 
kind, though reversed. Ovid made men and women 
into flowers, plants, and trees. You should make flow- 
ers, plants, and trees, into men and women. I," con- 
tinued he, M will write the notes, which must be scien- 
tific, and you shall write the verse." 

Miss S." remarked, that besides her want of botanic 
knowledge, the undertaking was not strictly proper for a 
female pen ; and that she felt how much more it was 
adapted to the ingenuity and vigor of his own fancy. 
After maav objections urged on the part of Dr. Darwin, 
he at length acquiesced, and ultimately produced his 
" Loves of the Plants, or Botanic Garden."* 

Though this poem obtained much celebrity on its first 
appearance, it was nevertheless severely animadverted 
upon by some critics. A writer in the Anti-Jacobin Re- 
view, (known to be the late Mr. Canning) parodied the 
work, by producing " The Loves of the Triangles," in 
which triangles were made to fall in love with the same 
fervor of passion, as Dr. Darwin attiibuted to plants. 
The stvle, the imagery, and the entire composition of 
" The Loves of the Plants," were most successfully imi- 
tated. We quote the following. 

"In filmy, gauzy, gossamery lines, 
With lucid language, and most dark designs, 
In sweet tetrandryan monogynian strains, 
Pant for a pistil in botanic pains ; 
Raise lust in pinks, and with unhallowed fire. 
Bid the soft virgin Violet expire." 
We do not think that the Botanic Garden ever fullt 



* See Life of Dr. Darwin, by Mistt Seward. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



409 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, June 11, 1792. 
My dearest Coz , — Thou art ever in my 
moughts, whether I am writing to thee or not, 
and my correspondence seems to grow upon 
me at such a rate that I am not able to address 
thee as often as 1 would. In fact, I live only 
to write letters. Hayley is as you see added 
to the number, and to him I write almost as 
duly as I rise in the morning ; nor is he only 
added, but his friend Carwardine also — Car- 
wardine the generous, the disinterested, the 
friendly. I seem, in short, to have stumbled 
suddenly on a race of heroes, men who re- 
solve to have no interests of their own Jill 
mine are served. 

But I will proceed to other matters, and 
that concern me more intimately, and more 
immediately, than all that can be done for me 
either by the great or the small, or by both 
united. Since I wrote last, Mrs. Unwin has 
been continually improving in strength, but at 
so gradual a rate that I can only mark it by 
saying that she moves about every day with 
ess support than the former. Her recovery 
s most of all retarded by want of sleep. On 
the whole, I believe she goes on as well as 
could be expected, though not quite well 
enough to satisfy me. And Dr. Austen, 
speaking from the reports I have made of her, 
says he has no doubt of her restoration. 

During the last two months I seem to my- 
self to have been in a dream. It has been a 
most eventful period, and fruitful to an un- 
common degree, both in good and evil. I have 
been very ill, and suffered excruciating pain. 
I recovered, and became quite well again. I 
received within my doors a man, but lately 
an entire stranger, and who now loves me as 
a brother, and forgets himself to serve me. 
Mrs. Unwin has been seized with an illness 
that for many days threatened to deprive me 
of her, and to cast a gloom, an impenetrable 
one, on all my future prospects. She is now 
granted to me again. A few days since I 
should have thought the moon might have 
descended into my purse as likely as any 
emolument, and now it seems not impossible. 
All this has come to pass with such rapidity 
as events move with in romance indeed, but 
not often in real life. Events of all sorts 
creep or fly exactly as God pleases. 

To the foregoing I have to add in conclu- 
sion, the arrival of my Johnny, just when I 
wanted him most, and when only a few days 
before I had no expectation of him. He came 
to dinner on Saturday, and I hope I shall keep 
him long. What comes next I know not, but 
shall endeavor, as you exhort me, to look for 
good, and I know I shall have your prayer 
that I may not be disappointed. 

maintained its former estimation, after the keen Attic 
wit of Mr. Canning, though the concluding lines of Cow- 
>er seem to promise perp etuitv to its fame. 



Hayley tells me you begin to be jealous of 
him, lest I should love him more than I love 
you, and bids me say, " that, should I do so, 
you in revenge must "love him more than I do." 
Him I know you will love, and me, because 
you have such a habit of doing it that you 
cannot help it. 

Adieu ! My knuckles ache with letter- 
writing. With my poor patient's affectionate 
remembrances, and Johnny b. 

I am ever thine, W. J. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, June 19, 1792. 

Thus have I filled a whole page 

to my dear William of Eartham, and have not 
said a syllable yet about my Mary. A sure 
sign that she goes on well. Be it known to 
you that we have these four days discarded 
our sedan with two elbows. Here is no more 
carrying, or being carried, but she walks up 
stairs boldly, with one hand upon the balus 
trade, and the other under my arm, and in like 
manner she comes down in a morning. Still 
I confess she is feeble, and misses much of 
her former strength. The weather too is 
sadly against her : it deprives her of many a 
good turn in the orchard, and fifty times have 
I wished, this very day, that Dr. Darwin's 
scheme of giving rudders and sails* to the ice 

* That a very perceptible change, generally speaking' 
has taken place in the climate of Great Britain, and that 
the same observation applies to other countries, has been 
a frequent subject of remark, both with the past and 
present generation. Various causes have been assigned 
for this peculiarity. It has been said that nature is grow- 
ing old, and losing its elasticity and vigor. Others have 
attributed the change to the vast accumulation of ice in 
the Polar regions, and its consequent influence on the 
temperature of the air. Dr. Darwin humorously sug- 
gested the scheme of giving rudders and sails to the Ico 
Islands, that they might be wafted by northern gales, and 
thus be absorbed by the heat of a southern latitude. It 
is worthy of remark that in Milton's Latin Poems, there 
is a college thesis on this subject, viz., whether nature 
was becoming old and infirm. Milton took the negative < 
of this proposition, and maintained, naturam non pati 
senium, that nature was not growing old. Cowper, in 
his translation of this poem, thus renders some of the 



How ?— Shall the face of nature then be plough'd 

Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last 

On the great Parent fix a sterile curse ? 

Shall even she confess old age, and halt, 

And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows ?— 

Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulph 

The very heav'ns, that regulate his flight? — 

No. The Almighty Father surer laid 

His deep foundations, and providing well 

For the event of all, the scales of Fate 

Suspended, in just equipoise, and bade 

His universal works, from age to age, 

One tenor hold, perpetual, uniisturb'd. — 

Not tardier now is Saturn than of old, 

Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars 

Phoebus, his vigor unimpair'd, still shows 

Th' effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god 

A downward course, that he may warm the vales; 

But, ever rich in influence, runs his road, 

Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. 

Beautiful as at first, ascends the star 

From odorif'rous Ind, whose office is 

To gather home betimes th' ethereal flock, 

To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, 

And to discriminate the night and day. 



410 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



islands that spoil all our summers, were actu- 
ally put into practice. So should we have 
gentle airs instead of churlish blasts, and those 
everlasting sources of bad weather being once 
navigated into the southern hemisphere, my 
Mary would recover as fast again. We are 
both of your mind respecting the journey to 
Eartham, and think that July, if by that time 
she have strength for the journey, will be 
better than August. We shall have more long 
days before us, and them we shall want as 
much for our return as for our going forth. 
This however, must be left to the Giver of all 
good. If our visit to you be according to his 
will, he will smooth our way before us, and 
appoint the time of it ; and I thus speak, not 
because I wish to seem a saint in your eyes, 
but because my poor Mary actually is one, 
and would not set her foot over the threshold, 
unless she had, or thought she had, God's free 
permission. With that she would go through 
floods and fire, though without it she would 
be afraid of everything — afraid even to visit 
you, dearly as she loves, and much as she 
longs to see you. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, June 27, 1792. 

Well then — let us talk about this journey 
to Eartham. You wish me to settle the 
time of it, and I wish with all my heart to 
be able to do so, living in hopes meanwhile 
that I shall be able to do it soon. But some 
little time must necessarily intervene. Our 
Mary must be able to walk alone, to cut her 
own food, feed herself, and to wear her own 
shoes, for at present she wears mine. All 
things considered, my friend and brother, 
you will see the expediency of waiting a lit- 
tle before we set off to Eartham. We mean 
indeed before that day arrives to make a 
•trial of the strength of her head, how far it 
may be able to bear the motion of a car- 
riage — a motion that it has not felt these 
seven years. I grieve that we are thus cir- 
cumstanced, and that we cannot gratify our- 
selves in a delightful and innocent project 
without all these precautions ; but when we 
have leaf-gold to handle we must do it ten- 
derly. 

I thank you, my brother, both for present- 
ing my authorship* to your friend Guy, and 
for the excellent verses with which you have 
inscribed your present. There are none 

Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanes 

Alternate, and with arms extended still, 

She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. 

Nor have the elements deserted yet 

Their functions. — 

Thus, in unbroken series, all proceeds ; 
And shall, till, wide involving either pole 
And the immensity of yonder heav'n, 
The final flames of destiny absorb 
The world, consum'd in one enormous pyre! 
* Verses on Dr. Darwin. 



neater or better turned — with what shall 1 
requite you? I have nothing to send you 
but a gim-crack, which I have prepared fo! 
my bride and bridegroom neighbors, whc 
are expected to-morrow ! You saw in my 
book a poem entitled Catharina, which con 
eluded with a wish that we had her for e 
neighbor :* this therefore is called 

CATHARINA: 

(The Second Part.) 

ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ, 

Believe it or not, as you choose, 

The doctrine is certainly true, 
That the future is known to the muse, 

And poets are oracles too. 

I did but express a desire 

To see Catharina at home, 
At the side of my friend George's fire, 

And lo ! she is actually come. 

And such prophecy some may despise, 
But the wish of a poet and friend 

Perhaps is approv'd in the skies, 
And therefore attains to its end. 

'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth, 
From a bosom effectually warm'd 

With the talents, the graces, and worth, 
Of the person for whom it was form'd. 

Maria would leave us, I knew, 
To the grief and regret of us all ; 

But less to our grief could we view 
Catharina the queen of the Hall. 

And therefore I wish'd as I did, 
And therefore this union of hands, 

Not a whisper was heard to forbid, 
But all cry amen to the bands. 

Since therefore I seem to incur 

No danger of wishing in vain, 
When making good wishes for her, 

I will e'en to my wishes again. 

With one I have made her wife, 
And now I will try with another, 

Which I cannot suppress for my life, 
How soon I can make her a mother. 



Te WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, July 4, 1792. 

I know net how you proceed in your lift 
of Milton, but I suppose not very rapidly 
for while you were here, and since you left 
us, you have had no other theme but me 
As for myself, except my letters to you, and 
the nuptial song I inserted in my last, I 
have literally done nothing since I saw you. 
Nothing, I mean, in the writing way, though 
a great deal in another; that is to say, in 
attending my poor Mary, and endeavoring tc 
nurse her up for a journey to Eartham. In 
this I have hitherto succeeded tolerably w§41 

* See p. 362. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



4n 



and had rather carry this point completely 
than be the most famous editor of Milton 
that the world has ever seen or shall see. 

Your humorous descant upon my art of 
wishing made us merry, and consequently 
did good to us both. I sent my wish to the 
Hall yesterday. They are excellent neigh- 
bors, and so friendly to me that I wished to 
gratify them. When I went to pay my first 
visit, George flew into the court to meet me, 
and when I entered the parlor Catharina 
sprang into my arms. 

y W.C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLET, ESQ. 

Weston, July 15, 1792. 

The progress of the old nurse in Terence 
is very much like the progress of my poor 
patient in the road of recovery. I cannot, 
indeed, say that she moves but advances 
not, for advances are certainly made, but the 
progress of a week is hardly perceptible. I 
know not therefore, at present, what to say 
about this long-postponed journey. The 
utmost that it is safe for me to say at this 
moment is this — You know that you are 
dear to us both : true it is that you are so, 
and equally true that the very instant we 
feel ourselves at liberty, we will fly to Earth- 
am. I have been but once within the Hall 
door since the Courtenays came home, much 
is I have been pressed to dine there, and 
have hardly escaped giving a little offence 
by declining it : but, though I should offend 
all the world by my obstinacy in this in- 
stance, I would not leave my poor Mary 
alone. Johnny serves me as a represent- 
ative, and him I send without scruple. As 
to the affair of Milton, I know not what will 
become of it. I wrote to Johnson a week 
since to tell him that, the interruption of 
Mrs. Un win's illness still continuing, and 
being likely to continue, I knew not when I 
should be able to proceed. The translations 
(I said) were finished, except the revisal of a 
part. 

God bless your dear little boy and poet ! 
I thank him for exercising his dawning gen- 
ius upon me, and shall be still happier to 
thank him in person. 

Abbot is painting me so true, 
That (trust me) you would stare 

And hardly know, at the first view, 
If I were here or there.* 

I have sat twice ; and the few who. have 
Been his copy of me are much struck with 
the resemblance. He is a sober, quiet man, 
which, considering that I must have him at 

* Thi9 portrait was taken at the instance of Dr. John- 
Bon, and ;s thought most to resemble Cowper. It is now 
In the possession of Dr. Johnson's family, and represents 
the poet in a sitting posture, in an evening dress. 



least a week longer for an inmate, is a giea' 
comfort to me. 

My Mary sends you her best love. She 
can walk now, leaning on my arm only, anq 
her speech is certainly much improved. 1 
long to see you Why cannot you and dear 
Tom spend the remainder of the summer 
with us? We might then all set off for 
Eartham merrily together. But I retract 
•this, conscious that I am unreasonable. It 
is a wretched world, and what we would is 
almost always what we cannot. 

Adieu! Love me, and be sure of a re« 
turn. 

w a 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, July 20, 1792. 

Dear Sir, — I have been long silent, and 
must now be short. My time since I wrote 
last has been almost wholly occupied in suf 
fering. Either indisposition of my own, or 
of the dearest friend I have,* has so entirely 
engaged my attention, that, except the revis- 
ion of the two elegies you sent me long 
since, I have done nothing; nor do I at pres- 
ent foresee the day when I shall be able to 
do anything. Should Mrs. Unwin recover 
sufficiently to undertake a journey, I have 
promised Mr. Hayley to close the summer 
with a visit to him at Eartham. At the 
best, therefore, I cannot expect to proceed 
in my Anain business, till the approach of 
winter. I am thus thrown so much into ar- 
rear respecting Milton, that I already despair 
of being ready at the time appointed, and so 
I have told my employer. 

I need not say that the drift of this melan- 
choly preface is to apprize you that you must 
not expect despatch from me. Such expedi- 
tion as I can use I will, but I believe you 
must be very patient. 

It was only one year that I gave to draw 
ing, for I found it an employment hurtful tc 
my eyes, which have always been weak, and 
subject to inflammation. I finished my at- 
tempt in this way with three small land- 
scapes, which I presented to a lady. These 
may, perhaps, exist, but I have now no cor- 
respondence with the fair proprietor. Ex- 
cept these, there is nothing remaining to 
show that I ever aspired to such an accom- 
plishment. 

The hymns in the Olney collection marked 
(C) are all of my composition, except one, 
which bears that initial by a mistake of the 
printer. Not having the book at hand, I can- 
not now say which it is. 

Wishing you a pleasant time at Margate 
and assuring you, that I shall receive, with 
great pleasure, any drawing of yours with 

* Mrs. Unwin. 



412 



COWPER'S WORKS 



which you may favor me, and give it a dis- 
tinguished place in my very small collection, 
I remain, dear sir, 

Much and sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, July 22, 1792. 

This important affair, my dear brother, is* 
at last decided, and we are coming. Wednes- 
day se'nnight, if nothing occur to make a 
later day necessary, is the day fixed for our 
'ourney. Our rate of travelling must depend 
on Mary's ability to bear it. Our mode of 
travelling will occupy three days unavoida- 
bly, for we shall come in a coach. Abbot 
finishes my picture to-morrow ; on Wednes- 
day he returns to town, and is commissioned 
to order one down for us, with four steeds 
to draw it ; 

" Hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, 
That cannot go but forty miles a day." 

Send us our route, for I am as ignorant of it 
almost as if I were in a strange country. 
We shall reach St. Alban's, I suppose, the 
first day ; say where we must finish our sec- 
ond day's journey, and at what inn we may 
best repose ? As to the end of the third 
day, we know where that will find us, viz., 
in the arms, and under the roof, of our be- 
loved Hayley. 

General Cowper, having heard a rumor of 
this intended migration, desires to m«et me 
on the road, that we may once more see each 
other. He lives at Ham, near Kingston. 
Shall we go through Kingston or near it? 
For I would give him as little trouble as pos- 
sible, though he offers very kindly to come as 
far as Barnet for that purpose. Nor must I 
forget Carwardine, who so kindly desired to 
be informed what way we should go. On 
what point of the road will it be easiest for 
him to find us? On all these points you must 
be my oracle. My friend and brother, we 
shall overwhelm you with our numbers; this 
is all the trouble that I have left. My Johnny 
of Norfolk, happy in the thought of accom- 
panying us, would be broken-hearted to be 
left behind. 

In the midst of all these Solicitudes, I laugh 
to think what they are made of, and what an 
important thing it is for me to travel. Other 
men steal away from their homes silently, 
and make no disturbance, but when I move, 
houses are turned upside down, maids are 
turned out of their beds, all the counties 
through which I pass appear to be in an up- 
-oar — Surrey greets me by the mouth of the 
General, and Essex by that of Carwardine. 
How strange does all this seem to a man 
who has seen no bustle, and made none for 
wenty yews together ! 

Adieu! W.C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 

July 25, 1792. 

My dear Mr. Bull, — Engaged as I have 
been ever since I saw you, it was not possi- 
ble that I should write sooner; and, busy aa 
I am at present, it is not without difficulty 
that I can write even now : but I promised 
you a letter, and must endeavor, at least, to be 
as good as my word. How do you imagine 
I have been occupied these last ten days ? 
In sitting, not on cockatrice' eggs, nor yet to 
gratify a mere idle humor, nor because I was 
too sick to move; but because my cousin 
Johnson has an aunt who has a longing de- 
sire of my picture, and because he would, 
therefore, bring a painter from London to 
draw it. For this purpose I have been sit- 
ting, as I say, these ten days ; and am heart- 
ily glad that my sitting time is over. You 
have now, I know, a burning curiosity to 
learn two things, which I may choose whe- 
ther I will tell you or not ; First, who was 
the painter; and secondly, how he has suc- 
ceeded. The painter's name is Abbot. You 
never heard of him, you say. It is very like- 
ly; but there is, nevertheless, such a painter, 
and an excellent one he is. Multa sunt qua 
bonus Bernardus nee vidit, nee audivit. To 
your second inquiry, I answer, that he has 
succeeded to admiration. The likeness is so 
strong, that when my friends enter the room 
where the picture is, they start, astonished to 
see me where they know I am not. Misera- 
ble man that you are, to be at Brighton in- 
stead of being here, to contemplate this 
prodigy of art, which, therefore, you can 
never see; for it goes to London next Mon- 
day, to be suspended awhile at Abbot's ; and 
then proceeds into Norfolk, where it will be 
suspended forever. 

But the picture is not the only prodigy I 
have to tell you of. A greater belongs to 
me ; and one that you will hardly credit, even 
on my own testimony. We are on the eve 
of a journey, and a long one. On this very 
day se'nnight we set out for Eartham, the 
seat of my brother bard, Mr. Hayley, on the 
other side of London, nobody knows where, 
a hundred and twenty miles off. Pray for 
us, my friend, that we may have a safe going 
and return. It is a tremendous exploit, and 
I feel a thousand anxieties when I think of it. 
But a promise made to him when he was 
here, that we would go if we could, and a 
sort of persuasion that we can if we will, 
oblige us to it. The journey, and the change 
of air, together with the novelty to us of the 
scene to which we are going, may, I hope, be 
useful to us both ; especially to Mrs. Unwin, 
who has most need of restoratives She 
sends her love to you and to Thomas, i* 
which she is sincerely joined by 

Your affectionate W. C. 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



.4! 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, July 29, 1792. 

Through floods and flames to your retreat 

I win my desp'rate way, 
And when we meet, if e'er we meet, 

Will echo your huzza. 

You will wonder at the word desp'rate in 
-he second line, and at the if in the third ; 
Dut could you have any conception of the 
fears I have had to bustle with, of the dejec- 
tion of spirits that I have suffered concerning 
this journey; you would wonder much more 
that I still courageously persevere in my reso- 
lution to undertake it. Fortunately for my 
intentions, it happens, that as the day ap- 
proaches my terrors abate ; for had they con- 
tinued to be what they were a week since, I 
must, after all, have disappointed you ; and 
was actually once on the verge of doing it. 
I have told you something of my nocturnal 
experiences, and assure you now, that they 
were hardly ever more terrific than on this oc- 
*. asion. Prayer has however opened my pas-* 
sage at last, and obtained for m§ a degree of 
confidence that I trust will prove a comforta- 
ble viaticum to me all the way. On Wednes- 
day, therefore, we set forth. 

The terrors that I have spoken of would 
appear ridiculous to most, but to you they 
will not, for you are a reasonable creature, 
and know well that, to whatever cause it be 
owing, (whether to constitution, or to God's 
express appointment) I am hunted by spir- 
itual hounds in the night season. I can- 
not help it. You will pity me, and wish it 
were otherwise ; and, though you may think 
there is much of the imaginary in it, will not 
deem it for-that reason an evil less to be la- 
mented — so much for fears and distresses. 
Soon I hope they shall all have a joyful ter- 
mination, and I, my Mary, my Johnny, and 
my dog, be skipping with delight at Eartham ! 

Well ! this picture is at last finished, and 
well finished, I can assure you. Every crea- 
ture that has seen it has been astonished at 
the resemblance. Sam's boy bowed to it, 
and Beau walked up to it, wagging his tail as 
he went, and evidently snowing that he ac- 
knowledged its likeness to his master. It is 
a half-length, as it is technically but absurdly 
called; that is to say, it gives all but the 
foot and ankle. To-morrow it goes to 
town, and will hang some months at Ab- 
bot's, when it will be sent to its due destina- 
tion in Norfolk.* 

I hope, or rather wish, that at Eartham I 
mav recover that habit of study which, invet- 
erate as it once seemed, I now seem to have 
lost — lost to such a degree that it is even 
painful to me to think of what it will cost me 
to acquire it again. 

Adieu ! my dear, dear Hayley ; God give us 

* To Mrs. Bodham's. 



a happy meeting. Mary sends her love — sh« 
is in pretty good plight this morning, having 
slept well, and for her part, has no fears at 
all about the journey. t 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

July 30, 1792 

My dear Friend,— Like you, I am obliged 
to snatch short opportunities of corresp >nd- 
ing with my friends ; and to write what 1 can, 
not what I would. Your kindness in giving 
me the first letter after your return claims my 
thanks ; and my tardiness to answer it would 
demand an apology, if, having been here, and 
witnessed how much my time is occupied in 
attendance on my poor patient, you could 
possibly want one. She proceeds, I trust, in 
her recovery ; but at so slow a rate, that the 
difference made in a week is hardly percepti- 
ble to me, who am always with her. This 
last night has been the worst she has known 
since her illness — entirely sleepless till seven 
in the morning. Such ill rest seems but an 
indifferent preparation for a long journey 
which we purpose to undertake on Wednes- 
day, when we set out for Eartham, on a visit 
to Mr. Hayley. The journey itself will, I 
hope, be useful to her ; and the air of the 
sea, blowing over the South Downs, to- 
gether with the novelty of the scene to us, 
will, I hope, be serviceable to us both. You 
may imagine that we, who have been resident 
on one spot so many years, do not engage in 
such an enterprise without some anxiety. 
Persons accustomed to travel would make 
themselves merry with mine; it seems so 
disproportioned to the occasion. Once I 
have been on the point of determining not to 
go, and even since we fixed the day; my 
troubles have been so insupportable. But it 
has been made a matter of much prayer, and 
at last it has pleased God to satisfy me, in 
some measure, that his will corresponds with 
our purpose, and that He will afford us his 
protection. You, I know, will not be un- 
mindful of us during our absence from home; 
but will obtain for us, if your prayers can do 
it, all that we would ask for ourselves — the 
presence and favor of God, a salutary effect 
of our journey, and a safe return. 

I rejoiced, and had reason to do so, in your 
coming to Weston, for I think the Lord came 
with you. Not, indeed, to abide with me; 
not to restore me to that intercourse with 
Him which I enjoyed twenty years ago ; but 
to awaken in me, however, more spiritual 
feeling than I have experienced, except in 
two instances, during all that time. The 
comforts that I had received under your min 
istry, in better days, all rushed upon my rec 

* Private correspondence. 



41^ 



OWPER'S WORKS 



ollection ; and. during two or three transient 
moments, seemed to be in a degree renewed. 
You will tell me that, transient as they were, 
they were yet evidences of' a love that is not 
so ; and I am desirous to believe it. 

With Mrs. Unwin's warm remembrances, 
and my cousin Johnson's best compliments, 
I am 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 

P. S. — If I hear from you while I am 
abroad, your letter will find me at William 
Hayl.-y's, Esq., Eartham, near Chichester. 
We propose to return in about a month. 



Cowper records the particulars of this visit 
in the following letters. 

TO THE REV. MR. GREATHEED. 

Eartham, Aug. 6, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — Having first thanked you 
for your affectionate and acceptable letter, I 
will proceed, as well as I can, to answer your 
equally affectionate request, that I would send 
you early news of our arrival at Eartham. 
Here we are in the most elegant mansion 
that I have ever inhabited, and surrounded 
by the most delightful pleasure-grounds that 
I have ever seen ; but which, dissipated as 
my powers of thought are at present, I will 
not undertake to describe. It shall suffice 
me to say, that they occupy three sides of a 
hill, which in Buckinghamshire might well 
pass for a mountain, and from the summit of 
which is beheld a most magnificent landscape 
bounded by the sea, and in one part by the 
Isle of Wight, which may also be seen plainly 
from the window of the library, in which I 
am writing. 

It pleased God to carry us both through 
the journey with far less difficulty and incon- 
venience than I expected. I began it indeed 
with a thousand fears, and when we arrived 
the first evening at Barnet, found myself 
oppressed in spirit to a degree that Could 
hardly be exceeded. I saw Mrs. Unwin 
weary, as she might well be, and heard such 
noises, both within the house, and without, 
that I concluded she would get no rest. But 
I was mercifully disappointed. She rested, 
though not well, yet sufficiently ; and when 
we finished our next day's journey at Ripley, 
we were both in better condition, both of 
body and mind, than on the day preceding. 
At Ripley we found a quiet inn that housed, 
as it happened, that night, no company but 
ourselves. There we slept well, and rose 
perfectly refreshed ; and, except some terrors 
that I felt at passing over the Sussex hills 
by moonlight, met with little to complain of, 
till we arrived about ten o'clock at Eartham. 
Here we are as happy as it is in the power 
of terrestrial good to make us. It is almost 



a paradise in which we dAvell ; and our re« 
ception has been the kindest that it was pos- 
sible for friendship and hospitality to contrive. 
Our host mentions you with great respect, 
and* bids me tell you that he esteems you 
highly. Mrs. Unwin, who is, I think, in some 
points, already the better for her excursion, 
unites with mine her best compliments both 
to yourself and Mrs. Greatheed. I have 
much to see and enjoy before 1 can be per- 
fectly apprized of all the delights of Eartham 
and will therefore now subscribe myself 
Yours, my dear sir, 

With great sincerity, W. C. 



TO MRS. COURTENAT. 

Eartham, August 12, 1792. 

My dearest Catharina, — Though I have 
travelled far, nothing did I see in my travels 
that surprised me half so agreeably as your 
kind letter; for high as my opinion of your 
good-nature is, I had no hopes of hearing 
from you till I should have written first ; a 
pleasure which I intended to allow myself 
the first opportunity. 

After three days' confinement in a coach, 
and suffering as we went all that could be 
suffered from excessive heat and dust, we 
found ourselves late in the evening at the 
door of our friend Hayley. In every othei 
respect the journey was extremely pleasant. 
At the Mitre, in Barnet, where we lodged 
the first evening, we found our friend. Rose, 
who had walked thither from his house in 
Chancery-lane to meet us ; and at Kingston, 
where we dined the second day, I found my 
old and much-valued friend, General Cowper, 
whom I had not seen in thirty years, and 
but for this journey should never have seen 
again. Mrs. Unwin, on whose account I had 
a thousand fears, before we set out, suffered 
as little from fatigue' as myself, and begins, I 
hope, already to feel some beneficial effects 
from the air of Eartham, and the exercise 
that she takes in one of the most delightful 
pleasure-grounds in the world. They oc- 
cupy three sides of a, hill, lofty enough to 
command a view of the sea, which skirts the 
horizon to a length of many miles, with the 
Isle of Wight at the end of it. The inland 
scene is equally beautiful, consisting of a 
large and deep valley well cultivated, and 
enclosed by magnificent hills, all crowned 
with wood. I had, for my part, no concep- 
tion that a poet could be the owner of such 
a paradise ; and his house is as elegant as his 
scenes are charming.* 

But think not, my dear Catharina, that 
amidst all these beauties I shall lose the re- 
membrance of the peaceful, but less splendid, 
Weston. Your precincts will be as dear to 

* This residence afterwards became the property of thf 
late William Huskisson, Esq. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



415 



me as e\er, when I return ; though when that 
day will arrive I know not, our host being 
determined, as I plainly see, to keep us as 
long as possible. Give my best love to your 
husband. Thank him most kindly for hk* at- 
tention to the old bard of Greece, and pardon 
me that I do not now send you an epitaph 
for Fop. I am not sufficiently recollected to 
compose even a bagatelle at present; but in 
due time you shall receive it. 

Hayley, who will some time or other I 
hope see you at Weston, is already prepared 
to .ove you both, and, being passionately 
fond of music, longs much to hear you. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Eartham, Aug. ]4, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — Romney is here: it would 
add much to my happiness it' you were of the 
party; I have prepared Hayley to think highly, 
that is, justly, of you, and the time, I hope, 
will come when you will supersede all need 
of my recommendation. 

Mrs. Unwin gathers strength. I have in- 
deed great hopes, from the air and exercise 
which this fine season affords her opportunity 
to use, that ere we return she will be herself 
again. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Eartham, Aug. 18, 1792. 
Wishes in this world are generally vain, 
and in the next we shall make none. Every 
day I wish you were of the party, knowing 
how happy you would be in a place where 
we have nothing to do but enjoy beautiful 
scenery and converse agreeably. 

Mrs. Unwin' s health continues to improve ; 
and even I, who was well when I came, find 
mvself still better. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. COURTENAY. 

Eartham, Aug. 25, 1792. 
Without waiting for an answer to my last, 
[ send my dear Catharina the epitaph she 
desired, composed as well as I could compose 
it in a place where every object, being still 
new to me, distracts my attention, and makes 
me as awkward at verse as if J Ijad never 
dealt in it. Here it is. 

EPITAPH ON FOP; 

A DOG, BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, 
Here moulders one whose bones some honor 

claim ! 
tfo sycophant, although of spaniel race ! 
ind though no hound, a martyr to the chase ! 



Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets rejoice ! 
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice. 
This record of his fate exulting view, 
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you! 

" Yes !" the indignant shade of Fop replies, 
" And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies !" 

I am here, as I told you in my last, de- 
lightfully situated, and in the enjoyment of 
all that the most friendly hospitality can im- 
part; yet do I neither forget Weston, nor 
my friends at Weston: on the contrary, I 
have at length, though much and kindly 
pressed to make a longer stay, determined 
on the day of our departure — on the seven- 
teenth day of September we shall leave 
Eartham ; four days will b.e necessary to 
bring us home again, for I am under a 
promise to General Cowper to dine with him 
on the way, which cannot be done comfort- 
ably, either to him or to ourselves, unless we 
sleep that night at Kingston. 

The air of this place has been, I believe, 
beneficial to us both. I indeed was in toler- 
able health before I set out, but have ac- 
quired since I came, both a kptter appetite 
and a knack of sleeping almost as much in a 
single night as formerly in two. Whether 
double quantities of that article will be favor 
able to me as a poet, time must show. About 
myself, however, I care little, being made 
of materials so tough, as not to threaten me 
even now, at the end of so many lustrums, 
with anything like a speedy dissolution. My 
chief concern has been about Mrs. Unwin, 
and my chief comfort at this moment is, 
that she likewise has received, I hope, con 
siderable benefit by the journey. 

Tell my dear George that I begin to long 
to behold him again, and, did it not savor of 
ingratitude to the friend under whose roof I 
am so happy at present, should be impatient 
to find myself once more under yours. 

Adieu ! my dear Catharhia. I have noth- 
ing to add in the way of news, except that 
Romney has drawn me in crayons, by the 
suffrage of all here, extremely like. W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS* 

Eartham, Aug. 26, 1792. 
My dear Sir, — Your kind but very affect 
ing letter found me not at Weston, to which 
place it was directed, but in a bower of my 
friend Hayley's garden at Eartham, where I 
was sitting with Mrs. Unwin. We both 
knew the moment we saw it from whom it 
came, and, observing a red seal, both, com- 

* This amiable and much esteemed character, and en 
doared B8 one of the friends of Cowper, was horn at 
Bishopstone in Sussex, in 1763. He was elected Pro- 
fessor of Poetry at Oxford In 1~!>3, and died at a prema- 
ture age. In 1H01. His claims as an author principally 
rest on his once popular poem of the wv Village Curate/' 
He also wrote " A Vindication of the University of Ox- 
ford from the Aspersions of Mr. Gibbon." His work* 
are published in 3 vols. 



416 



COWPER'S WORKS 



forted ourselves that all was well at Bur- 
wash : but we soon felt that we were not 
called to rejoice, but to mourn with you ;* 
tve do indeed sincerely mourn with you, and, 
if it will afford you any consolation to know 
it, you may be assured that every eye here 
has testified what our hearts have suffered 
for you. Your loss is great, and your dis- 
position I perceive such as exposes you to 
feel the whole weight of it : I will not add 
to your sorrow by a vain attempt to assuage 
it; your own good sense, and the piety of 
your principles, will, of course, suggest to 
you the most powerful motives of acquies- 
cence in the will of God. You will be sure 
to recollect that^ the stroke, severe as it is, is 
not the stroke of an enemy, but of a father ; 
and will find I trust, hereafter, that like a father 
he has done you good by it. Thousands 
have been able to say, and myself as loud as 
any of them, it has been good for me that I 
was afflicted ; but time is necessary to work 
us to this persuasion, and in due time it 
-shall be yours. Mr. Hayley, who tenderly 
sympathizes ||ith you, has enjoined me to 
send you as pressing an invitation as I can 
frame, to join me at this place. I have every 
motive to wish your consent; both your 
benefit and my own, which, I believe, would 
be abundantly answered by your coming, 
ought to make me eloquent in such a cause. 
Here you will find silence and retirement in 
perfection, when you would seek them ; and 
here such company as I have no doubt would 
suit you, all cheerful, but not noisy ; and all 
alike disposed to love you : you and I seem 
to have here a fair opportunity of meeting. 
It were a pity we should be in the same 
county and not come together. I am here 
till the seventeenth of September, an interval 
that will afford you time to make the neces- 
sary arrangements, and to gratify me at last 
with an interview; which I have long desired. 
Let me hear from you soon, that I may have 
double pleasure, the pleasure of expecting 
as well as that of seeing you. 

Mrs. Unwin, I thank God, though still a 
sufferer by her last illness, is much better, 
and has received considerable benefit by the 
air of Eartham. She adds to mine her affec- 
tionate compliments, and joins me and Hay- 
ley in this invitation. 

Mr. Romney is here, and a young man a 
cousin of mine. I tell you who we are, that 
you may not be afraid of us. 

Adieu ! May the Comforter of all the 
afflicted, who seek him, be yours! God 
oless you ! W. C. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Eartham, Aug. 26, 1792. 
I know not how it is, my dearest coz., but, 
* Mr Hurdis had just lost a favorite sister. 



in a new scene and surrounded with strange 
objects, I find my powers of thinking dissi- 
pated to a degree, that makes it difficult to me 
even to write a letter, and even a letter to you; 
but such a letter as I can, I will, and have 
the fairest chance to succeed this morning, 
Hayley, Romney, Hayley's son, and Beau, 
being all gone together to the sea for bathing. 
The sea, you must know, is nine miles off, so 
that, unless stupidity prevent, I shall have 
opportunity to write not only to you, but to 
poor Hurdis also, who is broken-hearted for 
the loss of his favorite sister, lately dead ; 
and whose letter, giving an account of it, 
which I received yesterday, drew tears from 
the eyes of all our party. My only comfort 
respecting even yourself is, that you write 
in good spirits, and assure me that you are 
in a state of recovery ; otherwise I should 
mourn not only for Hurdis, but for myself, 
lest a certain event should reduce me, and in 
a short time too, to a situation as distressing 
as his ; for though nature designed you only 
for my cousin, you have had a sister's place 
in my affections ever since I knew you. The 
reason is, I suppose, that, having no sister, 
the daughter of my own mother,! thought it 
proper to have one, the daughter of yours. 
Certain it is, that I can by no means afford 
to lose you, and that, unless you will be 
upon honor with me to give me always a 
true account of yourself, at least when we 
are not together, I shall always be unhappy, 
because always suspicious that you deceive 
me. 

Now for ourselves. I am, without the 
least dissimulation, in good health ; my spir 
its are about as good as you have ever seen 
them ; and if increase of appetite, and a 
double portion of sleep, be advantageous, 
such are the advantages that I have received 
from this migration. As to that gloominess 
of mind, which I have had these twenty 
years, it cleaves to me even here, and, could 
I be. translated to Paradise, unless I left my 
body behind me, would cleave to me even 
there also. It is my companion for life, and 
nothing will ever divorce us. So much for 
myself. Mrs. Unwin is evidently the better 
for her jaunt, though by no means as she 
was before this last attack; still wanting 
help when she would rise from her seat, and 
a support in walking ; but she is able to use 
more exercise than she could at home, and 
moves with rather a less tottering step. God 
knows what he designs for me, but when I 
see those who are dearer to me than myself 
distempered and enfeebled, and myself as 
strong as in the days of my youth, I tremble 
for the solitude in which a few years maj 
place me. I wish her and you to die before 
me, but not till I am more likely to follow 
immediately. Enough of this ! 

Romney has drawn me in crayons, and, in 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



41 



the opinion of all here, with his best hand, 
and with the most exact resemblance pos- 
sible.* 

The seventeenth of September is the day 
en which I intend to leave Eartham. We 
shall ihen have been six weeks resident 
here ; a holiday time long enongh for a man 
who has much to do. And now, farewell ! 

W. C. 

P. S. Hay ley, whose love for me seems 
to be truly that of a brother, has given me 
his picture, drawn by Romney, about fifteen 
years ago ; an admirable likeness. 

TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.f 

Eartham, Sept., 1792. 

Dear Madam, — Your two counsellors are 
of one mind. We both are of opinion that 
you willdo well to make your second vol- 
ume a suitable companion to the first, by 
embellishing it in the same manner ; and 
have no doubt, considering the well-deserved 
popularity -of your verse, that the expense 
will be amply refunded by the public. 

I would give you, madam, not my counsel 
only, but consolation also, were t not dis- 
qualified for that delightful service by a 
great dearth of it in my own experience. I 
t<5o often seek but cannot find it. Of this, < 
however, I can assure you, if that may at all \ 
comfort you, that both my friend Hayley and 
myself most truly sympathize with you un- 
der all your sufferings. Neither have you, I 
am persuaded, in any degree lost the interest 
you always had in him, or your claim to any 
service that it may be in his power to render 
you. Had you no other title to his esteem, 
his respect for your talents, and his feelings 
for your misfortunes, must ensure to you 
the friendship of such a man forever. I 
know, however, there are seasons when, 
look which way we will, we see the same 
dismal gloom enveloping all objects. This I 
is itself an affliction: and the worse, because | 
it makes us think ourselves more unhappy 
than we are^: and at such a season it is, I 
doubt not, that you suspect a diminution of 
our friend's zeal to serve you. 

I was much struck by an expression in 
your letter to Hayley, where you say that 
you " will endeavor to take an interest in 
green leaves again." This seems the sound 
of my own voice reflected to me from a dis- 
tance ; I have so often had the same thought 
and desire. A day scarcely passes, at this 
season of the year, when I do not contem- 
plate the trees so soon to be stript, and say, 
" Perhaps I shall never see you clothed 
again." Every year, as it passes, makes this 
expectation more reasonable ; and the year 

* This portrait is now in the possession of Dr. Johnson's 
*amily. 
t Private correspondence. 



with me cannot be very distant, when the 
event* will verify it. Well, may God grant 
us a good hope of arriving in due time 
where the leaves never fall, and all will be 
right ! 

Mrs. Unwin, I think, is a little better than 
when you saw her; but still so feeble as to 
keep me in a state of continual apprehen- 
sion. I live under the point of a sword sus- 
pended by a hair. Adieu, my dear madam ; 
and believe me to remain your sincere and 
affectionate humble servant, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Eartham, Sept. 9, 1792. 

My dearest Cousin, — I determine, if pos- 
sible, to send you one more letter, or at 
least, if possible, once more to send you 
something like one, before we leave Earth- 
am. But I am in truth so unaccountably 
local in the use of my pen, that, like the 
man in the fable, who could leap well no- 
where but at Rhodes, I seem incapable of 
writing at all, except at Weston. This is, 
as I have already told yon, a delightful 
place ; more beautiful scenery I have never 
beheld, nor expect tobehold; but the charms 
of it, uncommon as they are, have not in the 
least alienated my affections from Weston. 
The genius of that place suits me better, it 
has- an air of snug concealment, in which a 7 
disposition like mine feels peculiarly grati- 
fied ; whereas here I see from every window 
woods like forests, and hills like mountains, 
a wildness, in short, that rather increases my 
natural melancholy, and which, were it not 
for the agreeables I find within, would soon 
convince me that mere change of place can 
avail me little. Accordingly, I have not 
looked out for a house in Sussex, nor shall. 

The intended day of our departure contin- 
ues'to be the seventeenth. I hope tore-con- 
duct Mrs. Unwin to the Lodge with hei 
health considerably mended ; but it is in the 
article of speech chiefly, and in her powers 
of walking, that she is sensible of much im- 
provement. Her sight and her hand still fail 
her, so that she can neither read nor work ; 
both mortifying circumstances to her, who is 
never willingly idle. 

On the eighteenth I purpose to dine with 
the General, and to rest that night at King- 
ston, bu the pleasure I shall have in the in- 
terview will hardly be greater than the pain 
I shall feel at the end of it, for we shall part, 
probably to meet no more. 

Johnny, I know, has told you that Mr. 
Hurdis is here. Distressed by the loss of 
his sister, he has renounced the place where 
she died forever, and is about to enter on a 
new course of life at Oxford. You would 
admire him much, he is gentle in his manners, 
and delicate in his person, resembling oui 
27 



418 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



poor friend, Unwin, both in face and figure, 
more than any one I have seen. But he has 
not, at least he has not at present, his vi- 
vacity. 

I have corresponded since I came here with 
Mrs. Court enay, and had yesterday a very 
kind letter from her. 

Adieu, my dear ; may God bless you. 
Write to me as soon as you can after the 
twentieth. I shall then be at Weston, and 
indulging myself in the hope that I shall ere 
long see you there also. W. C. 

Hayley, speaking of the manner in which 
they employed their time at Eartham, ob- 
serves, " Homer was not the immediate object 
of our attention. The morning hours that 
we could bestow upon books were chiefly 
devoted to a complete revisal and correction 
of all the translations, which my friend had 
finished, from the Latin and Italian poetry of 
Milton: and we generally amused ourselves 
after dinner in forming together a rapid met- 
rical version of Andreini's Adamo * He 

* This is one of those scarce and curious books which 
is not to be procured without difficulty. It is a dramatic 
representation of the Fall, remarkable, not so much for 
any ..peculiar vigor, either in the conception or execution 
of the plan, as for exhibiting that mode of celebrating 
sacred subjects, formerly known under the appellation 
of mysteries. A further interest is also attached to it 
from the popular persuasion that this work first sug- 
gested to Milton the design of his Paradise Lost. There 
is the same allegorical imagery, and sufficient to form 
the frame-work of that immortal poem. Johnson, in his 
Life of Milton, alludes to the report, without arriving at 
any decided conclusion on the subjeot, but states, that 
Milton's original intention was to have formed, not a nar- 
rative, but a dramatic work, and that he subsequently 
began to reduce it to its present form, about the year 
]655. Some sketches of this plan are to be seen in the 
library of Trinity college, Cambridge. Dr. Joseph War- 
tot and Hayley both incline to the opinion that, the 
Adamo of Andreini first suggested the hint of the Para- 
dise Lost. 

That the Italians claim this honor for their countryman 
is evident from the following passage from Tiraboschi, 
which, to those of our readers who are conversant with 
that language, will be an interesting quotation. "Certo 
benche L' Adamo dell Andreini sia in confronto dell 
Paradiso Perduto cib che e il Poema di Ennio in confronto 
a quel di Virgilio, nondimeno non pub negarsi che le 
idee gigantesche, delle quali 1' autore Inglese ha abbellito 
il suo Poema, di Satana, che entra nel Paradiso terrestre, 
e arde d' invidia al vedere la felicita dell' Uomo, del 
congresso de Demonj, della battaglia degli Angioli contra 
Lucifero, e piii altre sommiglianti immagini veggonsi 
nelV Adamo adombrate per modo, che a me sembramolto 
credibile, che anche il Milton dalle immondezze, se cosi 
e lecito dire, dell' Andreini raccogliesse l'oro, di cui 
adorno il suo Poema. Per altro IS Adamo deli' Andreini, 
benche abbia alcuni tratti di pessimo gusto, ne ha altri 
ancora, che si posson proporre come modello di excel- 
lente poesia." 

It is no disparagement to Milton to have been indebted 
to the conceptions of another for the origin of his great 
undertaking. If Milton borrowed, it was to repay with 
largeness of interest. The only use that he made of the 
suggestion was, to stamp upon it the immortality of his 
own creative genius, and to produce a work which is des- 
tined to survive to the latest period of British literature. 

For farther information on this subject, we refer the 
reader to the "Inquiry into the Origin of Paradise Lost,' r 
in Todd's excellent edition of Milton ; and in Hayley's 
Life of Milton will be found Cowper's and Hayley's joint 
version of the first three acts of the Adamo above men- 
tioned. 

In addition to the Adamo of Andreini, Milton is said 
to have been indebted to the Du Bartas of Sylvester, and 
to the Adartus I":ku1 of Grotius. Hayley, in his Life of 



also mentions the interest excited in Cow- 
per's mind by his son, a fine boy of eleven 
yenrs, whose uncommon talents and engaging 
qualities endeared him so much to the poet, 
that he allowed and invited him to criticise 
his Homer. A specimen of this juvenile 
criticism will appear in the future correspond- 
ence. This interesting boy, with a young 
companion, employed themselves regularly 
twice a day in drawing Mrs. Unwin in a 
commodious garden-chair, round the airy hill 
at Eartham. " To Cowper and to me," h« 
adds, " it was a very pleasing spectacle to see 
the benevolent vivacity of blooming youth 
thus continually laboring for the ease, health,, 
and amusement of disabled age." 

The reader will perceive from the last 
letter, that Cowper, amused as he was with 
the scenery of Sussex, began to feel the 
powerful attraction of home. 



TO MRS. COURTENAY,* WESTON-TJNDERWOOD.j 
Eartham, Sept. 10, 1792. 

My dear Catharina, — I am not so uncour- 
teous a knight as to leave your last kind 
letter, and the last I hope that I shall receive 
for a long time to come, without an attempt, 
at least, to acknowledge and to send you 
something in the shape of an answer to it; 
but, having been obliged to dose myself last 
night with laudanum, on account of a little 
nervous fever, to which I am always subject, 
and for which I find it the best remedy, I feel 
myself this morning particularly under the in- 
fluence of Lethean vapors, and, consequently, 
in danger of being uncommonly stupid ! 

You could hardly have sent me intelligence 
that would have gratified me more than that 
of my two dear friends, Sir John and Lady 
Throckmorton, having departed from Paris 
two days before the terrible 10th of August. 
I have had many anxious thoughts on their 

Milton, enumerates also a brief list of Italian writers, 
who may possibly have thrown some suggestions into 
the mind of the poet. But the boldest act of imposition 
ever recorded in the annals of literature, is the charge 
preferred against Milton by Lauder, who endeavored to 
prove that he was " the worst and greatest, of all plagia- 
ries." He asserted that " Milton had borrowed the sub- 
stance of whole books together, and that there was 
scarcely a single thought or sentiment in his poem which 
he had not stolen from some author or other, notwith- 
standing his vain pretence to things unattempted yet ir 
prose or rMjme^ In support of this charge, he was base 
enough to corrupt the text of those poets, whom he pro- 
duced as evidences against the originality of Milton, by 
interpolating several verses either of his own fabrication, 
or from the Latin translation of Paradise Lost, by Wil- 
liam Hog. This gross libel he entitled an " Essay on 
Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns ;" and so far 
imposed on Dr. Johnson, by his representations, as to 
prevail upon him to furnish a preface to his work. The 
public are indebted to Dr. Douglas, the Bishop of Salis- 
bury, for first detecting this imposture, in a pamphlet en- 
titled " Milton vindicated from the charge of Plagiarism 
brought against him by Mr. Lauder." Thus exposed to 
infamy and contempt, he made a public recantation of 
his error, and soon after quitted England for the West 
Indies, where he died in 1771. 

* Now Dowager Lad) Throckmorton. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



41 



account; and am truly happy to learn that 
they have sought a more peaceful region, 
while it was yet permitted them to do so. 
They will not, I trust, revisit those scenes of 
tumult and horror while they shall continue 
to merit that description. We are here all 
of one mind respecting the cause in which 
the Parisians are engaged ; wish them a free 
people, and as happy as they can wish them- 
selves. But their conduct has not always 
pleased us ; we are shocked at their sangui- 
nary proceedings, and begin to fear, myself 
in particular, that they will prove themselves 
unworthy, because incapable of enjoying it, 
of the inestimable blessing of liberty. My 
daily toast is, Sobriety and freedom to the 
French ; for they seem as destitute of the 
former as they are eager to secure the latter. 
We still hold our purpose of leaving Earth- 
am on the seventeenth ; and again my fears 
on Mrs. Un win's account begin to trouble 
me; but they are now not quite so reason- 
able as in the first instance. If she could 
bear the fatigue of travelling then, she is 
more equal to it at present ; and, supposing 
that nothing happens to alarm her, which is 
very probable, may be expected to reach 
Weston in much better condition than when 
she left it. Her improvement, however, is 
. chiefly in her looks, and in the articles of 
speaking and walking: for she can neither 
rise from her chair without help, nor walk 
without a support, nor read, nor use her 
needle. Give my love to the good doctor, 
and make him acquainted with the state of 
his patient, since he, of all men, seems to 
have the best right to know it. 

T am proud that you are pleased with the 
Epitaph* I sent you, and shall be still prouder 
*.o see it perpetuated by the chisel. It is all 
that I have done since here I came, and all 
v hat I have been able to do. I wished, in- 
deed, to have requited Rornney, for his well- 
drawn copy of me, in rhyme : and have more 
than once or twice attempted it ; but I find, 
ike the man in the fable, who could leap 
only at Rhodes, that verse is almost impossi- 
ble to me, except at Weston. — Tell my friend 
George that I am every day mindful of him, 
and always love him; and bid him by no 
means to vex himself about the tardiness of 
Andrews.f Remember me affectionately to 
William, and to Pitcairn, whom I shall hope 
to find with you at my return ; and, should 
you see Mr. Buchanan, to him also. I have 
now charged you with commissions enow, 
and having added Mrs. Unwin's best compli- 
ments, and told you that I long to see you 
again, will conclude myself, 
My dear Catharina, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 

* On Fop, Lady Throckmorton's dog. 
f A 8t<»ne-m ison, who was making a pedestal for an 
witique bust oi Homer. 



Their departure from Eartham was a scene 
of affecting interest, and a perfect contrast to 
the gaiety of their arrival. Anxious to re- 
lieve the mind of Hayley from any apprehen- 
sion for their safety, Cowper addressed to 
him the following letter from Kingston. 

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

The Sun, at Kingston, Sept. 18, 17%. 

My dear Brother, — With no sinister acci- 
dent to retard or terrify us, we find ourselves 
at a quarter before one, arrived safe at King- 
ston. I left you with a heavy heart, and 
with a heavy heart took leave of our dear 
Tom* at the bottom of the chalk-hill. But. 
soon after this last separation, my troubles 
gushed from my eyes, and then I was better. 
We must now prepare for our visit to the 
General. I add no more, therefore, than our 
dearest remembrances and prayers that God 
may bless you and yours, and reward you 
an hundred-fold for all your kindness. Tell 
Tom I shall always hold him dear for his af- 
I fectionate attentions to Mrs. Unwin. From 
j her heart the memory of him can never be 
erased. Johnny loves you all, and has his 
share in all these acknowledgments. 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Sept. 21, 1792. 
My dear Hayley, — Chaos himself, even the 
chaos of Milton, is not surrounded with more 
confusion, nor has a mind more completely 
in a hubbub, than I experience at the present 
moment. At our first arrival, after long ab- 
sence, we find a hundred orders to servants 
necessary, a thousand things to be restored 
to their proper places, and an endless variety 
of minutioe to be adjusted; which, though 
individually of little importance, are momen 
tous in the aggregate. In these circumstan 
ces I find myself so indisposed to writing, 
that, save to yourself, I would on no account 
attempt it ; but to you I will give such a re- 
cital as I can of all that has passed -ince I 
sent you that short note from Kingston, 
knowing that, if it be a perplexed recital, \ ou 
will consider the cause and pardon it. I will 
begin with a remark in which I am inclined 
to think you will agree with me, that there 
is sometimes more true heroism passing in a 
corner, and on occasions that make no noise 
in the world, than has often been exercised 
by those whom that world esteems her 
greatest heroes, and on occasions the most 
illustrious. I hope so at least; for all the 
heroism I have to boast, and all the oppor- 
tunities I have of displaying any, are of a 
private nature. After writing the note, I 
immediately began to prepare for my af> 
* Hayley's son. 



420 



COWPER'S WORKS 



pointed visit to Ham ; but the struggles that 
I had with my own spirit, laboring as I did 
under the most dreadful dejection, are never 
to be told. I would have given the world to 
have been excused. I went, however, and 
carried my point against myself, with a heart 
riven asunder — I have reasons for ii 11 this 
anxiety, which I cannot relate now. The 
visit, however passed off well, and we re- 
turned in the dark to Kingston ; J, with a 
lighter heart than I had known since my de- 
parture from Eartham, and Mary too, for she 
had suffered hardly less than myself, and 
chieily on my account. That night we rested 
well in our inn, and at twenty minutes afier 
eight next morning set off for London ; ex- 
actly at ten we reached Mr. Rose's door; we 
drank a dish of chocolate with him, and pro- 
ceeded, Mr. Rose riding with us as far as St. 
Alban's. From this time we met with no 
impediment. In the dark, and in a storm, at 
eight at night, we found ourselves at our 
own back-door. Mrs. Unwin was very near 
slipping out of the chair in which she was 
taken from the chaise, but at last was landed 
safe. We all have had a good night, and 
are all well this morning. 

God bless you, my dearest brother. 

W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 2, 1792. 

My dear Hayley, — A bad night, succeeded 
by an east wind, and a sky all in sables, have 
such an effect on my spirits, that, if I did not 
consult my own comfort more than yours, I 
should not write to-day, for I shall not enter- 
tain you much- yet your letter, though con- 
taining no very pleasant tidings, has afforded 
me some relief. It tells me, indeed, that you 
have been dispirited yourself, and that poor 
little Tom, the faithful 'squire of my Mary, 
has been seriously indisposed. All this 
grieves me : but then there is a warmth of 
heart and a kindness in it that do me good. 
I will endeavor not to repay you in notes 
of sorrow and despondence, though all my 
sprightly chords seem broken. In truth, one 
day excepted, I have not seen the day when 
I have been cheerful since I left you. My 
spirits, I think, are almost constantly lower 
than they were ; the approach of winter is 
perhaps the cause, and if it is, I have nothing 
better to expect for a long time to come. 

Yesterday was a day of assignation with 
myself, the day of which I said some days 
before it came, when that day comes I will 
begin my dissertations. Accordingly, when 
it came, I prepared to do so ; filled a letter- 
oase with fresh paper, furnished myself with 
a pretty good pen, and replenished my ink- 
bottle ; but, partly from one cause, and partly 
from another, chiefly, however, from distress 



and dejection, after writing and obliterating 
about six lines, in the composition of which 
I spent near an hour, I was obliged to relin- 
quish the attempt. An attempt so unsuc- 
cessful could have no other effect than to dis- 
hearten me, and it has had that effect to such 
a degree, that I know not when I shall find 
courage to make another: At present I shall 
certainly abstain, since at present I cannot 
well afford to expose myself to the danger 
of a fresh mortification. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 13, 1792. 

I began a letter to you yesterday, my 
dearest brother, and proceeded through two 
sides of my sheet, but so much of my ner- 
vous fever found its way into it, that, looking 
over it this morning, I determined not to 
send it. 

I have risen, though not in good spirits, 
yet in better than I generally do of late, and 
therefore will not address you in the melan- 
choly tone that belongs to my worst feelings. 

I began to be restless about your portrait, 
and to say, how long shall I have to wait for 
it? I wished it here for many reasons; the 
sight of it will be a comfort to me, for I not 
only love but am proud of you, as of a con- 
quest made in my old age. Johnny goes to 
town on Monday, on purpose to call on 
Romney, to whom he shall give all proper 
information concerning its conveyance hither 
The name of a man whom I esteem as I do 
Romney, ought not to be unmusical in my 
ears : but his name will be so till I shall have 
paid him a debt justly due to him, by doing 
such poetical honors to it as I intend. 
Heaven knows when that intention will be 
executed, for the muse is still as obdurate 
and as coy as ever. 

Your kind postscript is just arrived, and 
gives me great pleasure. When I cannot see 
you myself, it seems some comfort, however, 
that you have been seen by another known 
to me ; and who will tell me in a few days 
that he has seen you. Your wishes to dis- 
perse my melancholy would, I am sure, pre- 
vail, did that event depend on the warmth 
and sincerity with which you frame them ; 
but it has baffled both wishes and prayers, 
and those the most fervent that could be 
made, so many years, that the case seems 
hopeless. But no more of this at present. 

Your vtrses to Austen are as sweet as the 
honey that they accompany : kind, friendly, 
witty, and elegant ! When shall I be able to 
do the like? Perhaps when my Mary, like 
your Tom, shall cease to be an invalid, 1 
may recover a power, at least, to do some- 
thing. I sincerely rejoice in the dear little 
man's restoration. My Mary continues, J 
hope, to mend a little. W. 0. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



42 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Oct. 14. 1792. 

My dear Madam, — Your kind inquiries af- 
ter mine and Mrs. Unwin's health will not 
permit me to be silent ; though I am and 
have long been so indisposed to writing, that 
even a letter has almost overtasked me. 

Your last but one found me on the point 
of setting out for Sussex, whither I went 
with Mrs. Unwin, on a visit to my friend, Mr. 
Hayley. We spent six weeks at Eartham, 
and returned on the nineteenth of Septem- 
ber. I had hopes that change of air and 
change of scene might be serviceable both 
to my poor invalid and me. She, I hope, 
has received some benefit; and I am not the 
worse for it myself; but, at the same time, 
must acknowledge that I cannot boast of 
much amendment. The time we spent there 
could not fail to pass as agreeably as her 
weakness, and my spirits, at a low ebb, 
would permit. Hayley is one of the most 
agreeable men, as well as *)ne of the most 
cordial friends. His house is elegant; his 
library large, and well chosen; and he is 
surrounded by the most delightful scenery. 
But I have made the experiment only to 
prove, what indeed I knew before, that crea- 
tures are physicians of little value, and that 
health and cure are from God only. Hence- 
forth, therefore, I shall wait for those bless- 
ings from Him, and expect them at no other 
hand. In the meantime, I have the comfort 
to be able to tell you that Mrs. Unwin, on 
the whole, is restored beyond the most san- 
guine expectations I had when I wrote last; 
and that, as to myself, it is not much other- 
wise with me than it has been these twenty 
years ; except that this season of the year is 
always unfavorable to my spirits. 

I rejoice that you have had the pleasure of 
another interview with Mr. Martyn ; and am 
glad that the trifles I have sent you afforded 
him any amusement. This letter has already 
given you to understand that I am at present 
no artificer of verse ; and that, consequently, 
I have nothing new to communicate. When 
I have, I shall do it to none more readily than 
to yourself. 

My dear madam, 

Very affectionately yours, W. C. 



iO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Oct. 18, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — I thought that the won- 
ler had been all on my side, having been 
employed in wondering at your silence, as 
ong as you at mine. Soon after our arrival 
tt Eartham, I received a letter from you, 
vhich I answered, if not by the return of the 

* Private correspondence. 



post, at least in a day or two. Not that 
should have insisted on the ceremonial of 
letter for letter, during so long a period 
could I have found leisure to double youi 
debt ; but while there, I had no opportunity 
for writing, except now and then a short one ; 
for we breakfasted early, studied Milton as 
soon as breakfast was over, and continued in 
that employment till Mrs. Unwin came forth 
from her chamber, to whom all the rest of 
my time was necessarily devoted. Our re- 
turn to Weston was on the nineteenth of 
last month, according to your information. 
You will naturally think that, in the interval, 
I must have had sufficient leisure to give you 
notice of our safe arrival. But the fact has 
been otherwise. I have neither been well 
myself, nor is Mrs. Unwin, though better, so 
much improved in her health as not still to 
require my continual assistance. My disorder 
has been the old one, to which I have been 
subject so many years, and especially about 
this season' — a nervous fever; not, indeed, 
so oppressive as it has sometimes proved, 
but sufficiently alarming both to Mrs. Unwin 
and myself, and such as made it neither easy 
nor proper for me to make much use of my 
pen while it continued. At present I am 
tolerably free from it; a blessing for which 
I believe myself partly indebted to the use 
of James's powder, in small quantities; and 
partly to a small quantity of laudanum, 
taken every night; but chiefly to a manifes- 
tation of God's presence vouchsafed to me 
a few days since; transient, indeed, and 
dimly seen through a mist of many fears and 
troubles, but sufficient to convince me, at 
least while the Enemy's power is a little re- 
strained, that he has not cast me off forever. 
Our visit was a pleasant one ; as pleasant 
us Mrs. Unwin's weakness and the state of 
my spirits, never very good, would allow. 
As to my own health, I never expected that 
it would be much improved 'by the journey : 
nor have T found it so. Some benefit, in- 
deed, I hoped; and, perhaps, a little more 
than I found. But the season was, after .the 
first fortnight, extremely unfavorable, stormy, 
and wet ; and the prospects, though grand 
and magnificent, yet rather of a melancholy 
cast, and consequently not very propitious to 
me. The cultivated appearance of Weston 
suits my frame of mind far better than wild 
hills that aspire to be mountains, covered with 
vast unfrequented woods, and here and there 
affording a peep between their summits at 
the distant ocean. Within doors aft wag 
hospitality and kindness, but the scenery 
would have its effect; and, though delightfu" 
in the extreme to those who had spirits t« 
bear it, was too gloomy for me. 
Yours, my dear friend, 

Most sincerely, 

w.c. 



*22 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 19, 1792. 

My dearest Johnny, — You are too useful 
when you are here not to be missed on a hun- 
dred occasions daily ; and too much domesti- 
cated with us not to be regretted always. I 
hope, therefore, that your month or six weeks 
will not be like many that I have known, ca- 
pable of being drawn out into any length 
whatever, and productive of nothing but dis- 
appointment. 

J have done nothing since you went, ex- 
cept that I have composed the better half of 
a sonnet to Romney; yet even this ought to 
bear an earlier date, for I began to be haunt- 
ed with a desire to do it long before we came 
out of Sussex, and have daily attempted it 
ever since. 

It would be well for the reading part of 
the world, if the writing part were, many of 
them, as dull as I am. Yet even this small 
produce, which my sterile intellect has hard- 
ly yielded at last, may serve to convince you 
that in point of spirits I am not worse. 

In fact, I am a little better. The powders 
and the laudanum together have, for the 
present at least, abated the fever that con- 
sumes them; and in measure as the fever 
abates, I acquire-a less discouraging view of 
things, and with it a little power to exert 
myself. 

In the evenings I read Baker's Chronicle 
to Mrs. Unwin, having no other history, and 
hope in time to be as well versed in it as his 
admirer, Sir Roger de Coverley. 

W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 22, 1792. 
My dear Johnny, — Here I am, with I know 
not how many letters to answer, and no time 
to do it in. I exhort you, therefore, to set a 
proper value on this, as proving your priority 
in my attentions, though in other respects 
ikely to be of little value. 

You do well to sit for your picture, and 
give very sufficient reasons for doing it ; you 
will also, I dqubt not, take care that when 
future generations shall look at it, some spec- 
tator or other shall say, this is the picture of 
a good man and a useful one. 

And now God bless you my dear Johnny. 
I proceed much after the old Tate; rising 
cheerless and distressed in the morning, and 
brightening a little as the day goes on. 

A lieu, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 28, 1792. 

Nothing done, my dearest brother, nor 
£kely to be done at* present; yet I purpose 
in a day or two to make another attempt, to 



which, however, I shall address myself wilb 
fear and trembling, like a man who, having 
sprained his wrist, dreads to use it. I have 
not, indeed, like such a man, injured myself 
by any extraordinary exertion, but seem aa 
much enfeebled as if 1 had. The conscious- 
ness that there is so much to do, and nothing 
done, is a burden I am not able to bear. 
Milton especially is my grievance, and I might 
almost as well be haunted by his ghost as 
goaded with continual reproaches for neg- 
lecting him. I will therefore begin: I will 
do my best; and if, after all, that best prove 
good for nothing, I will even send the notes, 
worthless as they are, that I have made al- 
ready : a measure very disagreeable to my 
self, and to which nothing but necessity shall 
compel me. I shall rejoice to see those new 
samples of your biography,* which you give 
me to expect. 

Allons! Courage! — Here comes some- 
thing, however; produced after a gestation as 
long as that of a pregnant woman. It is the 
debt long unpaid, the compliment due to 
Romney; and if it has your approbation, I 
will send it, or you may send it for me. I 
must premise, however, tha* I intended noth- 
ing less than a sonnet when I began. I know 
not why, but I said to myself, it shall not be 
a sonnet; accordingly I attempted it in one 
sort of measure, then in a second, then in a 
third, till I had made the trial in half a dozen 
different kinds of shorter verse, and behold 
it is a sonnet at last. The fates would have 
it so. 

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. 

Romney ! expert infallibly to trace, 
On chart or canvas, not the form alone, 
And semblance, but, however faintly shown, 
The mind's impression too on every face, 
With strokes, that time ought never tc erase : 
Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own 
The subject worthless, T have never known 
The artist shining with superior grace. 

But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe, 
In thy incomparable work appear : 
Well ! I am satisfied it should be so, 
Since on maturer thought the cause is clear; 

For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see, 
While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee 1 

w. c. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.f 

Nov. 5, 1792. 

My dearest Johnny, — I have done nothing 
since you went, except that I have finished the 
Sonnet which I told you I had begun, and sent 
it to Hayley, who is well pleased therewith, 
and has by this time transmitted it to whom 
it most concerns. 

* Hayley's Life of Milton, 
t Private correspondence 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



421 



1 would not give the algebraist sixpence for 
his encomiums on my Task, if he condemns 
my Homer, which, 1 know, in point of lan- 
guage, is equal to it, and in variety of num- 
bers superior. But the character of the for- 
mer having been some years established, he 
follows the general cry; and should Homer 
establish himself as well, and I trust he will 
hereafter, I shall have his warm suffrage for 
that also. But if not — it is no matter. 
Swift says somewhere, — There are a few 
good judges of poetry in the world, who 
lend their taste to those who have none : 
and your man of figures is probably one of 
the borrowers. 

Adieu — in great haste. Our united love 
attends yourself and yours, whose I am most 
truly and affectionately. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 9, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — I wish that I were as in- 
dustrious and as much occupied as you, 
though in a different way; but it is not so 
with me. Mrs. Un win's great debility (who 
is not yet able to move without assistance) 
is of itself a hindrance such as would effect- 
ually disable me. Till she can work, and 
read, and fill up her time as usual (all which 
is at present entirely out of her power) I may 
now and then find time to write a letter, but 
T shall write nothing more. I cannot sit 
with my pen in my hand and my books be- 
fore me, while she is in effect in solitude, si- 
lent, and looking at the fire. To this hin- 
drance that other has been added, of which 
you are already aware, a want of spirits, such 
as I have never known, when I was not ab- 
solutely laid by, since I commenced an author. 
How long I shall be continued in these un- 
comfortable circumstances is known only to 
Him who, as he will, disposes of us all. I 
may be yet able, perhaps, to prepare the first 
book of the Paradise Lost for the press, be- 
fore it will be wanted ; and Johnson himself 
seems to think there will be no haste for the 
second. But poetry is my favorite employ- 
ment, and all my poetical operations are in 
the meantime suspended ; for, while a work 
to which I have bound myself remains unac- 
complished, I can do nothing else. 

Johnson's plan of prefixing my phiz to the 
jjew edition of my poems is by no means a 

f)leasant one to me, and so I told him in a 
etter I sent him from Eartham, in which I 
assured him that my objections to it would 
not be easily surmounted. But if you judge 
that it may really have an effect in advancing 
the sale, I would not be so squeamish as to 
Buffer the spirit of prudery to prevail in me 
to his disadvantage. Somebody told an au- 
thor, I forget whom, that there was more 



vanity in refusing his picture than in grant- 
ing it, on which he instantly complied. I do 
not perfectly feel all the force of the argu- 
ment, but it shall content me that he did. 

I do most sincerely rejoice in the success 
of your publication,* and have no doubt that 
my prophecy concerning your success in 
greater matters will be fulfilled. We are 
naturally pleased when our friends approve 
what we approve ourselves ; how much then 
must I be pleased, when you speak so kindly 
of Johnny ! I know him to be all that you 
think him, and love him entirely. 

Adieu ! We expect you at Christmas, and 
shall therefore rejoice when Christmas comes. 
Let nothing interfere. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Nov. 11, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — I am not so insensible 
of your kindness in making me an exception 
from the number of your correspondents, to 
w T hom you forbid the hope of hearing from 
you till your present labors are ended, as to 
make you wait longer for an answer to your 
last; which, indeed, would have had its an- 
swer before this time, had it been possible 
for me to write. But so many have demands 
upon me of a similar kind, and while Mrs. 
Unwin continues an invalid, my opportunities 
of writing are so few, that I am constrained 
to incur a long arrear to some, with whom 1 
would wish to be punctual. She can at pres- 
ent neither work nor read ; and, till she can 
do both, and amuse herself as usual, my own 
amusements of the pen must be suspended. 

I, like you, have a work before me, and a 
work to which I should be glad to address 
myself in earnest, but cannot do it at present 
When the opportunity comes, I shall, likf 
you, be under a necessity of interdicting some 
of my usual correspondents, and of shorten- 
ing my letters to the excepted few. Man) 
letters and much company are incompatible 
with authorship, and the one as much as the 
other. It will be long, I hope, before the 
world is put in possession of a publication, 
which you design should be posthumous. 

Oh for the day when your expectations of 
my complete deliverance shall be verified! 
At present it seems very remote : so distant, 
indeed, that hardly the faintest streak of it is 
visible in my horizon. The glimpse, with 
which I was favored about a month since, 
has never been repeated ; and the depression 
of my spirits has. The future appears gloomy 
as ever; and I seem to myself to be scram- 
bling always in the dark, among rocks and 
precipices, without a guide, but with an 
enemy ever at my heels, prepared to push 

* Decisions of the English Courts. 
t Private correspondence. 



424 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



me headlong. Thus I have spent twenty 
years, but thus I shall not spend twenty 
years more. Long ere that period arrives, 
the grand question concerning my everlast- 
ing weal or woe will be decided. 

Adieu, my dear friend. I have exhausted 
my time, though not filled my paper. 

Truly yours, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 20, 1792. 

My dearest Johnny, — I give you many 
thanks for your rhymes, and your verses 
without rhyme; for your poetical dialogue 
between wood and stone : between Homer's 
head and the head of Samuel; kindly in- 
tended, I know very well, for my amusement, 
and that amused me much. 

The successor of the clerk defunct, for 
whom I used to write, arrived here this morn- 
ing, with a recommendatory letter from Joe 
Rye, and an humble petition of his own, en- 
treating me to assist him as I had assisted his 
predecessor. I have undertaken the service, 
although with no little reluctance, being in- 
volved in many arrears on other subjects, 
and having very little dependence at present 
on my ability to write at^all. I proceed 
exactly as when you were here — a letter now 
and then before breakfast, and the rest of my 
time all holiday ; if holiday it may be called, 
that is spent chiefly in moping^ and musing, 
and "forecasting the fashion of uncertain 
evils.'''' 

The fever on my spirits has harassed me 
much, and I have never had so good a night, 
nor so quiet a rising, since you went, as on 
this very morning; a relief that I account 
particularly seasonable and propitious, be- 
cause I had, in my intentions, devoted this 
morning to you, and could not have fulfilled 
those intentions, had I been as spiritless as I 
generally am. 

I am glad that Johnson is in no haste for 
Milton, for I seem myself not likely to ad- 
dress myself presently to that concern, with 
any prospect of success ; yet something now 
and then, like a secret whisper, assures and 
encourages me that it will yet be done. 

W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 25, 1792. 

How shall I thank you enough for the in- 
terest you take in my future Miltonic labors, 
and the assistance you promise me in the 
performance of them ; I will some time or 
other, if I live, and live a poet, acknowledge 
vour friendship in some of my best verse ; the 
most suitable return one poet can make to 
another : in the meantime, 1 love you, and am 
sensible of all your kindness. You wish me 



warm in my work, and I ardently wish th« 
same : but when I shall be so God only 
knows. My melancholy, which seemed a 
little alleviated for a few days, has gathered 
about me again with as black a cloud aa 
ever ; the consequence is absolute incapacity 
to begin. 

I was for some years dirge-writer to the 
town of Northampton, being employed by 
the clerk of the principal parish there to fur- 
nish him with an annual copy of verses pro- 
per to be printed at the foot of his bill of 
mortality; but the clerk died, and, hearing 
nothing for two years from his successor, I 
well hoped that I was out of my office. The 
other morning however Sam announced the 
new clerk ; he came to solicit the same ser- 
vice as I had rendered his predecessor, and 
I reluctantly complied; doubtful, indeed, 
whether I was capable. I have however 
achieved that labor, and I have done nothing 
more. I am just sent for up to Mary, dear 
Mary ! Adieu ! she is as well as when I left 
you, I would I could say better. Remember 
us both affectionately to your sweet boy, and 
trust me for being 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Dec. 9, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — You need not be uneasy 
on the subject of Milton. I shall not find 
that labor too heavy for me, if I 'have health 
and leisure. The season of the year is un- 
favorable to me respecting the former ; and 
Mrs. Unwin's present weakness allows me 
less of the latter than the occasion seems to 
call for. But the business is in no haste. The 
artists employed to furnish the embellish- 
ments are not likely to be very expeditious ; 
and a small portion only of the work will be 
wanted from me at once : for the intention is 
to deal it out to the public piece-meal. I am, 
therefore, under no great anxiety on that ac- 
count. It is not, indeed, an employment that 
I should have chosen for myself; because 
poetry pleases and amuses me more, and 
would cost me less labor, properly so called. 
All this I felt before I engaged with Johnson ; 
and did, in the first instance, actually decline 
the service ; but he was urgent ; and, at last, 
I suffered myself to be persuaded. 

The season of the year, as I have already 
said, is particularly adverse to me : yet not in 
itself, perhaps, more adverse than any other ; 
but the approach of it always reminds me of 
the same season in the dreadful seventy- three, 
and in the more dreadful eighty-six. I can- 
not help terrifying myself with doleful mis- 
givings and apprehensions : nor is the enemy 
negligent to seize a'J the advantage that the 
occasion gives him. Thus, hearing much 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



423 



from him, and having little or no sensible 
support from God, I suffer inexpressible 
things till January is over. And even then, 
whether increasing years have made me more 
liable to it, or despair, the longer it lasts, 
grows naturally darker, I find myself more 
inclined to melancholy than I was a few 
years since. God only knows where this 
will end ; but where it is likely to end, unless 
he interpose powerfully in my favor, all may 
know. 

I remain, my dear friend, most sincerely 
/ours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 16, 1792. 
My dear Sir, — We differ so little, that it is 
pity we should not agree. The possibility 
of restoring our diseased government is, I 
think, the only point on which we are not of 
one mind. If you are right, and it cannot be 
touched in the medical way, without danger 
of absolute ruin to the constitution, koep the 
doctors at a distance say I — and let us live 
as long as we can. But perhaps physicians 
might be found of skill sufficient for the pur- 
pose, were they but as willing as able. Who 
are they ? Not those honest blunderers, the 
mob, bat our governors themselves. As it 
is in the power of any individual to be honest 
if he will, any body of men are, as it seems 
to me, equally possessed of the same option. 
For 1 can never persuade myself to think the 
world so constituted by the Author of it, 
and human society, which is his ordinance, so 
shabby a business, that the buying and sel- 
ling of votes and consciences should be es- 
sential to its existence. As to multiplied 
representation I know not that I foresee any 
great advantage likely to arise from that. 
Provided there be but a reasonable number 
of reasonable heads laid together for the 
good of the nation, the end may as well be 
answered by five hundred as it would be by 
a thousand, and perhaps better. But then 
they should be honest as well as wise, and, 
in order that they may be so, they should 
put it out of their own power to be other- 
wise. This they might certainly do if they 
would ; and, would they do it, I am not con- 
vinced that any great mischief would ensue. 
You say, " somebody must have influence," 
Out I see no necessity for it. Let integrity 
of intention and a due share of ability be 
supposed, and the influence will be in the 
right place ; it will all centre in the zeal and 
good of the nation. That will influence their 
debates and decisions, and nothing else ought 
to do it. You will say, perhaps, that wise 
zaen, and honest men, as they are supposed, 
they are yet liable to be split into almost as 
many differences of opinion as there are in- 
dividuals : but I rather think not. It is ob- 



served of Prince Eugene and the Duke of 
Marlborough, that each always approved and 
seconded the plans and views of the other 
and the reason given for it is that they were 
men of equal ability. The same cause that 
could make two unanimous would make 
twenty so, and w T ould at least secure a 
majority among as many hundreds. 

As to the reformation of the church, I 
want none, unless by a better provision for 
the inferior clergy ; and, if that could be 
brought about by emaciating a little some of 
our too corpulent dignitaries, I should be 
well contented. 

The dissenters, I think, Catholics and 
others, have all a right to the privileges of 
all other Englishmen, because to deprive them 
is persecution, and persecution on any ac- 
count, but especially on a religious one, ia 
an abomination. But after all, valeat res- 
publica. I love my country, I love my king 
and I wish peace and prosperity to Old 
England.* 

Adieu! W. C. 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, Dec. 17, 1792. 

My dear Sir,— You are very kind in think- 
ing it worth while to inquire after so irregu- 
lar a correspondent. When I had read your 
last, I persuaded myself that I had answered 
your obliging letter received while I was at 
Eartham, and seemed clearly to remember it; 
but upon better recollection, am inclined to 
think myself mistaken, and that I have many 
pardons to ask for neglecting to do it so long. 

While I was at Mr. Hayley's I couTd hardly 
find opportunity to write to anybody. He is 
an early riser and breakfasts early, and unless 
I could rise early enough myself to despatch 
a letter before breakfast, I had no leisure to do 
it at all. For immediately after breakfast we 
repaired to the library, where we studied in 
concert till noon ; and the rest of my time 
was so occupied by necessary attention to my 
poor invalid, Mrs. Unwin, and by various other 
engagements, that to write was impossible. 

* The question of a Reform in Parliament was at this 
time beginning to engage the public attention, and Mr. 
Grey (now Earl Grey) had recently announced his in- 
tention in the House of Commons of bringing forward 
that important subject in the ensuing session of Parlia- 
ment. It was accordingly submitted to the House, May 
6th, 1793, when Mr. Grey delivered his sentiments at con- 
siderable length, embodying many of the topics now so 
familiar to the public, but by no means pursuing the 
principle to the extent since adopted. The debate 
lasted till two o'clock in the morning, when it was ad- 
journed to the following day. After a renewed discus- 
sion, which continued till four in the morning, the House 
divided, when the numbers were as follow, viz., Ayea 
40, Noes 282. 

It is interesting to mark this first commencement of the 
popular question of Reform (if we except Mr. Pitt's meas- 
ure, in 1782) and to contrast its slow progress with the 
final issue, under the same leader, in the year 1832. The 
minority for several successive years seldom exceeded 
the amount above specified, though the measure was at 
length carried by so large a majority. 



426 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



Since my leturn, I have been almost con- 
stantly afflicted with weak and inflamed eyes, 
and indeed have wanted spirits as well as 
\eisure. If you can, therefore, you must par- 
don me ; and you will do it perhaps the rather, 
when I assure you that not you alone, but 
every person and every thing that had de- 
mands upon me has been equally neglected. 
A strange weariness that has long had domin- 
ion over me has indisposed and indeed dis- 
qualified me for all employment ;* and my 
hindrances besides have been such that I am 
sadly in arrear in all quarters. A thousand 
times I have been sorry and ashamed that your 
MSS. are yet un revised, and if you knew the 
compunction that it has cost me, you would 
pity me ; for I feel as if I were guilty in that 
particular, though my conscience tells me that 
it could not be otherwise. 

Before I received your letter written from 
Margate, I had formed a resolution never to 
be engraven, and was confirmed in it by my 
friend Hay ley's example. But, learning since 
though I have not learned it from himself, 
that my bookseller has an intention to prefix 
a copy of Abbot's picture of mef to the next 
edition of my poems, at his own expense, if 

* This expression alludes to the nervous fever and 
great depression of spirits that Cowper labored under, in 
the months of October and November, and which has 
been frequently mentioned in the preceding correspond- 
ence. 

t There were three portraits of Cowper, taken respect- 
ively by Sir Thomas Lawrence, Abbot, and Romney. 
The reader may be anxious to learn which is entitled to 
be considered the best resemblance. The editor is able 
to satisfy this inquiry, on the joint authority of the three 
most competent witnesses, the late Rev. Dr. Johnson, the 
present Dowager Lady Throckmorton, and John Higgins, 
Esq., formerly of Weston. They all agree in assigning 
the superiority to the portrait by Abbot* and in evidence 
of this, all have repeated the anecdote mentioned by 
Cowper, of his dog Beau going up to the picture, and 
shaking his tail, in token of recognition. It is an exact 
resemblance of his form, features, manner, and costume. 
That by Romney was said to resemble him at the moment 
it was taken, but it was his then look, not his customary 
and more placid features. There^s an air of wildness in 
it, expressive of a disordered mind, and which the shock, 
produced by the paralytic attack of Mrs. Unwin, was 
rapidly impressing on his countenance. This portrait 
has always been considered as awakening distressing 
emotions in the beholder. The portrait by Sir Thomas 
Lawrence is the most pleasing, but not so exact and faith- 
ful a resemblance. There is however a character of pe- 
culiar interest in it, and he is represented in the cap 
which he was accustomed to wear in a morning, pre- 
sented to him by Lady Hesketh. It was on this picture 
that the following beautiful lines were composed by the 
late Rev. Dr. Randolph. 

ON SEEING A SKETCH OF COWPER BY LAWRENCB. 

Sweet bard ! whose mind, thus pictured in thy face, 

O'er every feature spreads a nobler grace ; 

Whose keen, but softened eye appears to dart 

A look of pity through the human heart ; 

To search the secrets of man's inward frame, 

To weep with sorrow o'er his guilt and shame; 

Sweet bard ! with whom, in sympathy of choice, 

I've ofttimes left the world at Nature's voice, 

To join the song that all her creatures raise, 

To carol forth their great Creator's praise ; 

Or, 'rapt in visions of immortal day, 

Have gazed on Truth in Zion's heavenly way ; 

Sweet Bard !— may this thine image, all I know, 

Or ever may, of Cowper's form below, 

Teach one who views it with a Christian's love, 

To seek and find thee, in the realms above. 



I can be prevailed upon to consent to it ; ir 
consideration of the liberality of his beha- 
vior, I have felt my determination shaken. 
This intelligence, however comes to me from 
a third person, and till it reaches me in a di- 
rect line from Johnson, I can say nothing to 
him about it. When he shall open to me hia 
intentions himself, I will not be backward to 
mention to him your obliging offer, and shall 
be particularly gratified, if I must be engraved 
at last, to have that service performed for 
me by a friend. 

I thank you for the anecdote* which could 
not fail to be very pleasant, and remain, my 
dear sir, with gratitude and affection, 

Yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 26, 1792. 

That I may not be silent, till my silence 
alarms you, I snatch a moment to tell you, 
that although toujours triste I am not worse 
than usual, but my opportunities of writing 
are paucified, as, perhaps, Dr. Johnson would 
have dared to say, and the few that I have are 
shortened by company. 

Give my love to dear Tom, and thank him 
for his very apposite extract, which I should 
be happy indeed to turn to any account. How 
often do I wish, in the course of every day, 
that I could be employed once more in poetry, 
and how often, of course, that this Miltonic 
trap had never caught me ! The year ninety- 
two shall stand chronicled in my remembrance 
as the most melancholy that I have ever 
known, except the few weeks that I spent at 
Eartham ; and such it has been principally 
because, being engaged to Milton, I felt my- 
self no longer free for any other engagement. 
That ill-fated work, impracticable in itself, has 
made everything else impracticable. 

I am very Pindaric, and obliged to 

be so by the hurry of the hour. My friends 
are come down to breakfast. 

Adieu! W. C. 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, Jan. 3, 1798. 

My dear Sir, — A few lines must serve to 
introduce to you my much- valued friend Mr. 
Rose, and to thank you for your very obliging 
attention in sending me so approved a remedy 
for my disorder. It is no fault of yours, but 
it will be a disappointment to you to know, 
that I have long been in possession of that 
remedy, and have tried it without effect ; or, 

* The Hon. Mrs. Boscawen had expressed her regret 
that Cowper should employ his time and talents in trans- 
lation, instead of original composition ; accompanied by 
a wish that he would produce another " Task," adverting 
to what Pope had made his friend exclaim, 

" Do write next winter more ' Essays on Man.' " 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



421 



to speak more truly, with an unfavorable one. 
Judging by the pain it causes, I conclude 
that it is of the caustic kind, and may, there- 
fore, be sovereign in cases where the eyelids 
are ulcerated : but mine is a dry inflammation, 
which it has always increased as often as I 
have used it. I used it again, after having 
long since resolved to use it no more, that I 
might not seem, even to myself, to slight your 
kindness, but with no better effect than in 
3very former instance. 

You are very candid in crediting so readily 
the excuse I make for not having yet revised 
your MSS., and as kind in allowing me still 
longer time. I refer you for a more particu- 
lar account of the circumstances that make all 
literary pursuits at present impracticable to 
me, to the young gentleman who delivers this 
into your hands.* He is perfectly master of 
the subject, having just left me after having 
spent a fortnight with us. 

You asked me a longtime since a question 
concerning the Olney Hymns, which I do not 
remember that I have ever answered. Those 
marked C. are mine, one excepted, which 
though it bears that mark, was written by Mr. 
Newton. I have not the collection at present 
and therefore cannot tell you which it is. 

You must extend your charity still a little 
farther, and excuse a short answer to your 
two obliging letters. I do everything with 
my pen in a hurry, but will not conclude 
without entreating you to make my thanks 
and best compliments to the lady,f who was 
so good as to trouble herself for my sake to 
write a character of the medicine. 
I remain, my dear sir, 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 

Your request does me honor. Johnson 
will have orders in a few days to send a copy 
of the edition just published.^ 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Jan. 20, 1793. 
My dear Brother, — Now I know that you 
are safe, I treat you, as you see, with a philo- 
sophical indifference, not acknowledging your 
kind and immediate answer to anxious inqui- 
ries, till it suits my own convenience. I have 
learned, however, from my late solicitude, 
that not only you, but yours, interest me to a 
degree, that, should anything happen to either 
of you, would be very inconsistent with my 
peace. Sometimes I thought that you were 
extremely ill, and once or twice, that you were 
dead. As often some tragedy reached my ear 
concerning little Tom. "Oh, vancc mentes 
hominum .'" How liable are we to a thou- 
sand impositions, and how indebted to honest 

* Mr. Rose. 

f Mrs. Haden, formerly governess to the daughters of 
..ord Eardley. 
X Th* fifth edition of Cowper's Poems. 



old Time*, who never fails to undeceive us 
Whatever you had in prospect, you acted 
kindly by me not to make me partaker of 
your expectations ; for I have a spirit, if not 
so sanguine as yours, yet that would have 
waited for your coming with anxious impa- 
tience, and have been dismally mortified by 
the disappointment. Had you come, and come 
without notice too, you would not have sur- 
prised us more, than (as the matter was man- 
aged) we were surprised at the arrival of your 
picture. It reached us in the evening, after 
the shutters were closed, at a time when a 
chaise might actually have brought you with 
out giving us the least previous intimation 
Then it was, that Samuel, with his cheerfu 
countenance, appeared at the study door, and 
with a voice as cheerful as his looks, ex- 
claimed, " Mr. Hayley is come, madam !" We 
both started, and in the same moment cried, 
" Mr. Hayley come ! And where is he V The 
next moment corrected our mistake, and 
finding Mary's voice grow suddenly tremu. 
lous, I turned and saw her weeping. 

I do nothing, notwithstanding all your ex 
hortations : my idleness is proof against them 
all, or to speak more truly, my difficulties 
are so. Something indeed I do. I play at 
push-pin with Homer every morning before 
breakfast, fingering and polishing, as Paris 
did his armor. I have lately had a letter 
from Dublin on that subject, which has> 
pleased me. W. C 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Jan. 29, 1793. 
My dearest Hayley, — I truly sympathize 
with you under your weight of sorrow for 
the loss of our good Samaritan.* But be 
not broken-hearted, my friend ! Remember 
the loss of those we love is the condition on 
which we live ourselves ; and that he who 
chooses his friends wisely from among the 
excellent of the earth, has a sure ground to 
hope concerning them when they die, that a 
merciful God has made them far happier 
than they could be here, and that we shall 
join them soon again. This is solid com- 
fort, could we but avail ourselves of it ; but 
I confess the difficulty of doing so. Sorrow 
is like the deaf adder, "that hears not the 
voice of the charmer, charm he never so 
wisely ;" and I feel so much myself for the 
death of Austen, that my own chief consola- 
tion is, that I had never seen him. Live 
yourself, 1 beseech you, for I have seen bd 
much of vou that I can by no means spar»> 
you, and I will live as long as it shall pleas*. 
God to permit. I know you set some value 
on me, therefore let that promise comfort 

* Dr. Austen, who is here alluded to, was not less dis 
tinguished for his humane and benevolent qualities, that 
for his professional skill and eminence. 



128 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



you, and give us not reason to say, like Da- 
vid's servant — " We know that it would have 
pleased thee more if all we had died, than 
this one, for whom thou art inconsolable." 
You have still Romney, and Carwardine, 
and Guy, and me, my poor Mary, and I know 
not how many beside ; as many, I suppose, 
as ever had an opportunity of spending a 
day with you. He who has the most friends 
must necessarily lose the most, and he whose 
friends are numerous as yours may the bet- 
ter spare a part of them. It is a changing, 
transient scene : yet a little while, and this 
poor dream of life will be over with all of 
us. The living, and they who live unhappy, 
they are indeed subjects of sorrow. 
Adieu ! my beloved friend, 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.* 

Jan. 31, 1793. 
Io Pee an. 
My dearest Johnny, — Even as you fore- 
told, so it came to pass. On Tuesday I re- 
ceived your letter, and on Tuesday came the 
pheastmts ; for which I am indebted in many 
thanks, as well as Mrs. Unwin, both to your 
kindness and to your kind friend Mr. Cope- 
man. 

In Copeman's ear this truth let Echo tell, — 
" Immortal bards like mortal pheasants well ;" 
And when his clerkship's out, I wish him herds 
Of golden clients for his golden birds. 

Our friends the Courtenays have never 
dined with us since their marriage, because 
we have never asked them ; and we have 
never asked them, because poor Mrs. Unwin 
is not so equal to the task of providing for 
and entertaining company as before this last 
illness. But this is no objection to the ar- 
rival here of a bustard ; rather it is a cause 
for which we shall be particularly glad to 
see the monster. It will be a handsome 
present to them. So let the bustard come, 
as the Lord Mayor of London said of the 
hare, when he was hunting — let her come, a' 
God's name : I am not afraid of her. 

Adieu, my dear cousin and caterer. My 
eyes are terribly bad ; else, I had much more 
to say to you. 

Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Feb. 5, 1793. 
In this last revisal of my work (the Ho- 
mer) I have made a number of small im- 
provements, and am now more convinced 
than ever, having exercised a cooler judg- 
ment upon it than before I could, that the 
translation will make its way. There mus* 

* Private correspondence. 



be time for the conquest of vehement an^ 
long-rooted prejudice; but, without much 
self-partiality, I believe, that the conquest 
will be made ; and am certain that I should 
be of the same opinion, were the work 
another man's. I shall soon have finished 
the Odyssey, and when I have, will send the 
corrected copy of both to Johnson. ■ 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, Feb. 10, 1793. 

My pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry ; 
Neither wit, common-sense, nor ideas have I. 

In vain has it been, that I have made several 
attempts to write, since I came from Sus- 
sex ; unless more comfortable days arrive 
than I have confidence to look for, there is 
an end of all writing with me. I have no 
spirits : — when Rose came, I was obliged to 
prepare for his coming by a nightly dose of 
laudanum — twelve drops suffice ; but with- 
out them, I am devoured by melancholy. 

A-propos of the Rose ! His wife in her 
political notions is the exact counterpart of 
yourself — loyal in the extreme. Therefore, 
if you find her thus inclined, when you be- 
come acquainted with her, you must not 
place her resemblance of yourself to the ac- 
count of her admiration of you, for she is 
your likeness ready made. In fact, we are 
all of one mind about government matters, 
and notwithstanding your opinion, the Rose 
is himself a Whig, and I am a Whig, and 
you, my dear, are a Tory, and all the Tories 
now-a-days call all the Whigs republicans. 
How the deuce you came to be a Tory is 
best known to yourself: you have to answer 
for this novelty to the shades of your ances- 
tors, who were always Whigs ever since we 
had any. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Feb. 17, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — I have read the critique 
of my work in the Analytical Review, and 
am happy to have fallen into the hands of a 
critic, rigorous enough indeed, but a scholar, 
and a man of sense, and who does not delib- 
erately intend me mischief. I am better 
pleased indeed that he censures some things 
than I should have been with unmixed com- 
mendation, for his censure (to use the new 
diplomatic term) will accredit his praises. 
In his particular remarks he is for the most 
•part right, and I shall be the better foi 
them ; but in his general ones I think he as- 
serts too largely, and more than he couid 
prove. With respect to inversions in par- 
ticular, I know that they do not abound. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



42S 



Once they did, and I had Milton's example 
for it, not disapproved by Addison. But on 
's remonstrance against them, I ex- 
punged the most, and in my new edition 
shall have fewer still. I know that they 
give dignity, and am sorry to part with 
them; but, to parody an old proverb, he 
who lives in tlje year ninety-three, must do 
as in the year ninety-three is done by others. 
The same remark I have to make on his 
censure of inharmonious lines. I know them 
to be much fewer than he asserts, and not 
more in number than I accounted indispen- 
sably necessary to a due variation of ca- 
dence. I nave, however, now, in conformity 
with modern taste, (over much delicate in 
my mind,) given to a for greater number of 
them a flow as smooth as oil. A few I re- 
tain, and will, in compliment to my own 
Judgment. He thinks me too faithful to 
compound epithets in the introductory lines, 
and I know his reason. He fears lest the 
English reader should blame Homer, whom 
he idolizes, though hardly more than I, for 
such constant repetition. But them I shall 
not alter. They are necessary to a just rep- 
resentation of the original. In the affair of 
Outis,* I shall throw him flat on his back by 
an unanswerable argument, which I shall 
give in a note, and with which I am fur- 
nished by Mrs. Unwin. So much for hyper- 
criticism, which has run away with all my 

paper. This critic, by the way is, ;f I 

know him by infallible indications. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, Feb. 22, 1793. 

My dear Sir, — My eyes, which have long 
been inflamed, will hardly serve for Homer, 
and oblige me to make all my letters short. 
You have obliged me much, by sending me 
so speedily the remainder of your notes. I 
have begun with them again, and find them, 
as before, very much to the purpose. More 
to the purpose they could not have been, 
had you been poetry professor already. I 
rejoice sincerely in the prospect you have of 
that office, which, whatever may be your 
own thoughts of the matter, I am sure you 
will fill with great sufficiency. Would that 
my interest and power to serve you were 
greater ! One string to my bowl have, and 
one only, which shall not be idle for want 
of my exertions. I thank you likewise for 
your very entertaining notices and remarks 
in the natural way. The hurry in which I 
write wou.d not suffer me to send you many 
in return, had I many to send, but only two 
or three present themselves. 

Frogs will feed on worms. I saw a frog 
gathering into his gullet an earth-worm as 
* A name given to Ulysses. t Maty. 



long as himself; it cost him time and labof 
but at last he succeeded. 

Mrs. Unwin and I, crossing a brook, saw 
from the foot-bridge somewhat at the bot- 
torn of the water which had the appearance 
of a flower. Observing it attentively, we 
found that it consisted of a circular assem- 
blage of minnows ; their heads all met in a 
centre, and their tails, diverging at equal 
distances, and being elevated above their 
heads, gave them the appearance of a flower 
half blown. One was longer than the rest, 
and as often as a straggler came in sight, he 
quitted his place to pursue him, and having 
driven him away, he returned to it again, 
and no other minnow offering to take it in 
his absence. This we saw him do several 
times. The object that had attached them 
all was a dead minnow, which they seemed 
to be devouring. 

After a very rainy day, I saw on one of the 
flower borders what seemed a long hair, but 
it had a waving, twining motion. Consider- 
ing more nearly, I found it alive, and en- 
dued with spontaneity, b,ut could not dis- 
cover at the ends of it either head or tail, or 
any distinction of parts. I carried it into 
the house, when the air of a warm room 
dried and killed it presently. 

W. C 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, Feb. 24, 1793. 

Your letter (so full of kindness and so ex- 
actly in unison with my own feelings for you) 
should have had, as it deserved to have, an 
earlier answer, had I not been perpetually 
tortured with inflamed eyes, which are a sad 
hindrance to me in everything. But, to 
make amends, if I do not send you an early 
answer, I send you at least a .speedy one, 
being obliged to write as fast as my pen can 
trot, that I may shorten the time of poring 
upon paper as much as possible. Homer 
too has been another hindrance, for always 
when I can see, which is only about two 
hours every morning, and not at all by can- 
dle-light, I devote myself to him, being in 
haste to send him a second time to the press, 
that nothing may stand in the way of Milton. 
By the way, where are my dear Tom's re- 
marks, which I long to have, and must have 
soon, or they will come too late 1 

Oh, you rogue ! what would you give to 
have such a dream about Milton as I had 
about a week since? I dreamed that, being 
in a house in the city, and with much com- 
pany, looking towards the lower end of the 
room from the upper end of it, I descried a 
figure which I immediately knew to be Mi* 
ton's. He was very gravely but very neath 
attired in the fashion of his day, and had a 
countenance which filled me witfi those feel- 



€dO 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ings thcat an affectionate child has for a be- 
loved father, — such, for instance, as Tom has 
for you. My first thought was wonder, where 
he could have been concealed so many years ; 
my second, a transport of joy to find nim still 
alive ; my third, another transport to find my- 
self in his company ; and my fourth, a resolu- 
tion to accost him. I did so, and he received 
me with a complacence in which I saw equal 
sweetness and dignity. I spoke of his Para- 
dise Lost as every man must who is worthy 
to speak of it at all, and told him along story 
of the manner in which it affected me when 
I first discovered it, being at that time a 
school-boy. He answered me by a smile, 
.and a gentle inclination of his head. He 
then grasped my hand affectionately, and 
with a smile that charmed me, said, " Well, 
you for your part will do well also ;" at last, 
recollecting his great age (for I understood 
him to be two hundred years old) I feared 
that I might fatigue him by too much talk- 
ing, I took my leave, and he took his with an 
air of the most .perfect good-breeding. His 
person, his features, his manner, were all so 
perfectly characteristic, that I am persuaded 
an apparition of him could not represent him 
more completely. This may be said to have 
been one of the dreams of Pindus, may it 
not?* 

How truly I rejoice that you have recov- 
ered Guy! That man won my heart the 
moment I saw him : give my love to him, and 
tell him I am truly glad he is alive again. 

There is much sweetness in those lines 
from the sonneteer of Avon, and not a little 
in dear Tom's : an earnest, I trust, of good 
things to come ! 

With Mary's kind love, I must now ^on- 
clude myself, 

My dear brother, ever yours, Lippus. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, March 4, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — Since I received your 
last I have been much indisposed, very blind, 

* Whether this is a poetical or real dream of Cowper'si 
we presume not to decide. It bears so strong a resem- 
blance to Milton's vision of the Bishop of Winchester, 
(the. celebrated Dr. Andrews,) as to suggest the prob- 
ability of having been borrowed from that source. The 
passage is to be found in Milton's beautiful Latin elegy 
on the death of that prelate, and is thus translated by 
Cowper : 

"While I that splendor, and the mingled shade 
Of fruitful vines with wonder fixt survey'd, 
At once, with looks, that beam'd celestial grace, 
The seer of Winton stood before my face. 
His snowy vesture's hem descending low 
His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow 
New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow. 
Where'er lie trod a tremulous sweet sound 
Of gladness shook the tlow'ry scene around : 
Attendant angels clap their starry wings, 
The trumpet shakes the sky, all tether rings, i 

Eack chaunts his welcome, 

Then night retired, and, chas'd by dawning day, 
The visionary bliss pass'd all away : 
I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern : 
Frequent to me may dreams like this return." 



and very busy. But I have not suffered a] 
these evils at one and the same time. While 
the winter lasted I was miserable with a fe- 
ver on my spirits ; when the spring began to 
approach I was seized with an inflammation 
in my eyes, and ever since I have been able 
to use them, have been employed in giving 
more last touches to Home/, who is on the 
point of going to press again. 

Though you are Tory, I believe, and I am 
Whig, our sentiments concerning the mad- 
caps of France are much the same. -They 
are a terrible race, and I have a horror both 
of them and their principles.* Tacitus is 
certainly living now, and the quotations you 
sent me can be nothing but extracts from 
some letters of his to yourself. 

Yours, most sincerely, W. C. 



We have already mentioned the interest 
excited in Cowper's mind by a son of Hay- 
ley's, a youth of not more than twelve years 
of age, and of most promising talents. At 
Cowper's request he addressed to him the 
subjoined letter, containing criticisms on his 
Homer, which do honor to his taste and 
acuteness. The poet's reply may also be 
regarded as a proof of his kind condescen- 
sion and amiable sweetness of temper. 

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

Eartham, March 4, 1793. 
Honored King of Bards, — Since you deign 
to demand the observations of an humble and 
inexperienced servant of yours, on a work of 
one who is so much his superior (as he is 
ever ready to serve you with all his might), 
behold what you demand! But let me de- 
sire you not to censure me for my unskilful 
and perhaps (as they will undoubtedly ap- 
pear to you) ridiculous observations ; but be 
so kind as to receive them as a mark of re- 
spectful affection from 

Your obedient servant, 

Thomas Hayley. 

Book. Line. v 

I. 184 I cannot reconcile myself to these 

195 expressions. " Ah cloth'd with 
impudence," &c., and " Shame- 

196 less wolf," and " Face of flint." 
I. 508 " Dishonor'd foul." is. in my opin- 
ion, an uncleanly expression. 

I. 661 " Reel'd." I think makes it appear 

as if Olympus was drunk. 
I. 749 " Kindler of the fires of Heaven," 
I think makes Jupiter appeal 
too much like a lamplighter. 
II. 317 These lines are, in my opinion, 
to 319 below the elevated genius of 
Mr. Cowper. 
XVIII. 300 This appears to me to be rathei 
Irish, since in line 300 you say, 
" No one sat," and in line 304 
" Polydamus rose." 

* Louis XVI., the_ unhappy King ol France, had re 
cently perished on the dcaffold, Jan. 21, 1793. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



431 



TO MR. THOMAS HAYLEY. 

Weston, March 14, 1793. 

My dear little Critic, — I thank you heartily 
for your observations, on which I set a higher 
value, because they* have instructed me as 
much, and have entertained me more, than 
all the other strictures of our public judges 
in these matters. Perhaps I am not much 
more pleased with shameless wolf, &c, than 
you. But what is to be done, my little man ? 
Coarse as the expressions are, they are no 
more than equivalent to those of Homer. 
The invective of the ancients was never tem- 
pered with good manners, as your papa can 
tell you; and my business, you know, is not 
to be more polite than my author, but to re- 
present him as closely as I can. 

Dishonor 'd foul I have wiped away, for the 
reason you give, which is a very just one, and 
the present reading is this, 

Who had dared dishonor thus 
The life itself &c. 

Your objection to kindle?' of the fires of 
heavenl had the good fortune to anticipate, 
and expunged the dirty ambiguity some time 
since, wondering not a little that I had ever 
admitted it. 

The fault you find with the two first verses 
of Nestor's speech discovers such a degree 
of just discernment that, but for your papa's 
assurance to the contrary, I must have sus- 
pected him as the author of that remark : 
much as I should have respected it, if it had 
been so, J value it, I assure you, my little 
friend, still more as yours. In the new edi- 
tion the passage will be found thus altered : 

Alas ! great sorrow falls on Greece to-day ! 
Priam, and Priam's sons, with all in Troy — 
Oh ! how will they exult, and in their hearts 
Triumph, once hearing of this broil between 
The prime of Greece, in council and in arms ! 

Where the word reel suggests to you the 
idea of a drunken mountain, it performs the 
service to which I destined it. It is a bold 
metaphor ; but justified by one of the sublim- 
it passages in scripture, compared with the 
sublimity of which even that of Homer suf- 
feis humiliation. 

It is God himself who, speaking, I think, 
by the prophet Isaiah, says, 

" The earth sb.*ll reel to andfro like a drunkard."* 

With equal boldness in the same scripture, 
the poetry of which was never equalled, 
mountains are said to skip, to break out into 
singing, and the fields to clap their hands. I 
intend, therefore, that my Olympus shall be 
still tipsy. 

The accuracy of your last remark, in which 
rou convicted me of a bull, delights me. A 

* Isaiah xxiv. 20. 



fig for all critics but you!. The blockheadi 
could not find it. It shall stand thus: — 

First spake Polydamus 

Homer was more upon his guard than to 
commit such a blunder, for he says, 

IPX* liypevsiv. 

And now, my dear little censor, once more 
accept my thanks. I only regret that your 
strictures are so few, being just and sensible 
as they are. 

Tell your papa that he shall hear from me 
soon. Accept mine, and my dear invalid's 
affectionate remembrances. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, March 19, 1793. 

My dear Hay ley, — I am so busy every 
morning before breakfast (my only opportu- 
nity), strutting and stalking in Homeric stilts, 
that you ought to account it an instance of 
marvellous grace and favor, that I condescend 
to write even to you. Sometimes I am seri- 
ously almost crazed with the multiplicity of 
the matters before me, and the little or no 
time that I have for them ; and sometimes I 
repose myself, after the fatigue of that dis- 
traction, on the pillow of despair ; a pillow 
which has often served me in the time of 
need, and is become, by frequent use, if not 
very comfortable, at least convenient. So 
reposed, I laugh at the world, and say, " Yes, 
you may gape and expect both Homer and 
Milton from me, but 1*11 be hanged if ever 
you get them." 

In Homer you must know I am advanced 
as far as the fifteenth book of the Iliad, leav- 
ing nothing behind me that can reasonably 
offend the most fastidious : and I design him 
for public appearance in his new dress as 
soon as possible, for a reason wl ch any poet 
may guess, if he will but thrust his hand into 
his pocket. 

You forbid me to tantalize you with an in- 
vitation to Weston, and yet you invite me to 
Eartham ! No ! no ! there is no such hap- 
piness in store for me at present. Had I 
rambled at all, I was under promise to all 
my dear mother's kindred to go to Norfolk, 
and they are dying to see me ; but I have 
told them that die they must, for I cannot 
go ; and ergo, as you will perceive, can go 
nowhere else. 

Thanks for Mazarin's epitaph !* It is full 

* We have not heen able to discover this epitaph, nor 
does it appear that it was ever translated by Cowper. 

Cardinal Mazarin was minister of state to Louis XIII., 
and during the minority of Louis XIV. The last mo- 
merfs of this great statesman are too edifying not to be 
recorded. To the ecclesiastic (Joly) who attended him, 
he said, "• I am not satisfied with my state ; I wish to feel 
a more profound sorrow for my sins. I am a great sin 



432 



COWPER'S WORKS. . 



of witty paradox, and is written with a force 
and severity which sufficiently bespeak the 
author. I account it an inestimable curi- 
osity, and shall be happy when time shall 
serve, with your aid, to make a good trans- 
lation of it. But that will be a stubborn 
business. , Adieu ! The clock strikes eight : 
and now for Homer. 

W. C. 



The two following letters bear an honor- 
able testimony to his bookseller, Johnson, 
whom he had commissioned his friend, Mr. 
Rose, to consult respecting a second and re- 
vised edition of his Homeric version. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, March 27, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — I must send you a line 
of congratulation on t&e event of your trans- 
action with Johnson, since you, I know, par- 
take with me in the pleasure I receive from 
it. Few of my concerns have been so hap- 
pily concluded. I am now satisfied with my 
bookseller, as I have substantial cause to be, 
and account myself in good hands ; a circum- 
stance as pleasant to me as any other part of 
my business ; for I love dearly to be able to 
confide, with all my heart, in those with whom 
I am connected, of what kind soever the con- 
nexion may be. 

The question of printing or not printing 
the alterations seems difficult to decide. If 
they are not printed, I shall perhaps disoblige 
some purchasers of the first edition, and if 
they are, many others of them, perhaps a 
great majority, will never care about them. 
As far as I have gone, I have made a fair 
copy ; and when I have finished the whole, 
will send them to Johnson, together with the 
interleaved volumes. He will see in a few 
minutes what it will be best to do, and by his 
judgment I shall b^e determined. The opin- 
ion to which I most incline is, that they ought 
to be printed separately, for they are man\ 
of them rather long, here and there a whole 
speech, or a whole simile, and the verbal 

ner. I have no hope but in the mercy of God." (Je suis 
in grand criminel, je o'ai d'esperanee qu'en ]a misori- 
» rde divine.) At another time he besought his confes- 
sed to treat him like the lowest subject in the realm, 
being convinced; he said, that there was but one gospel 
for the great, as well as for Ihe little, ((iu'il n'y avail 
rju'un Evangile pour Ies grands, et pour les petits.) 

His sufferings were very acute. M You see," he observed 
to those around him, " what infirmities and wretchedness 
the fortunes and dignities of this world come to." He 
repeated many times the Miserere, (Ps. li.) stretching 
forth his hand*, then clasping them, and lifting up his 
eyr-* to heaven, with all the marks of the most sincere 
jevotion. . 

At midnight he exclaimed, "lam dying— my mind 
grows indistinct. I trust in Jesus Christ." (Je vais 
bientdt mourir, mon jugement se trouble, j'espere en 
lesus Christ.) Afterwards, frequently repeating the 
JBcred name of Jesus, he expired. (Se mettant en de- 
voir do repeter aussi frequemment lc tres-saint nom de 
il expira.) 

His to ire du Card. JUazarin, par M. Aubery. 



and lineal variations are so numerous, that 
altogether, I apprehend, they will give a 
new air to the work, and I hope a much im- 
proved one. 

I forgot to say in the proper place, that 
some notes, although but very few, I have 
added already; and may perhaps see here and 
there opportunity for a few more. But, notes 
being little wanted, especially by people at 
all conversant with classical literature, as 
most readers of Homer are, I am persuaded 
that were they numerous, they would be 
deemed an incumbrance. I shall write to 
Johnson soon, perhaps to-morrow, and then 
shall say the same thing to him. 

In point of health, we continue much the 
same. Our united love, and many thanks 
for your prosperous negotiations, attend your- 
self and whole family, and especially my lit- 
tle namesake. Adieu ! 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Weston, March 29, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — Your tidings concerning 
the slender pittance yet to come, are, as you 
observe, of the melancholy cast. Not being 
gifted by nature with the means of acquiring 
much, it is well, however, that she has given 
me a disposition to be contented with little. 
I have now been so many years habituated 
to small matters that I should probably find 
myself incommoded by greater ; and may ] 
but be enabled to shift, as I have been hitb 
erto, unsatisfied wishes will never trouble me 
much. My pen has helped me somewhat ; 
and, after some years 1 toil, I begin to reap the 
benefit. Had I begun sooner, perhaps I 
should have known fewer pecuniary distress- 
es ; or, who can 'say ? — it is possible that I 
might not have succeeded so well. Fruit 
ripens only a short time before it rots ; and 
man, in general, arrives not at maturity of 
mental powers at a much earlier period. I 
am now busied in preparing Homer for his 
second appearance. An author should con- 
sider himself as bound not to please himself, 
but the public ; and as far as the good pleas- 
ure of the public may be learned from the 
critics, I design to accommodate myself to it. 
The Latinisms, though employed by Milton, 
and numbered by Addison among the arts and 
expedients by which he has given dignity to 
his style, I shall render into plain English ; 
the rougher lines, though my reason for using 
them has never been proved a bad one, so far 
as I know, I rhall make perfectly smooth ; 
and shall give body and substance to all that 
is in any degree feeble and flimsy. And 
when I have done all this, and more, if the 
critics still grumble, I shall say the very deuce 
is in them. Yet, that they will grumble f 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



431 



make no doubt ; for, unreasonable as it is to 
do so, 1 hey all require something better than 
Homer, and that something they will certainly 
newer get from me. 

As to the canal that is to be my neighbor, 
I hear little about it. The Courtenays of 
Weston have nothing to do with it, and I 
nave no intercourse with Tyringham. When 
it is finished, the people of these parts will 
have to carry their coals seven miles only, 
which now they bring from Northampton or 
Bedford, both at the distance of fifteen. But, 
as Balaam says, who shall live when these 
things are done? It is not for me, a sexage- 
narian already, to expect that I shall. The 
chief objection to canals in general seems to 
be, that, multiplying as they do, they are likely 
to swallow the coasting trade. 

I cannot tell you the joy I feel at the dis- 
appointment of the French : pitiful mimics of 
Spartan and Roman virtue, without a grain 
of it in their whole character. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, April 11, 1793. 

My dearest Johnny, — The long muster-roll 
of my great and small ancestors I signed and 
dated, and sent up to Mr. Blue-mantle, on 
Monday, according to your desire. Such a 
pompous affair, drawn out for my sake, re- 
minds me of the old fable of the mountain in 
parturition, and a mouse the produce. Rest 
undisturbed, say I, their lordly, ducal, and 
royal dust! Had they left me something 
handsome, I should have respected them 
more. But perhaps they did not know that 
such a one as I should have the honor to be 
numbered among their descendants.* Well ! 
I have a little bookseller that makes me some 
amends for their deficiency. He has made 
me a present; an act of liberality which I take 
every opportunity to blazon, as it well de- 
serves. But you, I suppose, have learned it 
already from Mr. Rose. 

Fear not, my man. You will acquit your- 
self very well, I dare say, both in standing 
for your degree, and when you have gained 
it. A little tremor and a little shame-faced- 
ness in a stripling like you, are recommend- 
ations rather than otherwise; and so they 
ought to be, being symptoms of an ingenu- 

* Cowper. according to his kinsmnn, was descended, 
by the maternal line, through the families of Hippesley 
of Throughley, in Sussex, and Pellet, of Bolney, in the 
same county, from the several noble houses of West, 
Knollys, Carey, Bullen, Howard, and Mowbray; and so 
by four different lines from Henry the Third, king of 
England. He justly adds, u Distinctitn of this nature can 
shed no additionaf lustre on the memory of Cowper ; but 
genius, however exalted, disdains not, while it boasts not, 
the splendor of ancestry ; and royalty itself may be flat- 
tered, and perhaps benefited, by discovering its kindred 
to suet piety, such purity, such talents as hiB. w - 
SkUck of the Life of Cowper, by Dr. Johnson. 



ous mind, rather unfrequent in this age of 
brass. 

What you say of your determined purpose 
with God's help, to take up the cross and de- 
spise the shame, gives us both real pleasure. 
In our pedigree is found one, at least, who did 
it before you* Do you the like ; and you 
will meet him in heaven, as sure as the scrip- 
ture is the word of God.f 

The quarrel that the world has with evan- 
gelic men and doctrines, they would have 
with a host of angels in the human form. 
For it is the quarrel of owls with sunshine; 
of ignorance with divine illumination. 

Adieu, my dear Johnny ! We shall expect 
you with earnest desire of your coming, and 
receive you with much delight. 

W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 

• Weston, April 23, 1793. 

My dear Friend and Brother, — Better late 
than never, and better a little than none at 
all ! Had I been at liberty to consult my 
inclinations, I would have answered your 
truly kind and affectionate letter immediately. 
But I am the busiest man alive, and, when 
this epistle is despatched, you will be the only 
one of my correspondents to whom I shall 
not be indebted. While I write this, my 
poor Mary sits mute; which I cannot well 
bear, and which, together with want of time 
to write much, will have a curtailing effect 
on my epistre. 

My only studying time is still given to 
Homer, not to correction and amendment of 
him (for that is all over) but to writing notes. 
Johnson has expressed a wish for some, that 
the unlearned may be a little illuminated 
concerning classical story and the mytholo- 
gy of the ancients ; and his behavior to me 
has been so liberal, that I can refuse him 
nothing. Poking into the old Greek com- 
mentators blinds me. But it is no matter. 
I am the more like Homer. 

Ever yours, my dearest Hayley, 

W. C 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.^ 

April 25, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — Had it not been stipu- 
lated between us that, being both at present 
pretty much engrossed by business, we should 
write when opportunity offers, I should be 
frighted at the date of your last ; but you 
will not judge me, I know, by the unfre- 
quency of my letters ; nor suppose that my 
thoughts about you are equally unfrequent 

* Dr. Donne, formerly Dean of St. Paul's, 
t u Be wiser thou — like our forefather Donne, 

Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone" 
t Private correspondence. 

28 



434 



uOWPER'S WORKS. 



[n truth, they are not. No day passes in 
which you are excluded from them. I am 
bo busy that I do not expect even now to fill 
my paper. While I write, my poor invalid, 
who is still unable to muse herself either 
with book or needle, sits silent at my side ; 
which makes me, in all my letters, hasten to 
a conclusion. My only time for study is 
now before breakfast ; and I lengthen it as 
much as I can, by rising early. 

I know not that, with respect to our health, 
we are either better or worse than when you 
saw us. Mrs. Unwin, perhaps, has gained a 
little strength ; and the advancing spring, I 
hope, will add to it. As to myself, 1 am, in 
body, soul, and spirit, semper idem. Prayer, 
I know, is made for me, and sometimes with 
great enlargement of heart, by those who 
offer it; and in this circumstance consists 
the only evidence I can find, that God is still 
favorably mindful of me, and has not cast me 
off for ever. 

A long time since, I received a parcel from 
Dr. Cogshall, of New York ; and, looking on 
the reverse of the packing-paper, saw there 
an address to you. I conclude, therefore, 
that you received it first, and at his .desire 
transmitted it to me ; consequently you are 
acquainted with him, and, probably, apprised 
of the nature of our correspondence. About 
three years ago I had his first letter to me, 
which came accompanied by half a dozen 
American publications. He proposed an ex- 
thange of books on religious subjects, as 
jikely to be useful on both sides of the water. 
Most of those he sent, however, I had seen 
oefore. I sent him, in return, such as I 
could get ; but felt myself indifferently qual- 
ified for such a negotiation. I am now called 
upon to contribute my quota again ; and 
shall be obliged to you if, in your next, you 
will mention the titles of half a dozen that 
may be procured at little cost, that are likely 
to be new in that country and useful. 

About two months since, I had a letter from 
Mr. Jeremiah Waring, of Alton in Hamp- 
shire. Do you know such a man ? I think 
I have seen his name in advertisements of 
mathematical works. He is, however, or 
seems to be, a^ery pious man. 

I was a little surprised lately, seeing in 
the last Gentleman's Magazine a letter from 
somebody at Winchester, in which is a copy 
of the epitaph of our poor friend Unwin : an 
English, not a Latin one. It has been pleas- 
ant to me sometimes to think, that his dust 
lay under an inscription of my writing; 
which I had no reason to doubt, because the 
Latin one, which I composed at the request 
of the executors, was, as I understood from 
Mr. H. Thornton, accepted by them and ap- 
proved. If they thought, after all, that an 
English one, as more intelligible, would 
therefore be preferable, 1 believe they judged 



wisely; but, having never heard that they 
had changed their mind about it, I was at a 
loss to account for the alteration. 

So now, my dear friend, adieu ! — When 1 
have thanked you for a barrel of oysters, and 
added our united kind remembrances to your- 
self and Miss Catfett, I shall have exhausted 
the last moment that I can spare at present. 
I remain sincerely yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, May 4, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — While your sorrow for 
our common loss was fresh in your mind, I 
would not write, lest a letter on so distress- 
ing a subject should be too painful both to 
you and me ; and now that I seem to have 
reached a proper time for doing it, the mul- 
tiplicity of my literary business will hardly 
afford me leisure. Both you and I have 
this comfort when deprived of those we love 
— at our time of life we have every reason to 
believe that the deprivation cannot be long. 
Our sun is setting too, and when the hour 
of rest arrives we shall rejoin your brother, 
and many whom we have tenderly loved, our 
forerunners into a bettter country. 

I will say no more on a theme which it 
will be better perhaps to treat with brevity; 
and because the introduction of any other 
might seem a transition too violent, I will 
only add that Mrs. Unwin and I are about as 
well as we at any time have been within the 
last year. 

Truly yours, W. C, 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

May 5, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — My delay to answer 
your last kind letter, to which likewise you 
desired a speedy reply, must have seemed 
rather difficult to explain on any other sup- 
position than that of illness ; but illness has 
not been the cause, although, to say the truth, 
I cannot boast of having been lately very well. 
Yet has not this been the cause of my silence, 
but your own advice, very proper and ear- 
nestly given to me, to proceed in the revisal 
of Homer. To this it is owing, that, instead 
of giving an hour or two before breakfast to 
my correspondents, I allot that time entirely 
to my studies. I have nearly given the last 
touches to the poetry, and am now busied 
far more laboriously in writing notes at the 
request of my honest bookseller, transmitted 
to me in the first instance by you, and after- 
ward repeated by himself. I am therefore, 
deep in the old Scholia, and have advanced 
to the latter part of Iliad nine, explaining, as 
I go, such passages as may be difficult to un- 
learned readers, and such only ; for notes of 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



435 



that kind are the notes that Johnson desired. 

find it a more laborious task than the trans- 
ation was, and shall be heartilyglad when it 
s over. In the meantime, all the letters I 
*eceive remain unanswered, or, if they receive 
in answer, it is always a short one. Such 
his must be. Johnny is here, having flown 
over London. 

Homer, I believe, will make a much more 
respectable appearance than before. John- 
son now thinks it will be right to make a 
separate impression of the amendments. 

W. C. 

I breakfast every morning on seven or 
eight pages of the Greek commentators. 
For so much I am obliged to read in order 
to select perhaps three or four short notes 
for the readers of my translation. 

Homer is indeed a tie upon me, that must 
not on any account be broken, till all his de- 
mands are satisfied; though I have fancied, 
while the revisal of the Odyssey was at a 
distance, that it would ask less labor in the 
finishing, it is not unlikely, that, when I take 
it actually in hand, I may find myself mis- 
taken. Of this at least I am sure, that un- 
even verse abounds much more in it than it 
once did in the Iliad ; yet to the latter the 
critics objected on that account, though to 
the former never; perhaps because they had 
not read it. Hereafter they shall not quarrel 
with me on that score. The Iliad is now all 
smooth turnpike, and I will take equal care, 
that there shall be no jolts in the Odyssey. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 7, 1793. 

My dearest Coz., — You have thought me 
long silent, and so have many others. In 
fact I have not for many months written 
punctually to any but yourself and Hayley. 
My time, the little I have, is so engrossed by 
Homer, that I have at this moment a bundle 
of unanswered letters by me, and letters 
likely to be so. Thou knowest, I dare say, 
what it is to have a head weary with think- 
ing. Mine is so fatigued by breakfast time, 
three days out of four, I am utterly incapable 
of sitting down to my desk again for any 
purpose whatever. 

I am glad I have convinced thee at last 
that thou art a Tory. Your friend's defini- 
tion of Whig and Tory must be just, for 
aught I know, as fir as the latter are con- 
cerned; but respecting the former, I think 
him mistaken. There is no true Whig who 
wishes all power in the hands of his own 
party. The division of it which the lawyers 
eall tripartite is exactly what he desires; and 
&e would have neither king, lords, nor com- 
oons unequall " trusted, or in the smallest 



degree predominant. Such a Whig am I, 
and such Whigs are the true friends of the 
constitution. 

Adieu! my dear; I am dead with weari- 
ness. W. C. 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

May 17, 1793. 

Dear Sir, — It has not been without fre- 
quent self-reproach that I have so long omit- 
ted to answer your last very kind and most 
obliging letter. I am by habit and inclina- 
tion extremely punctual in the discharge of 
such arrears, and it is only through necessity, 
and under constraint of various indispensable 
engagements of a different kind, that I am 
become of late much otherwise. 

I have never seen Chapman's translation 
of Homer, and will not refuse your offer of 
it, unless, by accepting it, I shall deprive you 
of a curiosity that you cannot easily replace.* 
The line or two which you quote from him. 
except that the expression of " a well-written 
soul" has the quaintness of his times in it, 
do him credit. He cannot surely be the same 
Chapman who wrote a poem, I think, on the 
battle of Hochstadt, in which, when I was a 
very young man, I remember to have seer 
the following lines: 

"Think of two thousand gentlemen at least, 
And each man mounted on his capering beast. 
Into the Danube they were push'd by shoals," &( . 

These are lines that could not fail to im- 
press the memory, though not altogether in 
the Homerican style of battle. 

I am, as you say, a hermit, and probably 
an irreclaimable one, having a horror of Lon- 
don that I cannot express, nor indeed very 
easily account for. Neither am I much less 
disinclined to migration in general. I did no 
little violence to my love of home last sum- 
mer, when I paid Mr. Hayley a visit, and in 
truth was principally induced to the journey 
by a hope that it might be useful to Mrs. 
Unwin; who, however, derived so little ben- 
efit from it, that I purpose for the iVrure to 
avail myself of the privilege my years may 
reasonably claim, by compelling my youiuvr 
friends to visit me. But even this is a point 
which I cannot well compass at present/both 
because I am too busy, and because poor 
Mrs. Unwin is not able to bear the fatigue of 
company. Should better days arrive, days 

* Chapman claims the honor of being the first trans 
lator of the whole of the works of Homer. He was bore 
in 1557, and was the contemporary of Shakspeare, Spen- 
ser. Jonson, &c. His version of the Iliad was dedicate* 
to Henry, Prince of Wales. He also translated Musaeua 
and Hesiod, and was the author of many other works. 
He died in 1634, aged seventy-seven. His version of 
Horner is now obsolete, and rendered tedious by the pro- 
tracted measure of fourteen syllables ; though occasion 
ally it exhibits much spirit Waller, according to Dry 
den, could never read his version without emotion, and 
P« pe found it worthy of his particular attention. 



of more leisure to me, and of some health to 
her, I shall not fail to give you notice of the 
change, and shall then hope for the pleasure 
of seeing you at Weston. 

The epitaph you saw is on the tomb of the 
same Mr. Unwin to whom the "Tirocinium" 
is inscribed ; the son of the lady above men- 
tioned. By the desire of his executors I 
wrote a Latin one, which they approved, but 
it was not approved by a relation of the de- 
ceased, and therefore was not used. He ob- 
jected to the mention I had made in it of his 
mother having devoted him to the service of 
God in his infancy. She did it, however, and 
not in vain, as I wrote in my epitaph. Who 
wrote the English one I know not. 

The poem called the " Slave" is not mine, 
nor have I ever seen it. I wrote two on the 
subject — one entitled "The Negro's Com- 
plaint," and the other "The Morning Dream." 
With thanks for all your kindness, and the 
patience you have with me, 
I remain, dear sir, 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, May 21, 1793. 

My dear Brother, — You must either think 
me extremely idle, or extremely busy, that I 
have made your last very kind letter wait so 
very long for an answer. The truth how- 
ever is, that I am neither ; but have had time 
enough to have scribbled to you, had I been 
able to scribble at all. To explain this riddle 
I must give you a short account of my pro- 
ceedings. 

I rise at six every morning and fag till 
near eleven, when I breakfast. The conse- 
quence is, that I am so exhausted as not to 
be able to write when the opportunity offers. 
You will say — " Breakfast before you work, 
and then your work will not fatigue you." I 
answer — "Perhaps I might, and your counsel 
would probably prove beneficial ; but I can- 
not spare a moment for eating in the early 
part of the morning, having no other time 
for study." This uneasiness of wbi",h I com- 
plain is a proof that I am somewhat stricken 
in years; and there is no other cause by 
which I can account for it, since I go early 
to bed, always between ten and eleven, and 
seldom fail to sleep well. Certain it is, ten 
years ago I could have done as much, and 
sixteen years ago did actually much more, 
without suffering fatigue or any inconve- 
nience from my labors. How insensibly old 
age steals on, and how often is it actually 
arrived before we suspect it ! Accident alone, 
some occurrence that suggests a comparison 
of our former with our present selves, affords 
the discovery. Well ! it is always good to 
be undeceived, especially on an article of 
Buch importance. 



There has been a book lately published 
entitled "Man as he is." I have heard a 
high character of it, as admirably written, 
and am informed, that for that reason, and 
because it inculcates Whig principles, it is 
by many imputed to you. I contradict this 
report, assuring my informant, that had it 
been yours, I must have known it, for that 
you have bound yourself to make me your 
father-confessor on all such wicked occasions, 
and not to conceal from me even a murder, 
should you happen to commit one* 

I will not trouble you, at present, to send 
me any more books with a view to rny notes 
on Homer. I am not without hopes that Sir 
John Throckmorton, who is^ expected here 
from Venice in a short time, may bring me 
Villoison's edition of the Odyssey. He cer- 
tainly will, if he found it published, and that 
alone will be insiar omnium. 

Adieu, my dearest brother ! Give my love 
to Tom, and thank him for his book, oi 
which I believe I need not have deprived him, 
intending that my readers shall detect the 
occult instruction contained in Homer's sto 
ries for themselves. W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, June 1, 1793. 

My dearest Cousin, — You will not (you 
say) come to us now; and you tell us not 
when you will. These assignations, sine die, 
are such shadowy things that I can neither 
grasp nor get any comfort from them. Know 
you not that hope is the next best thing to 
enjoyment? Give us then a hope, and a de- 
terminate time for that hope to fix on', and 
we will endeavor to be satisfied. 

Johnny is gone to Cambridge, called thither 
to take his degree, and is much missed by me. 
He is such an active little fellow in my ser- 
vice, that he cannot be otherwise. In three 
weeks, however, I shall hope to have him 
again for a fortnight. I have had a letter 
from him, containing an incident which has 
given birth to the following. 

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,f 

ON HIS ARRIVAL AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO 
RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. 

If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he 

found. 
While moisture none refreshed the herbs around, 
Might fitly represent the Church, endow'd, 
With heavenly gifts, to heathens not allow'd ; 
In pledge, perhaps, of favors from on high, 
Thy locks were wet. when other locks were dry 
Heav'n grant us half the omen ! may we see, 
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee ! 

These are spick and span. Johnny him 

* The real author was Robert 
t The poet's kinsman. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



43T 



*elf has not yet seen them. By the way, he 
nas filled your book completely; and I will 
give thee a guinea if thou wilt search thy old 
Dook for a couple of songs and two or three 
other pieces, of which I know thou madest 
copies at the vicarage, and which I have lost. 
The songs I know are pretty good, and I 
would fain recover them. W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HTJRDIS. 

Weston, June 6, 1793. 

My dear Sir, — I seize a passing moment 
merely to say that I feel for your distresses, 
and sincerely pity you, and I shall be happy 
to learn from your next, that your sister's 
amendment has superseded the necessity you 
feared of a journey to London. Your candid 
account of the effect thai your afflictions 
have both on you* ©pints and temper I can 
perfectly understand, having labored much 
in ft'i nre myself, and perhaps more than 
«ny man. It is in such a school, however, 
that we must learn if we ever truly learn 
it, the natural depravity of the human heart, 
and of our own in particular ; together with 
the consequence that necessarily follows such 
wretched premises; our indispensable need of 
the atonement, and our inexpressible obliga- 
tions to Him who made it. This reflection 
cannot escape a thinking mind, looking back 
to those ebullitions of fretfulness and impa- 
tience to which it has yielded in a season of 
great affliction. 

Having lately had company, who left us 
only on the 4th, I have done nothing — noth- 
iug indeed, since my return from Sussex, ex- 
cept a trifle or two, which it was incumbent 
upon me to write. Milton hangs in doubt : 
neither spirits nor opportunity suffice me for 
that labor. I regret continually that I ever 
suffered myself to be persuaded to undertake 
it. The most that I hope to effect is a com- 
plete revisal of my own Homer. Johnson 
told my friend, who has just left me, that it 
will begin to be reviewed in the next Ana- 
lytical, and he hoped the review of it would 
not offend me. By this I understand, that if 
[ am not offended it will be owing more to 
my own equanimity than to the mildness of 
the critic. So be it ! He will put an oppor- 
tunity of victory over myself into my hands, 
and I will endeavor not to lose it. 

Adieu! W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

June 12, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — You promise to be con- 
futed with a short line, and a short one you 
must have, hurried over in the little interval I 
lavt happened to find between the conclusion 
* Private coi'espcndence. 



of my morning task and breakfast. Study 
has this good effect, at least : it makes me an 
early riser, who might otherwise, perhaps, be 
as much given to dozing as my readers. 

The scanty opportunity I have, I shall em- 
ploy in telling you what you principally wish 
to be told — the present state of mine and 
Mrs. Unwin's health. In her I cannot per- 
ceive any alteration for the better ; and must 
be satisfied, I believe, as indeed 1 have great 
reason to be, if she does not alter for the 
worse. She uses the orchard-walk daily, but 
always supported between two, and is still 
unable to employ herself as formerly. But 
she is cheerful, seldom in much pain, and has 
always strong confidence in the mercy and 
faithfulness of God. 

As to myself, I have always the same song 
to sing — Well in body, but sick in spirit; 
sick, nigh unto death. 

Seasons return, but not to me returns 
God. or the sweet approach of heavenly day, 
Or sight of cheering truth, or pardon seal'd. 
Or joy, or hope, or Jesus's face divine ; 
But cloud, &c. 

I could easily set my complaint to Milton's 
tone, and accompany him through the whole 
passage,* on the subject of a blindness more 
deplorable than his ; but time fails me. 

I feel great desire to see your intended 
publication; a desire which the manner in 
which Mr. Bull speaks of it, who called here 
lately, has no tendency to allay. I believe 
I forgot to thank you for your last poetical 
present : not because I was not much pleased 
with it, but I write always in a hurry, and in 
a hurry must now conclude myself, with our 
united love, 

Yours, my dear friend, 

Most sincerely, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, June 29, 1793, 
Dear architect of fine chateaux in air 
Worthier to stand forever if they could, 
Than many built of stone, or yet of wood, 
For back of royal elephant to bear ! 

Oh for permission from the skies to share, 
Much to my own though little to thy good, 
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) 

A partnership of literary ware. 

But I am bankrupt now ; and doom'd henceforth 
To drudge, in descant dry.t on others' lays , 

Bards. I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth ! 
But what is commentator's happiest praise 1 

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, 
Which they who need them use. and then despise. 

What remains for me to say on this subject, 
my dear brother bard, I will say in prose 

* Paradise lost, Book III. 

t He alludes to his notes on Homer. 



438 



UUYVPER'S WORKS. 



There are other impediments which I could not 
comprise within the bounds of a sonnet. 

My poc r Mary's infirm condition makes it 
impossible for me, at present, to engage in a 
work such as you propose. My thoughts are 
not sufficiently free, nor have I, nor can I, by 
any means, rind opportunity; added to it 
comes a difficulty which, though you are not at 
all aware of it, presents itself to me under a 
most forbidding appearance. Can you guess 
it? No, not you ; neither perhaps will you 
be able to imagine that such a difficulty can 
possibly subsist. If your hair begins to bris- 
tle, stroke it down again, for there is no need 
why it should erect itself. It concerns me, 
not you. I know myself too well not to 
know that I am nobody in verse, unless in a 
corner, and alone, and unconnected in my 
operations. This is not owing to want of 
love for you, my brother, or the most consum- 
mate confidence in you ; for I have both in a 
degree that has not been exceeded in the ex- 
perience of any friend yon have, or ever had. 
But I am so made up — I will not enter into a 
metaphysical analysis of my strange, compo- 
sition, in order to detect trfb true cause of 
this evil : but on a general view of the matter, 
I suspect that it proceeds from that shyness 
which has been my effectual and almost fatal 
hindrance on many other important occasions, 
and which I should feel, I well know, on this, 
to a degree that would perfectly cripple me. 
No ! I shall neither do, nor attempt anything 
of consequence more, unless my poor Mary 
get better ; nor even then, unless it should 
please God to give me another nature, in con- 
cert with any man — I could not, even with my 
own father or brother, were they now alive. 
Small game must serve me at present, and till 
I have done with Homer and Milton, a sonnet, 
or some such matter, must content me. The 
utmost that I aspire to, and Heaven knows 
with how feeble a hope, is to write at some 
better opportunity, and when my hands are 
free, " The Four Ages." Thus I have opened 
my heart unto thee.* W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, July 7, 1793. 

My dearest Hayley, — If the excessive heat 
of this day, which forbids me to do anything 
else, will permit me to scribble to you, I shall 
rejoice. To do this is a pleasure to me at all 
times, but to do it now, a double one ; be- 
cause 1 am in haste to tell you how much I 
am delighted with your projected quadruple 
alliance, and to assure you, that if it please 
God to afford me health, spirits, ability, and 
leisure, I will not fail to devote them all to 

* What the proposed literary partnership was, which 
Hayley suggested, we know not ; it is evident that it was 
not the poem of " The Four Ages," which forms the sub- 
ject of the following letter, and in which Cowper ac- 
quiesced. 



the production of my quota of " The Foul 

Ages."* 

You are very kind to humor me as you do, 
and had need be a little touched yourself with 
all my oddities, that you may know how to ad- 
minister to mine. All whom I love do so, and 
I believe it to be impossible to love heartily 
those who do not. People must not do me 
good in their way, but in my own, and then 
they do me good indeed. My pride, my am- 
bition, and my friendship for you, and the in- 
terest I take in my own dear self, will all be 
j consulted and gratified by an arm-in-arm ap- 
pearance with you in public ; and I shall 
work with more zeal and assiduity at Homer, 
and, when Homer is finished at Milton, with 
the prospect of such a* coalition before me. 
But what shall I do with a multitude of small 
pieces, from which I intended to select the 
best, and adding them to " The Four Ages," to 
have made a volume ? Will there be room for 
them upon your plan? I have re-touched 
them, and will re-touch them again. Some of 
them will suggest pretty devices to designer ■ 
and, in short, 1 have a desire not to lose them. 
I am at this moment, with all the impru- 
dence natural to poets, expending nobody 
knows what, in embellishing my premises, or 
rather the premises of my neighbor Court e- 
nay, which is more poetical still. 1 have built 
one summer-house already, with the boards 
of my old study, and am building another, 
spick and span, as they say. I have also a 
stone-cutter now at work, setting a bust of 
my dear old, Grecian on a pedestal ; and be- 
sides all this I meditate still more that is to be 
done in the autumn. Your project therefore 
is most opportune, as any project must needs 
be that has so direct a tendency to put money 
into the pocket of one so likely to want it. 

Ah brother poet ! send me of your shade, 
And bid the zephyrs hasten to my aid ! 
Or, like a worm unearth'd at noon, I go, 
Despatch'd by sunshine, to the shades below. 

My poor Mary is as well as the heat will 
allow her to be: and whether it be cold or 
sultry, is always affectionately mindful of you 
and yours. W. C. 

It is due to the memory of my reverend 
friend and brother-in-law, the Rev. Dr. John- 
son, to state that Cowper was indebted to his 
ever-watchful and affectionate kindness for 
what he here calls his " dear old Grecian." 

* Hayley made a second proposition to unite with Cow- 
per in the projected poem of " The Four Ages," and to 
engage the aid of two distinguished artists, who were to 
embellish the work with appropriate designs. We b«» 
lieve that Lawrence and Flaxman were the persons to 
whom Hayley refers. We cannot sufficiently regret the 
failure of this plan, which would have enriched literature 
and art with so happy a specimen of poetical and pro- 
fession talent. But the period was unhappily approach- 
ing which was to suspend the fine powers of Cowper'l 
mind, and to shroud them in the veil of darkness. 



LIFE OF COWPEL 



431 



With that amiable solicitude which formed so 
prominent -o feature in his character, and which 
was always se ?king how to please and to con- 
fer a favor, he had contrived to procure an an- 
tique bust of Homer, to gratify Cowper's 
partiality for his favorite bard. No present 
could possibly have been more acceptable or 
appropriate. We cannot avoid remarking, on 
this occasion, that, to anticipate a want and to 
supply it, to know how to minister to the 
gratification of another, and to enhance the 
gift by the grace of bestowing it, is one of 
the great arts of social and domestic life. It 
is not the amount, nor the intrinsic value of 
the favor, for the power of giving must in that 
3ase be restricted to the few. To give royally 
requires not only an enlarged heart, but ample 
and enlarged means, t is the appropriate- 
ness of the time and the occasion, the grace 
of the manner, and the unobtrusiveness of its 
character, that constitutes the value of the 
gift and endears the giver. 

Cowper recorded his gratitude by the fol- 
lowing poetical tribute, which has always 
been justly admired : — 

Kinsman belov'd, and as a son by me ! 
When I behold this fruit of thy regard, 
The sculptur'd form of my old fav'rite bard ! 
I rev'rence feel for him. and love for thee. 
Joy too, and grief! much joy that there should be 
Wise men. and learn'd who grudge not to reward 
With some applause my bold attempt and hard, 
Which others scorn : critics by courtesy ! 

The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, 
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail ! 
Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 
Proves dross when balanc'd in the Christian scale ! 
Be wiser thou ! — like our forefather Donne, 
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone ! 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

W. U., July 15, 1793. 

Dear Sir, — Within these few days I have 
received, by favor of Miss Knapps, your ac- 
ceptable present of Chapman's translation of 
the Iliad. I know not whether the book be a 
rarity, but a curiosity it certainly is. I have 
as yet seen but little of it ; enough, however, 
to make me wonder that any man, with so 
little taste for Homer, or apprehension of his 
manner, should think it worth while to under- 
take the laborious task of translating him : 
the hope of pecuniary advantage may perhaps 
account for it.* His information I fear, was 

* Chapman's version is thus described by Warton: he 
"frequently retrenches or impoverishes what he could 
not feel and express," and yet is " not always without 
Btrength and spirit." By Anton, in his Philosophical Sat- 
ires, published in 1616, he is characterised as 

•'Greeke-thund'ring Chapman, beaten to the age, 
With a deepe furie and a sudden rage." 

The testimony of Bishop Percy is flattering. " Had Chap- 
man," he observes, '• translated the Iliad into blank verse, 
had been one of our chief classic performances." 



not much better than his verse, for I have con 
suited him in one passage of some difficulty, 
and find him giving a sense of his own, not at 
all warranted by the words of Homer. Pope 
sometimes does this, and sometimes omits the 
difficult part entirely. I can boast of having 
done neither, though it has cost me infinite 
pains to exempt myself from the necessity. 

I have seen a translation by Hobbes, which 
I prefer for its greater clumsiness. Many 
years have passed since I saw it, but it mado 
me laugh immoderately. Poetry that is not 
good can only make amends for that defi- 
ciency by being ridiculous ; and, because the 
translation of Hobbes has at least this recom- 
mendation, I shall be obliged to you, should 
it happen to fall in your way, if you would 
be so kind as to procure it for me. The only 
edition of it I ever saw (and perhaps there 
never was another*), was a very thick 12mo., 
both print and paper bad ; a sort of book that 
would be sought in vain, perhaps, anywhere 
but on a stall. 

When you saw Lady Hesketh, you saw 
the relation of mine with whom I have been 
more intimate,«even from childhood, than any 
other. She has seen much of the world, un- 
derstands it well, and, having great natural 
vivacity, is of course one of the most agreea- 
ble companions. 

I have now arrived almost at a close of my 
labors on the Iliad, and have left nothing be- 
hind me, I believe, which I shall wish to alter 
on any future occasion. In about a fortnight 
or three weeks I shall begin to do the same 
for the Odyssey, and hope to be able to per- 
form it while the Iliad is in printing. Then 
Milton will demand all my attention, -and 
when I shall find opportunity either to re- 
vise your MSS., or to write a poem of my 
own,f which I have in contemplation, I can 
hardly say. Certainly not till both these 
tasks are accomplished. 
I remain, dear sir, 

With many thanks for your kind present, 
Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

Weston, July 25, 1793. 
My dear Madam, — Many reasons concurred 
to make me impatient for the arrival of your 
most acceptable present,} and among them 
was the fear lest you should perhaps suspect 
me of tardiness in acknowledging so great a 
favor ; a fear, that, as often as it prevailed, 
distressed me exceedingly. At length I have 
received it, and my little bookseller assures 

* Cowper is mistaken in this supposition. Wood, in 
his Athense, records an edition of the Iliad in 1675 ; and 
of tne Odyssey in 1667, and there was a re-impression of 
both in 1686. 

t The Four Ages. 

t The poem of the Emigrants, which was dedicated U 
Cowper. 



440 



COWPER'S WORKS 



me, that he sent it the very day he got it ; by 
some mistake, however, the wagon brought 
it instead of the coach, which occasioned the 
delay. 

It came this morning, about an hour ago ; 
consequently I have not had time to peruse 
the poem, though you may be sure I have 
found enough for the perusal of the dedica- 
tion. I have, in fact, given it three readings, 
and in each have found increasing pleasure. 

I am a whimsical creature : when I write 
for the public, I write of course with a de- 
sire to please; in other words, to acquire 
fame, and I labor accordingly, but when I 
find that 1 have succeeded, feel myself 
alarmed, and ready to shrink from the acqui- 
sition. 

This I have felt more than once ; and when 
I saw my name at the head of your dedica- 
tion, I felt it again ; but the consummate deli- 
cacy of your praise soon convinced me that 
I might spare my blushes, and that the de- 
mand was less upon my modesty than my 
gratitude. Of that be assured, dear madam, 
and of the truest esteem and respect of your 
most obliged and affectionate* humble ser- 
vant, W. C. 

P. S. I should have been much grieved to 
have let slip this opportunity of thanking 
you for your charming sonnets, and my two 
most agreeable old friends, Monimia and 
Orlando.* 



TO THE REV. MR. GREATHEED. 

Weston, July 27, 1793. 

I was not without some expectation of a 
line from you, my dear sir, though you did 
not promise me one at your departure, and 
am happy not to have been disappointed: 
still happier to learn that you and Mrs. Great- 
heed are well, and so delightfully situated. 
Your kind offer to us of sharing with you 
the house which you at present inhabit, added 
to the short, but lively, description of the scen- 
ery that surrounds.it, wants nothing to win 
1 our acceptance, should it please God to give 
Mrs. Unwin a little more strength, and should 
I ever be master of my time so as to be able 
to gratify myself with what would please me 
most. But many have claims upon us, and 
some who cannot absolutely be said to have 
any would yet complain and think themselves 
yl.'ghted, should we prefer rocks and caves to 
them. In short, we are called so many ways } 

* Mrs. Charlotte Smith is well known as an authoress, 
■md particularly for her beautiful sonnets. She was for- 
merly a great eulogist of the French Revolution, but the 
horrors which distinguished that political era led to a 
change in her sentiments which she publicly avowed in 
her '* Banished Man." There is a great plaintivenfcss of 
feeling in all her writings, arising from the unfortunate 
incidents of her chequered life. We remember this lady, 
with her family, formerly resident at Oxford, where she 
Kcited much interest by her talents and misfortunes. 



that these numerous demands are likely te 
operate as a remora, and to keep us fixed at 
home. Here we can occasionally have the 
pleasure of yours and Mrs. Greatheed's com- 
pany, and to have it here must I believe con- 
tent us. Hayley in his last letter gives me 
reason to expect the pleasure of seeing him 
and his dear boy Tom, in the autumn. He 
will use all his eloquence to draw us to 
Eartham again. My cousin Johnny, of Nor- 
folk, holds me under promise to make my 
first trip thither, and the very same promise 
I have hastily made to visit Sir John and 
Lady Throckmorton, at Bucklands. How to 
reconcile such clashing promises, and give 
satisfaction to all, would puzzle me, had 1 
nothing else to do ; and therefore, as I say 
the result will probably be, that we shah 
find ourselves obliged to go nowhere, since 
we cannot everywhere. 

Wishing you both safe at home again, ana 
to see you as soon as may be here, 
I remain, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, July 27, 1793. 

I have been vexed with myself, my dearest 
brother, and with everything about me, not 
excepting even Homer himself, that I have 
been obliged so long to delay an answer tc 
your last kind letter. If I listen any longei 
to calls another way, I shall hardly be abk 
to tell you how happy we are in the hope oi 
seeing you in the autumn, and before the 
autumn will have arrived. Thrice welcomt 
will you and your dear boy be to us, and the 
longer you will afford us your company, the 
more welcome. I have set up the head of 
Homer on a famous fine pedestal, and a very 
majestic appearance he makes. I am now 
puzzled about a motto, and wish you to de- 
cide for me between two, one of which I 
have composed myself, a Greek one, as fol- 
lows : 

Ec-oi/a rig ravrnv ; kXvtov avepog ovvo^ oXulev' 
Ovvofta S'ovtos avrip atydirov aiev £%"• 

The other is my own translation of a pas- 
sage in the Odyssey, the original of which I 
have seen used as a motto to an engraved 
head of Homer many a time. 

The present edition of the lines stand? 
thus: 

Him partially the muse 
And dearly loved, yet gave him good and ill : 
She quench'd his sight, and gave him strain, 
divine. 

Tell me, by the way, (if you ever had any 
speculations on the subject,) what is it you 



LIFE OF COWPER 



441 



luppose Homer to have meant in particular, 
vviien he ascribed his blindness to the muse, 
for that he speaks of himself under the name 
of Demodocus, in the eighth book, I believe 
is by all admitted. How could the old bard 
study himself blind, when books were either 
so few or none at all ? And did he write his 
poems ? If neither were the cause, as seems 
reasonable to imagine, how could he incur 
his blindness by such means as could be 
justly imputable to the muse ? Would mere 
thinking blind him? I want to know : 

" Call up some spirit from the vasty deep!" 

I said to my Sam* , " Sam, build me 

a shed in the garden, with anything that you 
can find, and make it rude and rough, like 

one of those at Eartham." "Yes, Sir," 

says Sam, and straightway laying his own 
noddle, and the carpenter's noddle together, 
has built me a thing fit for Stow Gardens. Is 

not this vexatious? 1 threaten to inscribe 

it thus : 

Beware of building ! I intended 

Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended. 

But my Mary says, I shall break Sam's 
heart and the carpenter's too, and will not 
consent to it. Poor Mary sleeps but ill. 
How have you lived who cannot bear a sun- 
beam ? Adieu ! 

My dearest Hayley, W. C. 

The following seasonable and edifying 
letter, addressed by Cowper to his beloved 
kinsman, on the occasion of his ordination, 
will be read with interest. 



TO THE REV. JOHN JOHNSON.f 

August 2, 1793. 

My dearest Johnny, — The bishop of Nor- 
wich has won my heart by his kind and lib- 
eral behavior to you ; and, if I knew him, I 
would tell him so. 

I am glad that your auditors find your 
voice strong and your utterance distinct; 
glad, too, that your doctrine has hitherto 
made you no enemies. You have a gracious 
Master, who, it seems, will not suffer you to 
see war in the beginning. It will be a won- 
der, however, if you do not, sooner or later, 
find out that sore place in every heart, which 
can ill endure the touch of apostolic doctrine. 
Somebody will smart in his conscience, and 
you will hear of it. I say not this, my dear 
Johnny, to terrify, but to prepare you for 
mat which is likely to happen, and which, 
troublesome as it may prove, is yet devoutly 
to be wished; for, in general, there is little 
good done by preachers till the world begins 
lo abuse them. But understand me aright. 

* Samuel Roberts, his faithful servant, 
t Private correspondence. 



I do not mean that you should give them un 
necessary provocation, by scolding and railing 
at them, as some, more zealous than wise, are 
apt to do. That were to deserve their anger 
No ; there is no need of it. The self-abasing 
doctrines of the gospel will, of themselves, 
create you enemies ; but remember this, for 
your comfort — they will also, in due time, 
transform them into friends, and make them 
love you, as if they were your own children 
God give you many such; as, if you are 
faithful to his cause, I trust he will ! " 

Sir John and Lady Throckmorton hav« 
lately arrived in England, and are now at 
the Hall. They have brought me from 
Rome a set of engravings on Odyssey sub- 
jects, by Flaxman, whom you have heard 
Hayley celebrate. They are very fine, very 
much in the antique style, and a present 
from the Dowager Lady Spencer. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, Aug. 11, 1/93. 

My dearest Cousin, — I am giad that my 
poor and hasty attempts to express some lit- 
tle civility to Miss Fanshaw and the amiable 
Count * have your and her approbation. The 
lines addressed to her were not what . I 
would have made them, but lack of time, &. 
lack which always presses me, would not 
suffer me to improve them. Many thanks 
for her letter, which, were my merits less 
the subject of it, I should without scruple 
say is an excellent one. She writes with 
the force and accuracy of a person skilled in 
more languages than are spoken in the pres- 
ent day, as 1 doubt not that she is. I per- 
fectly approve the theme she recommends to 
me, but am at present so totally absorbed in 
Homer, that all I do beside is ill done, being 
hurried over ; and I would not execute ill a 
subject of her recommending. 

I shall watch the walnuts with more at- 
tention than they who eat them, which I do 
in some hope, though you do not expressly 
say so. that when their threshing time ar- 
rives, we shall see you here. I am now go- 
ing to paper my new study, and in a short 
time it will be fit to inhabit. 

Lady Spencer has sent me a present from 
Rome, by the hands of Sir John Throck- 
morton, engravings of Odyssey subjects, af 
ter figures by Flaxman,f a statuary at pres 
ent resident there, of high repute, and much 
a friend of Hayley's. 

Thou livest, my dear, I acknowledge, in a 
very fine country, but they have spoiled it 
by building London in it. 

Adieu, W. C. 

* Count Gravina, the Spanish Admiral. 

t These illustrations are executed in outline, and form 
one of the most beautiful and elegant epecimens of pro* 
fessional art. 



442 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



That the allusion in the former part of the 
letter may be better understood, it is neces- 
sary to state, that Lady Hesketh had lent a 
mar uscript poem of Cowper's to her friend 
Miss Fanshaw, with an injunction that she 
should neither show it nor take a copy. 
This promise was violated, and the reason 
assigned is expressed by the young lady in 
the following verses. 

What wonder ! if my wavering hand 

Had dared to disobey, 
When Hesketh gave a harsh command, 

And Cowper led astray 1 
Then take this tempting gift of thine, 

By pen uncopied yet ; 
But, canst thou memory confine, 

Or teach me to forget 1 
More lasting than the touch of art 

The characters remain, 
When written by a feeling heart 

On tablets of the brain. 

COWPER'S REPLY. 

To be remembered thus is fame, 

And in the first degree ; 
And did the few like her the same, 
» The press might rest for me. 

So Homer, in the memory stored 

Of many a Grecian belle. 
Was once preserved — a richer hoard, 

But never lodged so well. 

We add the verses addressed to Count 
Gravina, whom Cowper calls "the amiable 
Count," and who had translated the well- 
known, stanzas on the Rose* into Italian 
verse. 

My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew, 

And, steep'd not now in rain, 
But in Castalian streams by you, 
Will never fade again. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Aug. 15, 1793. 
Instead of a pound or two, spending a mint 
Must serve me at least, I believe, with a hint, 
That building, and building, a man may be driven 
At last out of doors, and have no house to live in. 

Besides, my dearest brother, they have not 
only built for me what I did not want, but 
have ruined a notable tetrastic by doing so. 
I had written one which I designed for a 
hermitage, and it will by no means suit the 
fine and pompous affair which they have 
made instead of one. So that, as a poet, I 
am every way afflicted ; made poorer than I 
need have been, and robbed of my verses : 
what case can be more deplorable ?f . 

* ' The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,'&c. 
t The lines here alluded to are entitled, " Inscription 
for an Hermitage ;" and are as follow :— 

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, 

Builf as it has been in our waning years, 

A rest afforded to our weary feet, 

Preliminary to— the last retreat. 



You must not suppose me ignorant of 
what Flaxman has done, or that I have not 
seen it, or that I am not actually in posses 
sion of it, at least of the engravings which 
you mention. In fact, I have had them more 
than a fortnight. Lady Dowager Spencer, 
to whom I inscribed my Odyssey, and who 
was at Rome when Sir John Throckmorton 
was there, charged him with them as a pres- 
ent to me, and arriving here lately he exe- 
cuted his commission. Romney, I doubt 
not, is right in his judgment of them ; he is 
an artist himself, and cannot easily be mis- 
taken ; and I take his opinion as an oracle., 
the rather because it coincides exactly with 
•my own. The figures are highly classical 
antique, and elegant ; especially that of Pe 
nelope, who, whether she wakes or sleeps, 
must necessarily charm all beholders. 

Your scheme of embellishing my Odyssey 
with these plates is a kind one, and the fruit 
of your benevolence to me ; but Johnson, I 
fear, will hardly stake so much money as 
the cost would amount to, on a work, the 
fate of which is at present uncertain. Nor 
could we adorn the Odyssey in this splendid 
manner, unless we had similar ornaments to 
bestow on the Iliad. Such, I presume, are 
not ready, and much time must elapse even 
if Flaxman should accede to the plan, before 
he could possibly prepare them. Happy in- 
deed should I be to see a work of mine so 
nobly accompanied, but, should that good 
fortune ever attend me, it cannot take place 
till the third or fourth edition shall afford 
the occasion. This I regret, and I regret 
too that you will have seen them before I 
can have an opportunity to show them to 
you. Here is sixpence for you if you will 
abstain from the sight of them while you are 
in London. 

The sculptor 1 — nameless, though once dear tc 

fame : 
But this man bears an everlasting name.* 

So I purpose it shall stand; and on the 
pedestal, when you come, in that form you 
will find it. The added line from the Odys- 
sey is charming, but the assumption of son- 
ship to Homer seems too daring ; suppose it 
stood thus : 

&S <fc itais &) rrarpi, Kai ovirors ^uofiai uvtov. 

I am not sure that this would be clear of the 
same objection, and it departs from the text 
still more. 

With my poor Mary's best love and oui 
united wishes to see you here, 
I remain, my dearest brother, 

Ever yours, W. C. 



* A translation of Cowper's Greek verses an his 
of Homer. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



44J 



TO MRS. COURTENAY. 

Weston, Aug. 20, 1793. 

My dearest Catharina is too reasonable, I 
know, to expect news from me, who live on 
the outside of the world, and know, nothing 
that passes within it. The best news is, 
that, though you are gone, you are not gone 
forever, as once I supposed you were, and 
said that we should probably meet no more. 
Some news however we have; but then I 
conclude *hat you have already received it 
from the Doctor, and that thought almost 
deprives me of all courage to relate it. On 
the evening of the feast, Bob Archer's house 
affording, I suppose, the best room for the 
purpose, all the lads and lasses who felt 
themselves disposed to dance, assembled 
there. Long time they danced, at least long 
time they did something a little like it, when 
at last the company having retired, the fid- 
dler asked Bob for a lodging; Bob replied — 
" that his beds were all full of his own fami- 
ly, but if he chose it he would show him a 
hay-cock, where lte might sleep as sound as 
in any bed whatever." — So forth they went 
together, and when they reached the place, 
the fiddler knocked down Bob, and demand- 
ed his money. But, happily for Bob, though 
le might be knocked down, and actually was 
so, yet he could not possibly be robbed, 
having nothing. The fiddler, therefore, having 
amused himself, with kicking him and beat- 
ing him, as he lay, as long as he saw good, 
eft him, and has never been heard of since, 
nor inquired after indeed, being no doubt 
the last man in the world whom Bob wishes 
lo see again. 

By a letter from Hayley, to-day, I learn, 
that Flaxman, to whom we are indebted for 
those Odyssey figures which Lady Frog 
brought over, has almost finished a set for 
the Iliad also. I should be glad to embel- 
lish my Homer with them, but neither my 
bookseller, nor I, shall probably choose to 
risk so expensive an ornament on a work, 
whose reception with the public is at present 
doubtful. 

Adieu, my dearest Catharina. Give my 
best love to your husband. Come home as 
soon as you can, and accept our united very 
oest wishes. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Aug. 22, 1 793. 

My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you have 
had so pleasant an excursion, and have be- 
held so many beautiful scenes. Except the 
delightful Up way, I have seen them all. I 
have lived much at Southampton, have slept 
and caught a sore throat at Lyndhurst, and 
have swum in the bay of Weymouth. It will 
give us great pleasure to see you here, should 
your business give you an opportunity to fin- 



ish your excursions of this season with one 
to Weston. 

As for my going on, it is much as usual. 
I rise at six ; an industrious and wholesome 
practice from which I have never swerved 
since March. I breakfast generally about 
eleven — have given the intermediate time to 
my old delightful bard. Villoisson no longer 
keeps me company; I therefore now jog 
along with Clarke and Barnes at my elbow, 
and from the excellent annotations of the 
former, select such as I think likely to be 
useful, or that recommend themselves by the 
amusement they may afford : of which sorts 
there are not a few. Barnes also affords me 
some of both kinds, but not so many, his notes 
being chiefly paraphrastical or grammatical, 
my only fear is, lest between them both I 
should make my work too voluminous. 

W. C 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Aug. 27, 1793. 

I thank you, my dear brother, for consult- 
ing the Gibbonian oracle on the question con- 
cerning Homer's muse and his blindness. I 
proposed it like wise io my little neighbor Bu- 
chanan, who gave me precisely the same an- 
swer. I felt an insatiable thirst to learn 
something new concerning him, and, despair- 
ing of information from others, was willing 
to hope, that I had stumbled on matter un- 
noticed by the commentators, and might, per- 
haps, acquire a little intelligence from him- 
self. But the great and the little oracle to- 
gether have extinguished that hope, and I 
despair now of making any curious discover 
ies about him. 

Since Flaxman (which I did not know till 
your letter told me so) has been at work for 
the Iliad, as well afe the Odyssey, it seems a 
great pity that the engravings should not be 
bound up with some Homer or other; and, as 
I said before, I should have been too proud 
to have bound them up in mine. But there 
is an objection, at least such it seems to me, 
that threatens to disqualify them for such a 
use, namely, the shape and size of them, 
which are such, that no book of the usual 
form could possibly receive them, save in a 
folded state, which, I apprehend, would be to 
murder them. 

The monument of Lord Mansfield, for 
which you say he is engaged, will (I dare 
say) prove a noble effort of genius.* Statu- 
aries, as I have heard an eminent one say, do 
not much trouble themselves about a like- 
ness : else I would give much to be able to 
communicate to Flaxman the perfect idea 
that I have of the subject, such as he was 
forty years ago. He was at that time won- 
derfully handsome, and would expound the 
* The celebrated monument in Westminster Abbey 



444 



COWPER'S WORKS 



most mysterious intricacies of the law, or 
recapitulate both matter and evidence of a 
cause, as long as from hence to Eartham, 
with an intelligent smile on his features, that 
bespoke plainly the perfect ease with which 
he did it. The most abstruse studies (I be- 
lieve) never cost him any labor. 

You say nothing lately of your intended 
journey our way ; yet the year is waning and 
the shorter days give you a hint to lose no 
time unnecessarily. Lately we had the whole 
family at the Hall, and now we have nobody. 
The Throckmortons are gone into Berkshire, 
and the Courtenays into Yorkshire. They 
are so pleasant a family, that I heartily wish 
you to see them ; and at the same time wish 
to see you before they return, which will not 
be sooner than October. How shall I recon- 
cile these wishes seemingly opposite ? Why, 
by wishing that you may come soon and stay 
long. I know no other way of doing it. 

My poor Mary is rnuch^ as usual. I have 
set up Homer's head, and inscribed the pe- 
destal ; my own Greek at the top, with your 
translation under it, and 

£lg 6e irais ca rarpt, &C. 

It makes altogether a very smart and 
learned appearance .* W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

August 29, 1793. 

Your question, at what time your coming 
to us will be most agreeable, is a knotty one, 
and such as, had I the wisdom of Solomon, I 
should be puzzled to answer. I will there- 
fore leave it still a question, and refer the 
time of your journey Weston-ward entirely 
to your own election: adding this one limita- 
tion, however, that I do not wish to see you 
exactly at present, on account of the unfin- 
ished state of my study, the wainscot of 
which still smells of paint, and which is not 
yet papered. But to return : as I have insinu- 
ated, thy pleasant company is the thing which 
I always wish, and as much at one time as at 
another. I believe, if I examine myself mi- 
nutely, since I despair of ever having it in 
the height of summer, which for your sake I 
should desire most, the depth of the winter 
is the season which would be most eligible 
to me. For then it is, that in general I have 
most need of a cordial, and particularly in the 
month of January. I am sorry, however, 
that I departed so far from my first purpose, 
and am answering a question, which I de- 
clared myself unable to answer. Choose 
thy own time, secure of this, that, whatever 
time that be, it will always to us be a wel- 
come one. 

* This bust and pedestal were afterwards removed to 
6ir George Throckmorton's grounds, and placed in the 
fcrubbery. 



I thank you for your pleasant extract of 
Miss Fanshaw's letter. 

Her pen drops eloquence as sweet 
As any muse's tongue can speak ; 
Nor need a scribe, like her, regret 
Her want of Latin or of Greek.* 

And now, my dear, adieu ! I have done 
more than I expected, and begin to feel my- 
self exhausted with so much scribbling at the 
end of four hours' close application to study. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. JOHNSON. 

Weston, Sept. 4, 1793. 
My dearest Johnny, — To do a kind thing 
and in a kind manner, is a double kindness, 
and no man is more addicted to both than 
you, or more skilful in contriving them. 
Your plan to surprise me agreeably succeed- 
ed to admiration. It was only the day before 
yesterday, that, while we walked after dinner 
in the orchard, Mrs. Un win between Sam and 
me, hearing the Hall clock, I observed a great 
difference between that and ours, and began 
immediately to lament, as I had often done, 
that there was not a sun-dial in all Weston 
to ascertain the true time for us. My com- 
plaint was long, and lasted till, having turned 
into the grass-walk, we reached the new 
building at the end of it; where we sat 
awhile and reposed ourselves. In a few 
minutes we returned by the way we came, 
when what think you was my astonishment 
to see what I had not seen before, though I 
had passed close by it, a smart sun-dial 
mounted on a smart stone pedestal! I as- 
sure you it seemed the effect of conjuration. 
I stopped short, and exclaimed — " Why, here 
is a sun-dial, and upon our ground ! How is 
this? Tell me, Sam, how it came here? Do 
you know anything about it ?" At first I 
really thought (that is to say, as soon as I 
could think at all) that this fac-totum of mine, 
Sam Roberts, having often heard me deplore 
the want of one, had given orders for the 
supply of that want himself, without my 
knowledge, and was half pleased and half 
offended. But he soon exculpated himself by 
imputing the fact to you. It was brought up 
to Weston (it seems) about noon: but An- 
drews stopped the cart at the blacksmith's, 
whence he sent to inquire if I was gone for 
my walk. As it happened, I walked not till 
two o'clock. So there it stood waiting till I 
should go forth, and was introduced before 
my return. Fortunately, too, I went out at 
the church end of the village-, and consequent- 
ly saw nothing of it. How I could possibly 
pass it without seeing it, when it stood in the 
walk, I know not, but certain it is that I did. 

* Miss Fanshaw was an intimate friend of Lady He* 
keth's, and frequently residing with her. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



44} 



And where I shall fix it now, I know as little. 
# It cannot stand between the two gates, the 
place of your choice, as I understand from 
Samuel, because the hay-cart must pass that 
way in the season. But we are now busy in 
winding the walk all round the orchard, and, 
in doing so, shall doubtless stumble at last 
upon some open spot that will suit it. 

There it shall stand while 1 live, a constant 
monument of your kindness. 

I have this moment finished the twelfth 
book of the Odyssey ; and I read the Iliad to 
Mrs. Unwin every evening. 

The effect of this reading is, that I still 
spy blemishes, something at least that I can 
mend; so that, after all, the transcript of 
alterations which you and George have made 
will not be a perfect one. It would be fool- 
ish to forego an opportunity of improvement 
for such a reason: neither will I. It is ten 
o'clock, and I must breakfast. Adieu, there- 
fore, my dear Johnny ! Remember your ap- 
oointment to see us in October. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Sept. 8, 1793. 

Non sum quod simulo, my dearest brother! 
I am cheerful upon paper sometimes, when I 
am absolutely the most dejected of all crea- 
tures. Desirous, however, to gain something 
myself by my own letters, unprofitable as 
they may and must be to my friends, I keep 
melancholy out of them as much as I can, 
that I may, if possible, by assuming a less 
gloomy air, deceive myself, and, by feigning 
with a continuance, improve the fiction into 
reality. 

So you have seen Flaxman's figures, which 
I intended you should not have seen till I had 
spread them before you. How did you dare- 
to look at them ! Von should have covered 
vour eyes with both hands: lam charmed 
with Flaxman's Penelope, and though you 
don't deserve that I should, will send you a 
few lines, such as they are, with which she 
inspired me the other day while I was taking 
my noon-day walk. 

The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, 
Whom all this elegance miglit well seduce ; 
Nor can our erasure on the husband fall, 
Who. for a wife so lovely slew them all. 

I know not that you will meet anybody 
here, when we see you in October, unless 
perhaps my Johnny should happen to be with 
us. If Tom is charmed with the thoughts of 
corryng to Weston, we are equally HO with 
the thoughts of seeing him here. At. his 
years I should hardly hope to make his 
visit agreeable to him, did I not know that 
he is of a temper and disposition that must 
wake him happy everywhere. Give our 



love to him. If Romney can come with 
you, we have both room to receive him and 
hearts to make him most welcome. 

W. C 



TO MRS. COURTENAY. 

Weston, Sept. 15, 1793 

A thousand thanks, my dearest Catharina, 
for your pleasant letter; one of the pleas- 
antest that I have received since your depart* 
ure. You are very good to apologize for 
your delay, but I had not flattered myself 
with the hopes of a speedier answer. Know- 
ing full well your talents for entertaining 
your friends who are present, 1 was sure you 
would with difficulty find half an hour that 
you could devote to an absent one. 

I am glad that you think of your return. 
Poor Weston is a desolation without you. 
In the meantime I amuse myself as well as I 
can, thrumming old Homer's lyre, and turn- 
ing the premises upside down. Upside down 
indeed, for so it is literally that I have been 
dealing with the orchard, almost ever since 
you went, digging and delving it around to 
make a new walk, which now begins to as- 
sume the shape of one, and to look as if somo 
time or other it may serve in that capacity. 
Taking my usual exercise there the other 
day with Mrs. Unwin, a wide disagreement 
between your clock and ours occasioned me 
to complain much, as I have often done, of 
the want of a dial. Guess my surprise, when 
at the close of my complaint I saw one — saw 
one close at my sid^e ; a smart one, glittering 
in the sun, and mounted on a pedestal of 
stone. I was astonished. "This," I ex- 
claimed, "is absolute conjuration!" — It was 
a most mysterious affair, but the mystery 
was at last explained. 

This scribble I presume will find you just 
arrived at Bucklands. I would with all my 
heart that since dials can be thus suddenly 
conjured from one place to another, I could 
be so too, and could start up before your 
eyes in the middle of some walk or lawn, 
where you and Lady Frog are wandering. 

While Pitcairne whistles for his family es- 
tate in Pifeshire, he will do well if he will 
sound a i'ew notes for me, I am originally 
of the same shire, and a family of my Dame 
is still there, to whom perhaps he may 
whistle on my behalf, not altogether in vain. 
So shall his life excel all my poetical efforts, 
which have not yet, and 1 dare say never 
will, effectually charm one acre of ground 
into my possession. 

Remember me to Sir John, Lady Frog, 
and your husband — tell them I love them all. 
She told me once she was jealous, now in- 
deed she seems to have some reason, since 
to her I have not written, and have written 
twice to you. But bid her be of good cour 



446 



COW ER'S WORKS. 



age, in due time I will give her proof of my 
constancy. W. C. 

TO THE REV. MR. JOHNSON. 

Weston, Sept. 29, 1793. 

My dear Johnny, — You have done well to 
leave off visiting and being visited. Visits 
are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only 
for those who, if they did not that, would do 
nothing. The worst consequence of such 
departures from common practice is to be 
termed a singular sort of a fellow, or an odd 
fish ; a sort of reproach that a man might be 
wise enough to contemn who had not half 
your understanding. 

I look forward with pleasure to October 
the 11th, the day which I expect will be albo 
notandus lapillo, on account of yojir arrival 
here. 

Here you will meet Mr. Rose, who comes 
on the 8th, and brings with him Mr. Law- 
rence, the painter, you may guess for what 
purpose. Lawrence returns when he has 
made his copy of me, but Mr. Rose will tc- 
main perhaps as long as you will. Hayley 
on the contrary will come, I suppose, just in 
time not to see you. Him we expect on the 
20th. I trust, however, that thou wilt so 
order thy pastoral matters as to make thy 
stay here as long as possible. 

Lady Hesketh, in her last letter, mquires 
very kindly after you, asks me for your ad- 
dress, and purposes soon to write to you. 
We hope to see her in November — so that, 
after a summer without company, we are 
likely to have an autumn and a winter socia- 
ble enough. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 

V/eston, Oct. 5, 1793. 
My good intentions towards you, my dear- 
est brother, are continually frustrated ; and, 
which is most provoking, not by such en- 
gagements and avocations as have a right to 
my attention, such as those to my Mary and 
the old bard of Greece, but by mere imper- 
tinences, such as calls of civility from per- 
sons not very interesting to me, and letters 
from a distance still less interesting, because 
the writers of them are strangers. A man 
sent me a long copy of verses, which I could 
do no less than acknowledge. They were 
silly enough, and cost me eighteenpence, 
which was seventeenpence half-penny farth- 
ing more than they were worth. Another 
sent me at the same time a plan, requesting 
my opinion of it, and that I would lend him 
ny name as editor, a request with which I 
Bhall not comply, but I am obliged to tell 
him so, and one letter is all that I have time 
^o despatch in a day, sometimes half a one, 
tnd sometraes I am not able to write at all. 



Thus it is that my time perishes, and I can 
neither give so much of it as I would to you 
or to any other valuable purpose. 

On Tuesday we expect company — Mr 
Rose, and Lawrence the painter. Yet once 
more is my patience to be exercised, and 
once more I am made to wish that my face 
had been moveable, to put on and take off at 
pleasure, so as to be portable in a band-box, 
and sent to the artist. These however will 
be gone, as I believe I told you, before you 
arrive, at which time I know not that any- 
body will be here, except my Johnny, whose 
presence will not at all interfere with our 
readings — you will not, I believe, find me a 
very slashing critic — I hardly indeed expect 
to find anything in your Life of Milton 
that I shall sentence to amputation. How 
should it be too long ? A well- written work, 
sensible and spirited, such as yours was, 
when I saw it, is never so. But, however, 
we shall see. I promise to spare nothing 
that I think may be lopped off with ad- 
vantage. 

I began this letter yesterday, but could not 
finish it till now. I have risen this morning 
like an infernal frog out of Acheron, covered 
with the ooze and mud of melancholy. For 
this reason I am not sorry to find myself at 
the bottom of my paper, for had I more room 
perhaps I might fill it all with croaking, and 
make an heart-ache at Eartham, which I wish 
to be always cheerful. Adieu. My poor 
sympathising Mary is of course sad, but 
always mindful of you. 

W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 18, 1793. 

My dear Brother, — -I have not at present 
much that is necessary to say here, because 
I shall have the happiness of seeing you so 
soon ; my time, according to custom, is a 
mere scrap, for which reason such must be 
my letter also. 

You will find here more than I have hither- 
to given you reason to expect, but none who 
will not be happy to see you. These, how- 
ever, stay with us but a short time, and will 
leave us in full possession of Weston on 
Wednesday next. 

I look forward with joy to your coming, 
heartily wishing you a pleasant journey, in 
which my poor Mary joins me. Give our 
best love to Tom ; without whom, after 
having been taught to look for him, we 
should feel our pleasure in the interview 
much diminished. 

Laet expactf onus te puenuraque tuum. 

w c. 



LIFE OF COv/PER. 



441 



TC THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, Oct. 22, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — You are very kind to 
apologize for a short letter, instead of re- 
proaching me with having been so long en- 
tirely silent. I persuaded myself, however, 
that while you were on your journey you 
would miss me less as a correspondent than 
you do when you are at home, and therefore 
allowed myself to pursue my literary labors 
only, but still purposing to write as soon as I 
should have reason to judge you returned to 
London. Hindrances, however, to the execu- 
tion even of that purpose, have interposed ; 
and at this moment I write, in the utmost 
haste, as indeed, I always do, partly because I 
never begin a letter till I am already fatigued 
with study, and partly through fear of inter- 
ruption before I can possibly finish it. 

I rejoice that you have travelled so much 
to your satisfaction. As to me, my travel- 
ling days, I believe, are over. Our journey 
of last year was less beneficial, both to Mrs. 
Unwin's health and my spirits, than I hoped 
it might be; and we are hardly rich enough 
to migrate in quest of pleasure merely. 

I thank you much for your last publication, 
which I am reading, as fast as I can snatch 
opportunity, to Mrs. Unwin. We have found 
it, as far as we have gone, both interesting 
and^musing ; and I never cease to wonder 
at the fertility of your invention, that, shut 
up as you were in your vessel, and disunited 
from the rest of mankind, could yet furnish 
you with such variety, and with -the means, 
likewise, of saying the same thing in so many 
different ways.f 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. J. JEKTLL RYE. 

Weston, Nov. 3, 1793. 

My dear Sir, — Sensible as I am of your 
kindness in taking such a journey, at no very 
pleasant season, merely to serve a friend of 
mine, I cannot allow my thanks to sleep till 
I may have the pleasure of seeing you. I 
hope never to show myself unmindful of so 
great a favor. Two lines which I received 
yesterday from Mr. Hurdis', written hastily 
on the day of decision, informed me that it 
was made in his favor, and by a majority of 
twenty.} I have great satisfaction in the 
event, and consequently hold myself indebted 
to all who at my instance have contributed 
to it. 

You may depend on me for due attention 
to the honest clerk's request. When he 

* Private correspondence. 

t The publication alluded to is entitled, " Letters to a 
Wife : written during three voyages to Africa, from 1750 
10 1754. By the author of Cardiphonia." 

t He was appointed Professor of Poetry in the Univer- 
tty ol Oxford. 



called, it was not possible that I should an 
swer your obliging letter, for he arrived here 
very early, and if I suffered anything to in- 
terfere with my morning studies I should 
never accomplish my labors. Your hint 
concerning the subject for this year's copy is 
a very good one, and shall not be neglected. 
I remain, sincerely yours, W. C. 

Hayley's second visit to Weston took 
place very soon after the date of the last let- 
ter. He found Cowper enlivened by the so- 
ciety of his young kinsman from Norfolk, 
and another of his favorite friends, Mr. Rose. 
The latter came recently from the seat of 
Lord Spencer, in Northamptonshire, com- 
missioned to invite Cowper, and his guests, 
to Althorpe, where Gibbon, the historian, 
was making a visit of some continuance. 

Cowper was strongly urged to accept this 
flattering invitation from a nobleman whom 
he cordially respected, and whose library 
alone might be regarded as a magnet of 
very powerful attraction. But the constitu- 
tional shyness of the poet" and the infirm 
state of Mrs. Unwin's health, conspired to 
prevent the meeting. It would have been 
curious to have contemplated the Poet of 
Christianity and the author of the celebrated 
sixteenth chapter in " The Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire" placed in juxtapo- 
sition with each other. The reflection would 
not have escaped a pious observer how much 
happier, in the eye of wisdom, was the state of 
Cowper, clouded as it was by depression and 
sorrow, than that of the unbelieving philoso- 
pher, though in the zenith of his fame. We 
know it has been asserted that men are not 
answerable for their creed. Why then are 
the Jews a scattered people, the living wit- 
nesses of the truth of a divine Revelation 
and of the avenging justice of God ? But 
scepticism can never justly be said to origi- 
nate in want of evidence. Men doubt be- 
cause they search after truth with the pride 
of the intellect, instead of seeking it with 
the simplicity of a little child, and that hu- 
mility of spirit, by which only it is to be 
found. 

TO MRS. COURTENAY. 

Weston, Nov. 4, 1793. 
I seldom rejoice in a day of soaking rain 
like this, but in this, my dearest Catharina, I 
do rejoice sincerely, because it affords me an 
opportunity of writing to you, which, if fair 
weather had invited us into the orchard-walk 
at the usual hour, I should not easily have 
found. I am a most busy man, busy to a 
degree that sometimes half distracts me; 
but, if complete distraction be occasioned by 
having the thoughts too much and too long 
attached to a single point, I am in no danger 
of it, with such a perpetual whir' are mine 



44b 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



whisked about from one subject to another. 
When two poets meet, there are fine doings 
I can assure you. My Homer finds work 
for Hayley, and his Life of Milton work for 
me, so that we are neither of us one moment 
idle. Poor Mrs. Unwin in the meantime sits 
quiet in her corner, occasionally laughing at 
us both, and not seldom interrupting us with 
some question or remark, for which she is 
constantly rewarded by me with a "Hush — 
hold your peace." Bless yourself, my dear 
Catharina, that you are not connected with a 
poet, especially that you have not two to 
deal with ; ladies who have, may be bidden 
indeed to hold their peace, but very little 
peace have they. How should they in fact 
have any, continually enjoined as they are to 
be silent. 

The same fever that has been so epidemic 
there, has been severely felt here likewise ; 
some have died, and a multitude have been 
in danger. Two under our own roof have 
been infected with it, and I am not sure that 
I have perfectly escaped myself, but I am 
now well again. 

I have persuaded Hayley to stay a week 
longer, and again my hopes revive, that he 
may yet have an opportunity to know my 
friends before he returns into Sussex. I write 
amidst a chaos of interruptions : Hayley on 
one hand spouts Greek, and on the other 
hand Mrs. Unwin continues talking, some- 
times to us, and sometimes, because we are 
both too busy to attend to her, she holds a 
dialogue with herself. Query, is not this a 
bull — and ought I not instead of dialogue to 
have said soliloquy 1 

Adieu ! With our united love to all your 
party, and with ardent wishes soon to see 
you all at Weston, I remain, my dearest 
Catharina, 

Ever yours, W. C. 

Though Cowper writes with apparent 
cheerfulness, yet Hayley, referring to this 
visit, remarks, " My fears for him, in every 
point of view, were alarmed by his present 
very singular condition. He possessed com- 
pletely, at this period, all the admirable fac- 
ulties of his mind, and all the native tender- 
ness of his heart ; but there was something 
indescribable in his appearance, which led 
me to apprehend that, without some signal 
event in his favor, to re-animate his spirits, 
they would gradually sink into hopeless de- 
jection. The state of his aged infirm com- 
panion afforded additional ground for in- 
creasing solicitude. Her cheerful and bene- 
ficent spirit could hardly resist her own 
accumulated maladies, so far as to preserve 
ability sufficient to watch over the tender 
health of him, whom she had watched and 
guarded so long." 



Under these circumstances, Hayley, with 
an ardor of zeal and a regard for Cowper'a 
welfare, that reflect the highest honor upon 
his character, determined on his return to 
London to interest his more powerful friends 
in his behalf, and thus secure, if possible, a 
timely .provision against future difficulties 
The necessity for this act of kindness wiL 
soon appear to be painfully urgent. In the 
meantime he cheered Cowper's mind, har- 
assed by his Miltonic engagement, with intel- 
ligence that had a tendency to relieve him 
from much of his present embarrassment 
and dejection. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 5, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — In a letter from Lady 
Hesketh, which I received not long since, 
she informed me how very pleasantly she 
had spent some time at Wargrave. We 
now begin to expect her here, where our 
charms of situation are perhaps not equal to 
yours, yet by no means contemptible. She 
told me she had spoken to you in very 
handsome terms of the country round about 
us, but not so of our house and the view 
before it. The house itself, however, is not 
unworthy some commendation : small as it 
is, it is neat, and neater than she is aware 
of; for my study and the room over it have 
been repaired and beautified this summer, 
and little more was wanting to make it an 
abode sufficiently commodious for a man of 
my moderate desires. As to the prospect 
from it, that she misrepresented strangely 
as I hope soon to have an opportunity to 
convince her by ocular demonstration. She 
told you, I know, of certain cottages oppo- 
site to us, or rather she described them as 
poor houses and hovels, that effectually 
blind our windows. But none such exist. 
On the contrary, the opposite object and the 
only one, is an orchard so well planted, and 
with trees of such growth, that we seem to 
look into a wood, or rather to be surrounded 
by one. Thus, placed as we are in the midst 
of a village, we have none of those disagree- 
ables that belong to such a position, and the 
village itself is one of the prettiest I know ; 
terminated at one end by the church tower, 
seen through the trees, and at the other by 
a very handsome gateway, opening into a 
fine grove of elms, belonging to our neigh 
bor Courtenay. How happy should I be tc 
show it instead of describing it to you ! 

Adieu, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Nov. 10, 1793 
My dear Friend, — You are very kind to 
consider my literary engagements, and - to 



LIFE OF COWI'EK. 



make them a reason for not interrupting me 
more frequently with a letter; but though I 
am indeed as'busy as an author or an editor 
can well be, and am not apt to be overjoyed 
at the arrival of letters from uninteresting 
quarters, I shall always, I hope, have leisure 
both to peruse and to answer those of my 
real friends, and to do both with pleasure. 

I have to thank you much for your benev- 
olent aid in the affair of my friend Hurdis. 
You have doubtless learned, ere now, that 
he has succeeded, and carried the prize by a 
majority of twenty. He is well qualified for 
the post he has gained. So much the better 
for the honor of the Oxonian laurel, and so 
much the more for the credit of those who 
have favored him with their suffrages. 

I am entirely of your mind respecting this 
conflagration by which all Europe suffers at 
present* and is likely to suffer for a long- 
time to come. The same mistake seems to 
have prevailed as in the American business. 
We then flattered ourselves that the colo- 
nies would prove an easy conquest, and, 
when all 'the neighbor nations armed them- 
selves against France, we imagined, I be- 
lieve, that she too would be presently van- 
quished. But we begin already to be unde- 
ceived, and God only knows to what a 
degree we may find we have erred at the 
conclusion. Such, however, is the state of 
things all around us, as reminds me continu- 
ally of the Psalmist's expression — " He shall 
break them in pieces like a potter's vessel." 
And I rather wish than hope, in some of my 
melancholy moods, that England herself 
may escape a fracture. 

I remain, truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, Nov. 24, 1793. 

My dear Sir, — Though my congratulations 
have been delayed, you have *no friend, nu- 
merous as your friends are, who has more 
sincerely rejoiced in your success than I. It 
was no small mortification to me, to find 
that three out of the six whom I had en- 
gaged were not qualified to vote. You have 
prevailed, however, and by a considerable 
majority ; there is therefore no room left 
for regret. When your short note arrived, 
which gave me the agreeable news of your 
victory, our friend of Earth am was with me, 
and shared largely in the joy that I felt on 
the occasion. He left me but a few days 
since, having spent somewhat more than a 
fortnight here ; during which time we em- 
ployed all our leisure hours in the revisal of 
his Life of Milton. It is row finished, and a 
very finished work it is ; and one that will 
do great honor, I am persuaded, to the biog- 
"apher, and the excellent man of injured 
* The effects of the French Revolution. 



memory who is the subject of it. As to my 
own concern with the works of this first of 
poets, which has been long a matter of bur- 
thensome contemplation, I have the happi- 
ness to find at last that I am at liberty to 
postpone my labors. While I expected that 
my commentary would be called for in the 
ensuing spring, I looked forwara to the un- 
dertaking with dismay, not seeing a shadow 
of probability that I should be ready to an- 
swer the demand; for this ultimate revisal 
of my Homer, together with the notes, occu- 
pies completely at present (and will for 
some time longer) all the little leisure that I 
have for study — leisure which I gain at this 
season of the year by rising long before 
daylight. 

You are now become a nearer neighbor, 
and as your professorship, I hope, will not 
engross you wholly, will find an opportunity 
to give me your company at Weston. Let 
me hear from you soon ; tell me how you like 
your new office, and whether you perform 
the duties of it with pleasure to yourself. 
With much pleasure to others you will, I 
doubt not, and with equal advantage. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 29, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — I have risen, while the 
owls are still hooting, to pursue my accus- 
tomed labors in the mine of Homer; but be- 
fore I enter upon them, shall give the first 
moment of daylight to the purpose of thank- 
ing you for your last letter, containing many 
pleasant articles of intelligence, with nothing 
to abate the pleasantness of them, except the 
single circumstance that we are not likely to 
see you here so soon as I expected. My 
hope was, that the first frost would bring you 
and the amiable painter with you.* If, how 
ever, you are prevented by the business oi 
your respective professions, you are well pre- 
vented, and I will endeavor to be patient. 
When the latter was here, he mentioned one 
day the subject of Diomede's horses, driven 
uTider the axle of his chariot by the thunder- 
bolt which fell at their feet, as a subject for 
his pencil.f It is certainly a noble one, and 
therefore worthy of his study and attention. 
It occured to me at the moment, out I know 
not wh.-.t it was that made me forget it again 
the next moment, that the horses of Achilles 
flying over the foss, with Patroclus and 
Automedon in the chariot, would be a good 
companion for it.} Should you happen to 

* Lawrence. 

1 He, thundering downward hurl'd his candent bolt 
To the horse-feet of Diomede : dire fum'd 
The naming sulphur, and both horses drove 
Under the axle. — Co-icper's Version, book viii. 

t Right o'er the hollow foss the coursers leap'd, 
By the immortal gods to Peleus given.— 

Comptr's Version, book XTi. 

29 



450 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



recollect this, when you next see him, you 
may submit it, if you please, to his consider- 
ation. I stumbled yesterday on another sub- 
ject, which reminded me of said excellent 
artist, as likely to afford a fine opportunity 
to the expression that he could give it. It is 
found in the shooting match in the twenty- 
third book of the Iliad, between Merioncs 
and Teucer. The former cuts the string 
with which the dove is tied to the mast-head, 
and sets her at liberty ; the latter, standing at 
his side, in all the eagerness of emulation, 
points an arrow at the mark with his right 
hand, while with his left he snatches the bow 
from his competitor ; he is a fine poetical 
figure, but Mr. Lawrence himself must judge 
whether or not he promises as well for the 
canvas.* 

He does great honor to my physiognomy 
by his intention to get it engraved; and, 
though I think I foresee that this private pub- 
lication will grow in time into a publication 
of absolute publicity, I find it impossible 
to be dissatisfied with anything that seems 
eligible both to him and you. To say the 
truih, when a man has once turned his mind 
inside out for the inspection of all who 
choose to inspect it, to make a secret of his 
face seems but little better than a self-con- 
tradiction. At the same time, however, I 
shall be best pleased if it be kept, according 
to your intentions, as a rarity. 

I have lost Hayley, and begin to be uneasy 
at not hearing from him ; tell me about him 
when you write. 

I should be happy to have a work of mine 
embellished by Lawrence, and made a com- 
panion for a work of Hayley's. It is an 
event to which I look forward with the ut- 
most complacence. I cannot tell you what 
a relief I feel it not to be pressed for Milton. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 8, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — In my last I forgot to 
thank you for the box of books, containing 
also the pamphlets. We have read, that is 
to say my cousin has, who reads to us in 
the evening, the history of Jonathan Wild,f 
and found it highly entertaining. The satire 

* Cowper here inverts the order of the names, and at- 
ributes to Teucer, what in the original is ascribed to 
Menones. 

At once Meriones withdrew the bow 

From Teucer's hand, but held the shaft the while, 

Already aim'd 

He ey'd the dove aloft beneath a cloud, 

And struck her circling high in air ; the shaft 

PassM through her, and returning pierc'd the soil 

Before the foot of brave Meriones. 

She, perching on the mast again, her head 

Heciin'd, and hung her wide-unfolded wing ; 

But, soon expiring, dropp'd and fell remote. 

The concluding lines of this passage convey a beautiful 
uid affecting image. 

t A production uf Fielding's. 



on great men is witty, and I believe perfectly 
just : we have no censure to pass on it, un« 
less that we think the character of Mrs 
Heartfree not well sustained ; not quite deli- 
cate in the latter part of it ; and that the 
constant effect of her charms upon every 
man who sees her, has a sameness in it that 
is tiresome, and betrays either much careless- 
ness, or idleness, or lack of invention. It is 
possible, indeed, that the author might in. 
tend by this circumstance a satirical glance 
at novelists, whose heroines are generally al 
bewitching ; but it is a fault that he had bet- 
ter have noticed in another manner, and not 
have exemplified in his own. 

The first volume of Man as He is has lain 
unread in my study-window this twelve- 
month, and would have been returned un- 
read to its owner, had not my cousin come 
in good time to save it from that disgrace. 
We are now reading it, and find it excellent ; 
abounding with wit and just sentiment, and 
knowledge both of books and men. 

Adieu, W. C 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 8, 1793. 

I have waited and waited impatiently, for a 
line from you, and am at last determined to 
send you one, to inquire what has become of 
you, and wmy you are silent so much longer 
than usual. 

I want to know many things, which only 
you can tell me, but especially I want to know 
what has been the issue of your conference 
with Nichol : has he seen your work ?* I 
am impatient for the appearance of it, be- 
cause impatient to have the spotless credit 
of the great poet's character, as a man and a 
citizen, vindicated, as it ought to be, and as 
it never will be again. 

It is a great relief to me, that my Miltonic 
labors are suspended. I am now busy in 
transcribing the alterations of Homer, having 
finished the whole revisal. I must then write 
a new preface, which done, I shall endeavor 
immediately to descant on The Four Ages. 
Adieu ! my dear brother, W. C. 

The Miltonic labors of Cowper were not 
only suspended at this time, but we lament 
to say never resumed. 

There is a period in the history of men 
of letters when the mind begins to shrink 
from the toil and responsibility of a great 
undertaking and to feel the necessity of 
contracting its exertions within limits more 
suited to its diminished powers. Physica. 
and moral causes are often found to co-oper- 
ate in hastening this crisis. The sensibilities 
that are inseparable from genius the ardo? 

* Hayley's Life of Milton, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



45 



that consumes itself by its own fires, the la- 
bor of thought, and the inadequacy o? the 
body to sustain the energies of the soul 
within — these often unite in harassing the 
spirits, and sowing the seeds of a premature 
decay. Such was now the case with Cowper. 
His literary exertions had been too unremit- 
ting, and though we must allow much to the 
influence of his unhappy malady, and to the 
illness of Mrs. Unvvin, yet there can be no 
doubt that his long and laborious habits of 
study had no small share in undermining his 
constitution. 

It seems desirable therefore, at this period, 
to refer to the intended edition of Milton, 
and briefly to state the result of his labors. 

The design is thus stated by Cowper him- 
self, in one of his letters. " A Milton, that 
is to rival, and if possible to exceed in splen- 
dor, Boydell's Shakspeare, is in contempla- 
tion, and I am in the Editor's office. Fuseli 
is the painter. My business will be to select 
notes from others, and to write original notes; 
to translate the Latin and Italian poems, and 
to give a correct text." 

All that he was enabled to accomplish of 
this undertaking was as follows : 

He commenced the series of his transla- 
tions about the middle of September, 1791. 
In February, 1792, he had completed all his 
Latin pieces, and shortly after he finished the 
Italian. While at Eartham, in August, he re- 
vised all his translations, and they were sub- 
sequently retouched, in his declining strength, 
at East Dereham. From an amiable desire 
to avoid what might create irritation, he 
omitted the Poems against the Catholics, and 
thus assigned his motives in a letter to 
Johnson. 

Weston, Oct. 30, 1791. 

'* We and the Papists are at present on 
amicable terms. They have behaved them- 
selves peaceably many years, and have lately 
received favor from Government. I should 
think, therefore, that the dying embers of 
ancient animosity had better not be troubled." 

He also omitted a few of the minuter 
poems, as not worthy of being ranked with 
the rest. 

He was assisted in the execution of this 
work by the Adamo of Andreini, Bentley's 
Milton, an interleaved copy of Newton's, and 
Warton's edition of the minor poems.* 

* Of these editions of Milton, that of Hentley has always 
been considered a complete failure, ft is remarkable for 
the boldness of its conjectural emendations, and lor the 
liberties taken with the text. An amusing anecdote is 
recorded on thissubject. To a friend expostulating with 
him on the occasion, and urging that it was impossible 
for Milton, in so many instances, to have written as he 
alleged, he replied with his characteristic spirit, "Then 
he ought to have written so." Bishop Newton's edition 
has acquired just celebrity, and has served as the basis 
Of all subsequent editions. It has been deservedly called 
"the best edited English Classic up to the period of its 
Wubli ratirm." Warton's edition of u The Juvenile and 



With respect to his critical labors, he pre. 
ceeded with singular slowness and difficulty 
It appears to have been a most oppressive 
burden on his spirits. " Milton especially," lie 
observes, "is my grievance; and I might 
almost as well be haunted by his ghost as 
goaded with continual reproaches for neglect- 
ing him." He was always soliciting more 
time, and when the appointed period was ex- 
pired, he renewed his application for fresh 
delay. His commentary is restricted to the 
three first books of the Paradise Lost. 

This seems to imply that however nature 
designed him to be a poet, she denied the 
qualifications necessary to eonstit ute the cri tic, 
for it will generally be found, that to execute 
with delight and ease is the attribute of 
genius, and the evidence of natural impulse; 
and that slowness of performance indicates 
the want of those powers that afford the 
promise and pledge of success. 

In this unfinished state, the work was pub- 
lished by Hayley, in the year 1808, for the 
benefit of the second son of Mr. Rose, the 
godchild of Cowper. Some designs in outline 
were furnished by Flaxman, highly character 
istic of his graceful style. 

The translations are a perfect model of 
beautiful and elegant versification. 

We consider Milton's address to his father 
to be one of the most beautiful compositions 
extant, and rejoice in presenting it to the 
reader in an English form, so worthy of the 
original Latin poem. 



Minor Poems" discovers a classical and elegant taste. 
Its merit, however, is greatly impaired by the severity 
of its censures on .Milton's republican and religious prin- 
ciples. It was to rescue that great poet from the ani- 
madversions of Warton and Dr. Johnson that Hayley 
engaged in a life of Milton, which does honor to the 
manliness and generosity of his feelings. Hut the mo3t 
powerful defence is that of the Rev. Dr. Symons, who, 
with considerable vigor of thought and language, has 
taken a most comprehensive view of the character and 
prose writings of .Milton. He would have been entitled 
to distinguished praise, if, in vindicating the republican* 
ism oi Milton, he had not deeply fallen into it himself, 
hi the present day the clouds of prejudice seem to have 
subsided, and the errors of the politician are deservedly 
forgotten in the celebrity of the poet. There was a pe- 
riod when, according to Dr. Johnson, a monument to 
Philips, with an inscription by Atterbury, in which he 
was said to be soli MUtono secundus, was' refuse \ admit- 
tance by Dean Sprat into Westminster Abbey, on the 
ground of its "being too detestable to be read on . ie 
wall of a building dedicated to devotion." 

The honors of a monument were at length conceded to 
Milton himself; but the beautiful and elegant Latin in 
scription, composed by Dr. George. Provost of King's 
College. Cambridge, shows that it was thought necessary 
to apologize for its admission into that sacred repository 
of kings and prelates.* 



* We cannot refrain from enriching our pages with tbjl 
much admired Epitaph. 

" Augusti regom cineres sanctreque faviHaa 
Heroum, Vosque O! venerandi nominis umbrae! 
Parcite, quod vestris, infensum regibus olim, 
Sedibus inferter nomen : liceatque supremis 
Puneribus Bnere odia, et mors obruat iras. 
Nunc sub foederibus coeant felicibus, una 
Libertas, et jus sacri inviulabile sceptri. 
Rege sub Jlugusto fas sit "laudure CatancraS* 



452 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO HIS KATHF.R. 

Oh that Pieria's spring would thro' my breast 

Pour its inspiring influence, and rush. 

No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood ! 

That for my venerable father's sake. 

All meaner themes renounced, my muse on wings 

Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain. 

For thee, my father, howsoe'er it please, 

She frames this slender work, nor know I aught, 

That may thy gifts more suitably requite ; 

Though to requite them suitably would ask 

Returns much nobler, and surpassing far 

The meagre stores of verbal gratitude : 

But. such as I possess, I send thee all. 

This page presents thee in their full amount 

With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought: 

Nought save the riches that from airy dream 

In secret grottoes, and in laurel bow'rs, 

I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquir'd. 

He then sings the praises of song in the 
following animated strain. 

Verse is a work divine ; despise not thou 
Verse therefore, which evinces, (nothing more) 
Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still 
Some scintillations of Promethean fire, 
Bespeaks him animated from above. [selves 

The gods love verse, the infernal pow'rs them- 
Confess the influence of verse, which stirs 
The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains 
Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. 
In verse the Delphic priestess, and the pale 
Tremulous Sybil, make the future known, 
And he who sacrifices, on the shrine [bull, 

Hangs verse, both when he smites tbe threat'ning 
And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide 
To scrutinize the Fates envelop'd there. 

He anticipates it as one of the employ- 
ments of glorified spirits in heaven. 

We too, ourselves, what time we seek again 
Our native skies, and one eternal Now* 
Shall be the onlv measure of our being, 
Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre 
Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, 
And make the starry firmament resound. 

The sympathy existing between the two 
kindred studies of poetry and music is de- 
scribed with happy effect. 

Now say, what wonder is it, if a son 

Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin'd 

In close affinity we sympathize 

In social arts, and kindred studies sweet 1 

Such distribution of himself to us 

Was Phoebus' choice ; thou hast thy gift + and I 

Mine also, and between us we receive, 

Father and son, the whole inspiring god. 

The following effusion of filial feeling is as 
honorable to the discernment and liberality 
of the parent, as it is expressive of the grati- 
tude of the son. 

. . . Thou never bad'st me tread 
The beaten path and broad, that leads right on 

* The same expression is used by Cowley: 

" Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, 
But an eternal Now does always last." 
f Hilton's father was well skilled in music. 



To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son 
To the insipid clamors of the bar, 
To laws voluminous and ill-observ'd ; 
But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill 
My mind with treasure, led'st me far away 
From city-din to deep retreats, to banks 
And streams Aonian, and, with free consent, 
Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. 
I speak not now, on more important themes 
Intent, of common benefits and such 
As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, 
My father! who. when I had open'd once 
The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd 
The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greek*, 
Whose lofty music grae'd the lips of Jove, 
Thyself didst counsel me to add the flow'rs, 
' That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the 
Italian his degen'rate speech adorns, [smooth 
That witnesses his mixture with the Goth ; 
And Palestine's prophetic songs divine. 

We delight in witnessing the exuberance of 
manly and generous feeling in a son towards 
a parent, entitled by kind offices to his grati- 
tude, and therefore transcribe the following 
passage. 

Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds, 
That covet it 1 what could my father more 1 
What more could Jove himself, unless he gave 
His own abode, the heaven in which he reigns 1 
More eligible gifts than these were not 
Apollo's to his son, had they been safe, 
As they were insecure, who made the boy 
The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule 
The radiant chariot of the day. and bind 
To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath, 
1 therefore, although last and least my place 
Among the learned, in the laurel grove 
Will hold, and where the conqu'ror's ivy twin*»«, 
Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throng 
Profane, nor even to be seen by such. 
Away then, sleepless Care, Complaint, away ' 
And Envy, with thy 'jealous leer malign !" 
Nor let the monster Calumny shoot forth 
Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes ! 
Ye all are impotent against my peace. 
For I am piivileg'd, and bear my breast 
Safe, and too high for your viperean wound. 

He thus beautifully concludes this affectir g 
tribute of filial gratitude. 

But thou, my father ! since to render thank* 
Equivalent, and to requite by deeds 
Thy liberality, exceeds my power^ 
Suffice it that I thus record thy gifts, 
Vnd bear them treasur'd in a grateful mind! 
Ye too the favorite pastime of my youth, 
My voluntary numbers, if ye dare 
To hope longevity, and to survive 
Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd 
In the oblivious Lethaean gulf, 
Shall to futurity perhaps convey 
This theme, and by these praises of my sire 
Improve the fathers of a distant age ! 

We subjoin Hayley's remark on this poem 
in Cowper's edition of Milton. 

" These verses are founded on one of the 
most interesting subjects that language can 
display the warmth and felicity of strong re* 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



45* 



wprocal kindness between a father and a son, 
not only united by the most sacred tie of 
nature, but still more endeared to each other 
by the l^ppy cultivation of honorable and 
eongenia. arts. The sublime description of 
poetry, ai.d the noble and graceful portrait, 
which the author here exhibits of his own 
mental character, may be said to render this 
splendid poem the prfme jewel in a coronet 
of variegated gems." 

We extract the following passages from the 
remarks and notes in Cowper's Milton, as ex- 
hibiting the manner in which he executed this 
portion of his labors. 

BOOK I. 

" There is a solemnity of sentiment, as well 
as majesty of numbers, in the exordium of 
this noble poem, which, in the works of the 
ancients, has no example. 

" The sublimest of all subjects was reserved 
for Milton ; and, bringing to the contempla- 
tion of that subject, not only a genius equal 
to the best of theirs but a heart also deeply 
impregnated with the divine truths which lay 
before him, it is no wonder that he has pro- 
duced a composition, on the whole, superior 
to any that we have received from former ages. 
But he who addresses himself to the perusal 
of this work, with a mind entirely unaccus- 
tomed to serious and spiritual contemplation, 
unacquainted with the word of God, or pre- 
judiced against it, is ill qualified to appreciate 
the value of a poem built upon it, or to taste 
its beauties. Milton is the poet of Christians ; 
an infidel may have an ear for the harmony 
of his numbers, may be aware of the dignity 
of his expression, and, in some degree, of the 
sublimity of his conceptions; but the unaf- 
.fected and masculine piety, which was his 
true inspirer, and is the very soul of his poem, 
he will not either perceive, or it will offend 
him." 

To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. 

Line 177. 

"In this we seem to hear a thunder suited 
both to the scene and the occasion, incom- 
parably more awful than any ever heard on 
earth, and the thunder winged with lightning 
is highly poetical. It may be observed here, 
that the thunder of Milton is not hurled from 
the hand like Homer's, but discharged like 
an arrow. Thus in, book vi., line 712, the 
Father, ordering forth the Son for the de- 
struction of the rebel angels, says — 

Bring forth all my war, 

My bow, and thunder. 

As if, jealous for the honor of the true God, 
the poet disdained to arm him like the god 
tf the heathen."* 

He spake, and to confirm his words, &c. &c. 

Line 663. 
* Psalm vii. 12. 



" This is another instance in which appears 
the advantage that Milton derives from the 
grandeur of his subject. What description 
could even .he have given of a host of human 
warriors insulting their conqueror, at all com- 
parable to this? First, their multitude is to 
be noticed. They are not thousands, but 
millions; and they are millions, not of puny 
mortals, but of mighty cherubim. Their 
swords flame, not metaphorically, but they 
are swords of fire ; they flash not by refleo- 
tion of the sun-beams, like the swords of 
Homer, but by their own light, and that light 
plays not idly in the broad day, but far round 
illumines Hell. And lastly, they defy not a 
created being like themselves, but the Al- 
mighty." 

BOOK II. 

As when from mountain tops, &c. 

Line 488. 

" The reader loses half the beauty of this 
charming simile, who does not give particular 
attention to the numbers. There is a majesty 
in them not often equalled, and never sur- 
passed, even by this great poet himself; the 
movement is uncommonly slow ; an effect 
produced by means already hinted at, the as- 
semblage of a greater proportion of long 
syllables than usual. The pauses are also 
managed with great skill and judgment . 
while the clouds rise, and the heavens gather 
blackness, they fall in those parts of the verse 
where they retard the reader most, and thus 
become expressive of the solemnity of the 
subject; but in- the latter part of the simile, 
when the sun breaks out, and the scene 
brightens, they are so disposed as to allow 
the verse an easier and less interrupted flow, 
more suited to the cheerfulness of the oc- 
casion." 

He concludes with the following summary 
of the great doctrines that form the founda- 
tion of the Paradise Lost. 

"It may not be amiss, at the close of these 
admirable speeches — as admirable for their 
sound divinity as for the perspicuity with 
which it is expressed — to allow ourselves a 
moment's pause, for the purpose of taking a 
short retrospect of the doctrines contained in 
them. Man, in the beginning, is placed in a 
probationary state, and made the arbiter of 
his own destiny. By his own fault, he for- 
feits happiness, both for himself and his de- 
scendants. But mercy interposes for his 
restoration. That mercy is represented as 
perfectly free, as voi*chsafed to the most un- 
worthy ; to creatures so entirely dead in sin 
as to be destitute even of a sense of theii 
need of it, and consequently too stupid even 
to ask it. They are also as poor as they are 
unfeeling; and, were it possible that they 
could affect themselves with a just sen^e and 
apprehension of their lapsed corditioi:, they 



454 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



would have no compensation to offer to their 
offended Maker, nothing with which they can 
satisfy the demands of his justice, — in short, 
no atonement. In this ruinous state of their 
affairs, and when all hope of reconciliation 
seems lost forever, the Son of God volunta- 
rily undertakes for them, — undertakes to be- 
come the son of man also, and to suffer, in 
man's stead, the penalty annexed to his trans- 
gression. In consequence of this self-sub- 
stitution, Christ becomes the federal head of 
his church, and the sole author of salvation 
to his people. As Adam's sin was imputed 
to his posterity, so the faultless obedience of 
the second Adam is imputed to all, who, in 
the great concern of justification, shall re- 
nounce their own obedience as imperfect and 
therefore incompetent. The sentence is thus 
reversed as to all believers : ' Death is swal- 
lowed up in victory.' The Saviour presents 
the redeemed before the throne of the Eter- 
nal Father, in whose countenance no longer 
any symptom of displeasure appears against 
them, but their joy and peace are thenceforth 
perfect. The general resurrection takes place ; 
the saints are made assessors with Christ in 
the judgment, both of men and angels ; the 
new he:;ven and earth, the destined habita- 
tion of the just, succeed ; the Son of God, 
his whole undertaking accomplished, surren- 
ders the kingdom to his Father: God be- 
comes all in all ! It is easy to see, that, 
among these doctrines, there are some which, 
in modern times, have been charged with 
novelty ; but how new they are Milton is a 
witness." 

Fuseli, whose labors were so unfortunately 
superseded, completed a series of admirable 
paintings from subjects furnished by the 
Paradise Lost; which were afterwards ex- 
hibited in London, under the name of the 
Milton Gallery. He thus acquired a reputa- 
tion which placed him in the first rank of 
artists; and the amateur had the opportunity' 
of seeing, in the Shakspeare and Milton gal- 
leries, the most distinguished painters en- 
gaged in illustrating the productions of the 
two greatest authors that ever adorned any 
age or country.* 

This projected edition of Milton is re- 



* A popular writer paid the following eloquent tribute 
to these masterly specimens of professional art. 

Yet mark each willing Muse, where Boydell draws, 
And calls the sister pow'rs in Shakspeare's cause! 
By art controll'd the lire of Reynolds breaks, 
And nature's pathos in her Northcote speaks ; 
The Grecian forms in Hamilton combine, 
Parrhasian grace, and Zeuxis' softest line ; 
There Barry's learning meets with Romney's strength, 
And Smirke portrays Thalia at full length. 

Lo! Fuseli (in whose tempestuous soul 
The unnavigable tides of genius roll,) 
Depicts the sulph'rous fire, the smould'ring light, 
*3ie bridge chaotic o'er the abyss of night, 
With each accursed form and mystic spell, 
ind singly kt bears up all the fame of hell !" 

Pursuits of lAterature. 



markable as having laid the foundation o\ 
the intercourse, which soon ripened into 
friendship, between Cowper and Hayley. 
The latter was at that time engaged in writ- 
ing a life of Milton, which gave rise to hia 
being represented as an opponent of Cowper. 
To exonerate himself from such an imputa- 
tion, he wrote the letter, which we subjoin in 
a note.* 

Having detailed the circumstances con 
nected with the edition of Milton, we return 
to the regular correspondence. 

* Eartham, Feb., 1792. 

Dear Sir, — I have often been tempted, by affectionate 
admiration of your poetry, to trouble you with a letter ; 
but I have repeatedly checked myself by recollecting tha* 
the vanity of believing ourselves distantly related in spirit 
to a man of genius is but a sorry apology for intruding 
on his time. 

Though I resisted my desire of professing myself your 
friend, that, I might not disturb you with intrusive famil- 
iarity, I cannot resist a desire, equally affectionate, of dis- 
claiming an idea which I am told is imputed to me, of 
considering myself, on a recent occasion, as an antagonist 
to you. Allow me, therefore, to say, I Was solicited to 
write a Life of Milton, for Boydell and Nichol, before I 
had the least idea that you and Mr. Fuseli were concerned 
in a project similar to theirs. When I first heard of your 
intention, I was apprehensive that we might undesign* 
edly thwart each other ; but, on seeing your proposals, I 
am agreeably persuaded that our respective labors will 
be far from clashing ; as it is your design to illustrate 
Milton with a series of notes, and I only mean to exec'ute 
a more candid life of him than his late biographer has 
given us, upon a plan that will, I flatter myself, be par- 
ticularly pleasing to those who love the author as we do 

As to the pecuniary interests of those persons who 
venture large sums in expensive decoration of Milton, I 
am persuaded his expanding glory will support them all. 
Every splendid edition, where the merits of the pencil 
are in any degree worthy of the poet, will, I think, be 
secure of success. I wish it cordially to all ; as I have a 
great affection for the arts, and a sincere regard for those 
whose talents reflect honor upon them. 

To you, my dear sir, I have a grateful attachment, for 
the infinite delight which your writings have afforded 
me ; and if, in the course of your work, I have any oppor- 
tunity to serve or oblige you, I shall seize it with that 
friendly spirit which has impelled me at present to assure 
you both in prose and rhyme, that I am your cordial 
admirer. ' 

W. Hayley. 

P. S. I wrote the enclosed sonnet on being told that our 
names had been idly printed together in a newspaper, a* 
hostile competitors. Pray forgive its partial defects for ita 
affectionate sincerity. From my ignorance of your ad- 
dress, I send this to your bookseller's by a person com- 
missioned to place my name in the list of your sub- 
scribers ; and let me add, if you ever wish to form a new- 
collection of names for any similar purpose, I entreat 
you to honor me so far as to rank mine, of your own ac- 
cord, among those of your sincerest friends. Adieu! 

SONNET. 

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

On hearing- that our names had been idly mentioned in m 
newspaper, as competitors in a JJfe of Milton. 

Cowper! delight of all who justly prize 
The splendid magic of a strain divine, 
That sweetly tempts th' enlighten'd soul to rise, 
As sunbeams lure an eagle to the skie3. 
Poet ! to whom 1 feel my heart incline 
As to a friend endeared by virtue's ties ; 
Ne'er shall my name in pride's contentious line 
With hostile emulation cope with thine ! 
No, let us meet, with kind fraternal aim, 
Where Milton's shrine invites a votive throng. 
With thee I share a passion for his fame. 
His zeal for truth, his scorn of venal blame : 
But thou hast rarer gifts,— to thee belong 
His harp of highest tone— his sanctity of soup 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



455 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Weston, Dec. 10, 1793. 

You mentioned, my dear friend, in your 
»ast letter, an unfavorable sprain that you 
nad received, which you apprehended might 
be very inconvenient to you for some time to 
come; and having learned also from Lady 
Hesketh the same unwelcome intelligence, 
in terms still more alarming than those in 
which you related the accident yourself, I 
cannot but be anxious, as well as my cousin, 
to know the present state of it; and shall 
truly rejoice to hear "that it is in a state of 
recovery. Give us a line of information on 
this subject, as soon as you can conveniently, 
and you will much oblige us. 

I write by morning candle-light ; my lite- 
rary business obliging me to be an early riser. 
Homer demands me : finished, indeed, but the 
alterations not transcribed : a work to which 
I am now hastening as fast as possible. The 
transcript ended, which is likely to amount 
to a good sizeable volume, I must write a 
new preface: and then farewell to Homer 
forever! And if the remainder of my days 
be a little gilded with the profits of this long 
and laborious work, I shall not regret the 
time that I have bestowed on it. 
I remain, my dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

Can you give us any news of Lord Howe's 
Armada ; concerning which we may inquire, 
as our forefathers did of the Spanish, — " an 
in ccelum sublata sit, an in Tartarum de- 
pressaTf 

The reader may now be anxious to learn 
some particulars of the projected poem, which 
has been repeatedly mentioned under the title 
of The Four Ages ; a poem to which the mind 
of Cowper looked eagerly forward, as to a 
new and highly promising field for his ex- 
cursive fancy. The idea had been suggested 
to him in the year 1791, by his clerical neigh- 
bor, Mr. Buchanan, of Ravenstone, a small 
sequestered village within the distance of an 

* Private correspondence. 

t Lord Howe was at this time in pursuit of the French 
fleet, and absent six weeks, during which the public re- 
ceived no intelligence of his movements. His lordship 
at length returned, having only seen the enemy, but 
without having been able to overtake and bring them to 
action. Though this furnished no argument against him, 
but rather showed the terror that he inspired, yet some 
of the wits of the day wrote the following jeu d' 'esprit on 
the occasion. 

When Caesar triumph'd o'er his Gallic foes, 
Three words concise,* his gallant acts disclose ; 
But Howe, more brief, comprises his in one, 
And vidi tells us all that he has done. 

Lord Howe subsequently proved his claim to the whole 
of this celebrated despatch of Ciesar, by the great victory 
which he gained off Ushant over the French fleet, June 1, 
1794, a victory which forms one of the brightest triumphs 
if the British navy. 



* Vtrniy vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. 



easy walk from Weston. This gentleman, 
who had occasionally enjoyed the gratification 
of visiting Cowper, suggested to him, with a 
becoming diffidence, the project of a new poem 
on the four distinct periods of life — infancy 
youth, manhood, and old age. He imparted 
his ideas to the poet by a letter, in which he 
observed, with equal modesty and truth, that 
Cowper was particularly qualified to relish, 
and to do justice to the subject; a subject 
which he supposed not hitherto treated. ex- 
pressly, as its importance deserved, by any 
poet ancient or modern. 

Mr. Buchanan added to this letter a Brief 
sketch of contents for the projected composi 
tion. This hasty sketch he enlarged, at the 
request of Cowper. How the poet appreci- 
ated the suggestion will appear from the fol- 
lowing billet. 

TO THE KEV. MR. BUCHANAN. 

Weston, May 11, 1793. 
My dear Sir, — You have sent me a beauti- 
ful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would 
to heaven that you would give it that requi- 
site yourself; for he who could make the 
sketch, cannot but be well qualified to finish. 
But if you will not, I will ; provided always 
nevertheless, that God gives me ability, for it 
will require no common share to do justice to 
your conceptions. 

I am much yours, W. C. 

Your little messenger vanished before T 
could catch him. 

This work, in his first conception of it, was 
greatly endeared to him, but he soon enter- 
tained an apprehension that he should never 
accomplish it. Writing to his friend of St. 
Paul's in 1793, the poet said—" The Four 
Ages is a subject that delights me when T 
think of it; bat I am ready to fear, that all 
my ages will be exhausted before I shall be at 
leisure to write upon it." 

A fragment is all that he has left, for which 
we refer the reader to the Poems. In his hap- 
pier days, it would have been expanded in a 
manner more commensurate with the copi- 
ousness of the subject, and the poetical 
powers of the author. 

It may be interesting to add, that a modern 
poem on the Four Ages of Man was written 
by M. Werthmuller, a citizen of Zurich, and 
translated into Latin verse, by Dr. Olstrochi, 
librarian to the Ambrosian library at Milan. 
This performance gave rise to another Gor- 
man poem on the Four Ages of Woman, by 
M. Zacharie, professor of poetry at Bruns- 
wick. 

The increasing infirmities of Cowper's aged 
companion, Mrs. Unwin, his filial solicitude 
to alleviate her sufferings, and the gathering 
clouds of deeper despondency that began t- 



40b' 



COWPER'S WORKS 



settle on his mind, in the first month of the 
year 1794, not only rendered it impossible for 
him to advance in any great original perform- 
ance, but, to use his own expressive words, 
in the close of his correspondence with his 
highly valued friend, Mr. Rose, made all com- 
position either of poetry or prose impractica- 
ble. Writing to that friend in January 1794. 
he says, " I have just ability enough to tran- 
scribe, which is all that I have to do at present : 
God knows that I write, at this moment, 
under the pressure of sadness not to be de- 
scribed." 

It was a spectacle that might awaken com- 
passion in the sternest of human characters, 
to see the health, the comfort, and the little 
fortune of a man, so distinguished by intel- 
lectual endowments, and by moral excellence, 
perishing most deplorably. A sight so affect- 
ing made many friends of Cowper solicitous 
and importunate that his declining life should 
be honorably protected by public munificence. 
Men of all parties agreed that a pension might 
be granted to an author of his acknowledged 
merit, with graceful propriety. 

But such is the difficulty of doing real 
good, experienced even by the great and 
powerful, or so apt are statesmen to forget 
the pressing exigence of meritorious -indi- 
viduals, in the distractions of official per- 
plexity, that month after month elapsed, 
without the accomplishment of so desirable 
an object. 

Imagination can hardly devise any human 
condition more truly affecting than the state 
of the poet at this period. His generous and 
faithful guardian, Mrs. Unwin, who had pre- 
served him through seasons of the severest 
calamity, was now, with her faculties and 
fortune impaired, sinking fast into second 
childhood. The distress of heart that he felt 
in beholding the afflicting change in a com- 
panion so justly dear to him, conspiring with 
his constitutional melancholy, was gradually 
undermining the exquisite faculties of his 
mind. The disinterestedness and affectionate 
kindness of Lady Hesketh, at this crisis, de- 
serves to be recorded in terms of the highest 
commendation. With a magnanimity of 
feeling to which it is difficult to do justice, 
and to the visible detriment of her health, she 
nobly devoted herself to the superintendence 
of a house, whose two interesting inhabitants 
were almost incapacitated from attending to 
the ordinary offices of life. Those only who 
have lived with the superannuated and the 
melancholy, can properly appreciate the value 
of such a sacrifice. 

The two last of Cowper's letters to Hayley, 
that breathe a spirit of mental activity and 
iheerful friendship, were written in the close 
of the year 1793, and in the beginning of the 
next. Th ey arose from an ac cident that it may 
be proper to relate, before we insert them. 



On Hayley's return from Weston, he haa 
given an account of the poet to his old friend. 
Lord Thurlow. That learned and powerful 
critic, in speaking of Cowper's Homer, de 
clared himself not satisfied with his version 
of Hector's admirable prayer in caressing hi? 
child. Both ventured on new translations of 
this prayer, which were immediately sent to 
Cowper, and the following letters will prove, 
with what just and manly freedom of spirit 
he was at this time able to criticize the com- 
position of his friends and his own. 

to william Hayley, esq. .• 

Weston, Dec. 17, 1793. 
Oh Jove ! and all ye Gods ! grant this my son 
To prove, like me, pre-eminent in Troy ! 
In valor such, and firmness of command ! 
Be he extoll'd, when he retuns from fight, 
As far his "sire's superior ! may he slay 
His enemy, bring home bis gory spoils, 
And may his mother's heart o'erflow with joy! 

I rose this morning at six o'clock, on pro- 
pose to translate this prayer again, and to 
write to my dear brother. Here you have it, 
such as it is, not perfectly according to my 
own liking, but as well as I could make it, 
and I think better than either yours or Lord 
Thurlow's. You with your six lines have 
made yourself stiff and ungraceful, and he 
with his seven has produced as good prose ag 
heart can wish, but no poetry at all. A scru- 
pulous attention to the letter has spoiled you 
both ; you have neither the spirit nor the 
manner of Homer. A portion of both may 
be found, I believe, in my version, but not so 
much as I could wish — it is better however 
than the printed one. His lordship's two 
first lines I cannot very well understand ; he 
seems to me to give a sense to the original 
that does not belong to it. Hector, I appre- 
hend, does not say, " Grant that he may prove 
himself my son, and be eminent," &c, — but 
" grant that this my son may prove eminent" 
— which is a material difference. In the 
latter sense I find the simplicity of an ancient 
in the former, that is to say, in the notion of 
a man proving himself his father's son by 
similar merit, the finesse and dexterity of a 
modern. His lordship too makes the man, 
w"ho gives the young hero his commendation, 
the person who returns from battle ; whereas 
Homer makes the young hero himself that 
person, at least if Clarke is a just interpreter, 
which I suppose is hardly to be disputed. 

If my old friend would look into my Pref- 
ace, he would find a principle laid down there, 
which perhaps it would not be easy to invali- 
date, and which properly attended to would 
equally secure a translation from stiffness and 
from wildness. The principle I mean is this, 
" Close, but not so close as to be servile ! free, 
but not so free as to be licentious !" A su- 
perstitious fidelity loses the spirit, and a loo.^ 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



45T 



deviation the sense of the translated author — 
a happy moderation in either case is the only 
possible way of preserving both. 

Thus I have disciplined you both, and now 
if you please, you may both discipline me. I 
shall not enter my version in my book till it 
has undergone your strictures at least, and, 
should you write to the noble critic again, you 
are welcome to submit it to his. We are 
three awkward fellows indeed, if we cannot 
amongst us make a tolerable good translation 
of six lines of Homer. 

Adieu J W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Jan. 5, 1794. 
My dear Hayley^ — I have waited, but waited 
in vain, for a propitious moment when I 
might give my old friend's objections the con- 
sideration they deserve; I shall at last he 
forced to send a vague answer, unworthy to 
be sent to a person accustomed, like him to 
close reasoning and abstruse discussion ; for 
I rise after ill rest, and with a frame'of mind 
perfectly unsuited to the occasion. I sit too 
at the window for light's sake, where I am so 
cold that my pen slips out of my fingers. 
First, I will give you a translation, de novo, 
of this untranslatable prayer. It is shaped as 
nearly as I could contrive to his lordship's ideas, 
but I" have little hope that it will satisfy him. 

Grant Jove, and .all ye Gods, that this my son 
Be, as myself have been, illustrious here ! 
A valiant man ! and let him reign in Troy ! 
May all who witness his return from fight 
Hereafter, say — he far excels his sire ; 
And let him bring back gory trophies, stript 
From foes slain by him, to his mother's joy. 

Imlac in Rasselas says — I forget to whom, 
" You have convinced me that it is impossi- 
ble to be a poet." In like manner I might 
say to his lordship, you have convinced me 
that it is impossible to be a translator; to be 
a translator, on his terms at least, is' I am 
sure impossible. On his terms, I would defy 
Homer himself, were he alive, to translate the 
Paradise Lost into Greek. Yet Milton had 
Homer much in his eye when he composed 
that poem; whereas Homer never thought of 
me or my translation. There are minutae in 
every language, which, transfused into an- 
other, will spoil the version. Such extreme 
fidelity is in fact unfaithful. Such close re- 
semblance takes away all likeness. The 
original is elegant, easy, natural ; the copy is 
clumsy, constrained, unnatural: to what is 
this owing ? To the adoption of terms not 
congenial to your purpose, and of a context, 
euch as no man writing an original work 
would make use of. Homer is everything 
that a poet should be. A translation of Ho- 
tter, so made, will be everything a translation 



of Homer should not be ; because it will bfc 
written in no language under heaven. It 
will be English, and it will be Greek, and 
therefore it will be neither. He is the man, 
whoever he be (I do not pretend to be that 
man myself), he is the man best qualified 
as a translator of Homer, who has drenched, 
and steeped, and soaked himself in the effu- 
sions of his genius, till he has imbibed their 
color to the bone, and who, when he is thua 
dyed through and through, distinguishing be- 
tween what is essentially Greek, and what 
may be habited in English, rejects the for- 
mer, and is faithful to the latter, as far as the 
purposes of fine poetry will permit, and ro 
farther: this, I think, may be easily prove.'. 
Homer is everywhere remarkable either fo 
ease, dignity or energy of expression; fo 
grandeur of conception, and a majestic flovl 
of numbers. If we copy him so closely as to 
make every one of these excellent properties 
of his absolutely unattainable, which will 
certainly be the .effect of too close a copy, in- 
stead of translating, we murder him. There- 
fore, after all his lordship has said, I still hold 
freedom to be an indispensable — freedom, I 
mean, with respect to the expression; free- 
dom so limited as never to leave behind the 
matter ; but at the same time indulged with 
a sufficient scope to secure the spirit, and aa 
much as possible of the manner. I say aa 
much as possible, because an English manner 
must differ from a Greek one, in order to be 
graceful, and for this there is no remedy. 
Can an ungraceful, awkward translation of 
Homer be a good one? No : but a graceful, 
easy, natural, faithful version of him, will not 
that be a good one? Yes: allow me but 
this, and I insist upon it, that such a one may 
be produced on my principles, and can be 
produced on no other. 

I have not had time to criticise his lordship's 
other version. You know how little time I 
have for anything, and can tell him so. 

Adieu! my dear brother. I have now tired 
both you and myself^ and with the love of 
the whole trio, remain yours ever, 

W. C. 

Reading his lordship's sentiments over 
again, I am inclined to think, that in all I 
have said, I have only given him back the 
same in other terms. He disallows both 
the absolute free, and the absolute close — 
so do I, and, if I understand myself, I said 
so in my preface. He wishes to reoom- 
mend a medium, though he will not call 
it so — so do I; only we express it differ- 
ently. What is it, then, that we dispute 
about ? My head is not good enough to-day 
to discover. 



These letters were followed by such a si- 
lence on the part of Cowper as excited th« 



458 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



severest apprehensions, which were painfully 
confirmed by the intelligence conveyed in the 
ensuing letter : — 



FROM THE REV. MR. GREATHEED- 
WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 



-TO 



Newport Pagnel, April 8, 1794. 

Dear Sir, — Lady Hesketh's correspondence 
acquainted you with the melancholy relapse 
of our dear friend at Weston ; but I am un- 
certain whether you know, that in the last 
fortnight he has refused food of every kind, 
except now and then a very small piece of 
toasted bread dipped generally in water, 
sometimes mixed with a little wine. This, 
her ladyship informs me, was the case till 
last Saturday, since when he has eat a little 
at each family meal. He persists in refusing 
such medicines as are indispensable to his 
state of body. In such circumstances, his 
long continuance in life cannot be expected. 
How devoutly to be wished is the alleviation 
of his danger and distress ! You, dear sir, 
who know so well the worth of our beloved 
and admired friend, sympathise with his afflic- 
tion, and deprecate his loss doubtless in no 
ordinary degree : you have already most ef- 
fectually expressed and proved the warmth 
of your friendship. I cannot think that any- 
thing but your society would have been suffi- 
cient, during the infirmity under which his 
mind has long been oppressed, to have sup- 
ported him against the shock of Mrs. Un- 
win's paralytic attack. I am certain that 
nothing else could have prevailed upon him 
to undertake the journey to Eartham. You 
have succeeded where his other friends knew 
they could not, and where they apprehended 
no one could. How natural, therefore, nay, 
how reasonable, is it for them to look to you, 
as most likely to be instrumental, under the 
blessing of God, for relief in the present dis- 
tressing and alarming crisis! It is indeed 
scarcely attemptable to ask any person to 
take such a journey, aryl involve himself in 
so melancholy a scene, with an uncertainty 
of the desired success ; increased as the ap- 
parent difficulty is by dear Mr. Cowper's 
aversion to all company, and by poor Mrs. 
Unwin's mental and bodily infirmities. On 
these accounts Lady Hesketh dares not ask it 
of you, rejoiced as she would be at your ar- 
rival. Am I not, dear sir, a very presumptu- 
ous person, who, in the face of all opposition, 
dare do this? I am emboldened by those two 
powerful supporters, conscience and experi- 
ence. Was I at Eartham, I would certainly 
undertake the labor I presume to recommend, 
for the bare possibility of restoring Mr. Cow- 
per to himself, to his friends, to the public, 
and to God. 



Hay.ey, on the receipt of this letter, lost 



no time in repairing to Weston; but hia 
unhappy friend was too much overwhelmed 
by his oppressive malady to show even the 
least glimmering of satisfaction at the appear- 
ance of a guest whom he used to receive 
with the most lively expressions of affection- 
ate delight. 

It is the nature of this tremendous mel- 
ancholy, not only to enshroud and stifle the 
finest faculties of the mind, but it suspends, 
and apparently annihilates, for a time, the, 
strongest and best-rooted affections of the 
heart. 

Lady Hesketh, profiting by Hayley's pres- 
ence, quitted her charge for a few days, that 
she might have a personal conference with Dr. 
Willis. A friendly letter from Lord Thurlow 
to that celebrated physician had requested his 
attention to the highly interesting sufferer. 
Dr. Willis prescribed for Cowper, and saw 
him at Weston, but not with that success and 
felicity which made his medical skill on an- 
other most awful occasion the source of na- 
tional delight and exultation. 

Indeed, the extraordinary state of Cowper 
appeared to abound with circumstances very 
unfavorable to his mental relief. The daily 
sight of a being reduced to such a deplorable 
imbecility as now overwhelmed Mrs. Unwin, 
was in itself sufficient to plunge a tender 
spirit into extreme melancholy ; yet to sep- 
arate two friends, so long accustomed to 
minister, with the purest and most vigilant 
benevolence, to the infirmities of each other, 
was a measure so pregnant with complicated 
distraction, that it could not be advised or at- 
tempted. It remained only to palliate the 
suffering of each in their present most pitia- 
ble condition, and to trust in the mercy of 
that God, who had supported them together 
through periods of very dark affliction, though 
not so doubly deplorable as the present. 

Who can contemplate this distressing spec- 
tacle without recalling the following pathetic 
exclamation in the Sampson Agonistes of 
Milton ? 

God of our fathers, what is man 1 

Since such as thou hast solemnly elected, 
With gifts and graces eminently adorned ; 

Yet towards these thus dignified, thou oft 
Amidst their height of noon, [regard 

Changest thy count'nance. and thy hand, with no 
Of highest favors past 
From thee on them, or them to thee of service. 

So deal not with this once thy glorious champion 
What do I beg 1 How hast thou dealt already 
Behold him in this state calamitous, and turn, 
His labors, for thou canst, to peaceful end ! 

It was on the 23d of April, 1794, in one of 
those melancholy mornings, when his kind 
and affectionate relation, Lady Hesketh, and 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



459 



Hayley, were watching together over this 
dejected sufferer, that a letter from Lord 
Spencer arrived at Weston, to announce the 
intended grant of a pension from his Majesty 
to Cowper, of 300Z. per annum, rendered 
payable to his friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee 
of Cowper. This intelligence produced in 
the friends of the poet very lively emotions 
of delight, yet blended with pain almost as 
powerful ; for it was painful, in no trifling 
degree, to reflect that these desirable smiles 
of good fortune could not impart even a faint 
glimmering of joy to the dejected poet. 

From the time when Hayley left his un- 
happy friend at Weston, in the spring of the 
year 1794, he remained there under the ten- 
der vigilance of Lady Hesketh, till the latter 
and of July, 1795: a long season of the dark- 
est depression ! in which the best medical ad- 
vice, and the influence of time, appeared equal- 
ly unable to lighten that afflictive burthen 
which pressed incessantly on his spirits. 

It was under these circumstances that, my 
revered brother-in-law, with a generous dis- 
interestedness and affection that must ever 
endear him to the admirers of Cowper, deter- 
mined, with Lady Hesketh's concurrence, to 
remove the poet and his afflicted companion , 
into Norfolk. In adopting this plan, he did ! 
not contemplate more than a year's absence 
from Weston : but what was intended to be 
only temporary, proved in the sequel to be a 
final removal. 

Few events could have been more painful 
to Cowper than a separation from his beloved 
Weston. Every object was familiar to his 
eye, and had long engaged the affections of 
his heart. Its beautiful scenery had been 
traced with all the minuteness of description 
and the glow of poetic fancy. The slow- 
winding Ouse, "bashful, yet impatient to be 
seen," was henceforth to glide -"in its sinuous 
course" unperceived. The spacious meads, 
the lengthened colonnade, the proud alcove, 
and the sound of the sweet village-bells — 
these memorials of past happy days were to 
be seen and heard no more. All have felt 
the pang excited by the separation or loss of 
friends; but who has not also experienced 
that even trees have tongues, and that every 
object in nature knows how to plead its em- 
pire over the heart? 

What Cowper's sensations were on this 
occasion, may be coiled ed from the follow- 
ing little incident. 

On the morning of his departure from 
Weston, he wrote the following lines in 
pencil on the back of the shutter in his bed- 
-oom. 

* Farewell, dear scenes, forever closed to me ! 
Oh ! for what sorrows must I now exchange 



as the expressive memorial of his feelings on 
leaving Weston. Nor can the following lit 
tie poem fail to excite interest, not only as 
being the last original production which hft 
composed at Weston, but from its deep and 
unaffected pathos. It is addressed to Mrs. 
Unwin. No language can exhibit a specimen 
of verse more exquisitely tender. 

TO MARY. 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past, 

Since first our sky was overcast, 

Ah, would that this might be the last ! 

My Mary 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow — 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 

My Mary » 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disus'd. and shine no more, 

My Mary I 

For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will. 

My Mary ! 

But well thou play' dst the housewife's part, 
And all thy threads with magic art, 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 

My Mary ! 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 

Like language utter'd in a dream ; 

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 

My Mary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light. 

My Mary * , 

For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see 1 
The sun would rise in vain for me. 

My Mary f 
Partakers of thy sad decline, 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, 

My Mary ! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
That now at every step thou mov'st 
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st, 

My Mary . 

And still to love, though prest with ill, 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still, 

My Mary ! 

But, ah ! by constant heed I know, 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 

\Iy Mary ! 

And, should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
you !" My Mary . 

These lines have been carefully preserved \ On Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of July 



460 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



] 795, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin removed, un- 
der the care and guidance of Mr. Johnson, 
from Weston to North-Tuddenham, in Nor- 
folk, by a journey of three days, passing 
through Cambridge without stopping there. 
In the evening of the first day they rested at 
the village of Eaton, near St. Neot's. Cow- 
per walked with his young kinsman in the 
churchyard by moonlight, and spoke with 
much composure on the subject of Thom- 
son's Reasons, and the circumstances under 
which they were probably written. This 
conversation was almost his last glimmering 
of cheerfulness. 

At North-Tuddenham the travellers were 
accommodated with a commodious, unten- 
anted parsonage-house, by the kindness of 
the Rev. Leonard Shelford. Here they re- 
sided till the nineteenth of August. It was 
the considerate intention of Mr. Johnson not 
to remove them immediately to his own 
house, in the town of East-Dereham, lest the 
situation in a market-place should be dis- 
tressing to the tender spirits of Cowper. 

In their new temporary residence they 
were received by Miss Johnson and Miss. 
Perowne, whose gentle and sympathizing 
spirit peculiarly qualified them to discharge 
so delicate -an office, and to alleviate the suf- 
ferings of the dejected poet. 

Severe as his depressive malady appeared 
at this period, he was still able to bear con- 
siderable exercise, and, before he left Tud- 
denham, he walked with Mr. Johnson to the 
neighboring village of Mattishall, on a visit 
to his cousin, Mrs. Bodham. On surveying 
his own portrait by Abbot, in the house of 
that lady, he clasped his hands in a paroxysm 
of* pain, and uttered a vehement wish, that 
his present sensations might be such as they 
were when that picture was painted. 

In August 1795, Mr. Johnson conducted 
his two invalids to Mundsley, a village on 
the Norfolk coast, in the hope that a situation 
by the sea-side might prove salutary and 
amusing to Cowper. 'they continued to re- 
side there till October, but without any ap- 
parent benefit to the health of the interesting 
sufferer. 

He had long relinquished epistolary inter- 
course with his most intimate friends, but his 
tender solicitude to hear some tidings of his 
favorite Weston induced him, in September, 
to write a letter to Mr. Buchanan. It shows 
the severity of his depression, but proves also 
that transient gleams of pleasure could oc- 
casionally break through the brooding dark- 
ness of melancholy. 

He begins with a poetical quotation : 

" To interpose a little ease, 
Let my frail thoughts dally with false surmise !" 

" I will not forget, for a moment, that to 
whomsoever I may address myself, a letter 



from me can no otherwise be welcome than 
as a curiosity. To you, sir, I address this 
urged to it by extreme penury of employ 
ment, and the desire I feel to learn something 
of what is doing, and has been done, at Wes- 
ton (my beloved Weston !) since I left it. 

" The coldness of these blasts, even in the 
hottest days, has been such, that, added to 
the irritation of the salt-spray, with which 
they are always charged, they have occa- 
sioned me an inflammation in the eye-lids, 
which threatened a few days since to confine 
me entirely, but by absenting myself as much 
as possible from the beach, and guarding my 
face with an umbrella, that inconvenience is 
in some degree abated. My chamber com- 
mands a very near view of the ocean, and the 
ships at high water approach the coast so 
closely, that a man furnished with better eyes 
than mine might, I doubt not, discern the 
sailors from the window. No situation, at 
least when the weather is clear and bright, 
can be pleasanter; which you will easily 
credit, when I add, that it imparts something 
a little resembling pleasure even to me. — 
Gratify me with news of Weston ! If Mr. 
Greg^on and your neighbors the Courtenays 
are there, mention me to them in such terms 
as you see good. Tell me if my poor birds 
are living ! I never see the herbs I used to 
give them, without a recollection of them, 
and sometimes am ready to gather them, for- 
geting that I am not at home. Pardon this 
intrusion ! 

" Mrs. Unwin continues much as usual. 

"Mundsley, Sept. 5, 1795." 



Mr. Buchanan endeavored, with great ten- 
derness and ingenuity, to allure his deject- 
ed friend to prolong a correspondence, that 
seemed to promise some little alleviation to 
his melancholy ; but this distressing malady 
baffled all the various expedients that could 
be devised to counteract its overwhelming 
influence. 

Much hope was entertained from air and 
exercise, with frequent change of scene.— In 
September, Mr. Johnson conducted his kins- 
man (to the promotion of whose recovery he 
devoted his most unwearied efforts) to take 
a survey of Dunham-Lodge, a seat at that 
time vacant ; it is situated on high ground, 
in a park, about four miles from Swaffham. 
Cowper spoke of it as a house rather too 
spacious for him, yet such as he was not un- 
willing to inhabit — a remark which induced 
Mr. Johnson, at a subsequent period, to be- 
come the tenant of this mansion, as a scene 
more eligible for Cowper than the town of 
Dereham. — This town they also surveyed in 
their excursion ; and, after passing a night 
there, returned to Mundslev, which thet 



quitted for the season on the seventh of Oc- 
tober. 

They removed immediately to Dereham; 
but left it in the course of a month for Dun- 
ham-Lod<; 
residence. 

The spirits of Covvper were not sufficiently 
revived to allow him to resume either his pen 
or his books ; but the kindness of his young 
kinsman continued to furnish him with inex- 
haustible amusement, by reading to him al- 
most incessantly ; and, although he was not 
led to converse on what he heard, yet it 
failed not to rivet his attention, and so to 
prevent his afflicted mind from preying on 
itself. 

In April, 1796, Mrs. Unwin, whose infirmi- 
ties continued to engage the tender attention 
of Covvper, even in his darkest periods of 
depression, received a visit from her daughter 
and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Powley. On 
their departure, Mr. Johnson assumed the 
office which Mrs. Powley had te.nderly per- 
formed for her venerable parent, and regu- 
larly read a chapter in the Bible every morn- 
ing to Mrs. Unwin before she rose. It was 
the invariable custom of Cowper to visit bis 
poor old friend the moment he had finished 
his breakfast, and to remain in her apartment 
while the chapter was read. 

In June, the pressure of his melancholy 
appeared in some degree alleviated, for, on 
Mr. Johnson's receiving the edition of Pope's 
Homer, published by Wakefield, Cowper 
eagerly seized the book, and began to read 
the notes to himself with visible interest. 
They awakened his attention to his own ver- 
sion of Homer. In August, he deliberately 
engaged in a revisal of the whole, and for 
some time produced almost sixty new lines 
a day. 

This mental occupation animated all his 
intimate friends with a most lively hope of 
his progressive recovery. But autumn re- 
pressed the hope that summer had excited. 

In September the family removed from 
Dunham-Lodge to try again the influence 
of the sea-side, in their favorite village of 
Mundsley. 

Cowper walked frequently by the sea, but 
no apparent benefit arose, no mild relief from 
the incessant pressure of melancholy. He 
had relinquished his Homer again, and could 
not yet be induced to resume it. 

Towards the end of October, this interest- 
ing party retired from the coast to the house 
of Mr. Johnson, in Dereham— a house now 
chosen for their winter residence, as Dunham- 
Lodge appeared to them too dreary. 

The long and exemplary life of Mrs. Un- 
win was drawing towards a close — the pow- 
Vrs of nature were gradually exhausted, and 
•on the seventeenth of Dec.ember she ended 
l troubled existence, d stinguished by a sub- 



lime spirit of piety and friendship, that shone 
through long periods of calamity, and con* 
tinued to glimmer through the ^distressful 
twilight of her declining faculties. Her 
death was calm and tranquil. Cowper saw 
her about half an hour before the moment 
of expiration, which passed without a strug- 
gle or a groan, as the clock was striking one 
in the afternoon. 

On the morning of that day, he said to the 
servant who opened the window of his cham- 
ber, " Sally, is there life above stairs ?" A 
striking proof of his bestowing incessant at. 
tention on the sufferings of his aged friend 
although he had long appeared almost totally 
absorbed in his own. 

In the dusk of the evening he attended Mr. 
Johnson to survey the corpse ; and after look- 
ing at it a very few moments he started sud- 
denly away, with a vehement but unfinished 
sentence of passionate sorrow. He spoko 
of her no more. 

She was buried by torch-light, on the 
twenty-third of December, in the north aisle 
of Dereham church ; and two of her friends, 
impressed with a just and deep sense of her 
extraordinary merit, have raised a marble 
tablet to her memory with the following in- 
scription : 

IN MEMORY OF MARY, 

WIDOW OF THE REV. MORLEV UNWIN 

AND 

MOTHER OF THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORN UNWIN) 

BORN AT ELY, 1724. 

BURIED IN THIS CHURCH 1796. 

Trusting in God. with all her heart and mind 

This woman prov'd magnanimously kind; 

Endur'd affliction's desolating hail, 

And watch'd a poet thro' misfortune's vale. 

Her spotless dust, angelic guards, defend ! 

It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend ! 

That single title in itself is fame, 

For all who read his verse revere her name. 

It might have been anticipated that the 
death of Mrs. Unwin, in Cowper's enfeebled 
state, would have proved too severe a shock 
to his agitated nerves. But it is mercifully 
ordained that, while declining years incapa- 
citate us for trials, they, at the same time, 
weaken the sensibility to suffering, and there- 
by render us less accessible to the influence 
of sorrow. It may be regarded as an in- 
stance of providential mercy to this afflicted 
poet, that his aged friend, whose life he had 
so long considered as essential* to his own, 
was taken from him at a time when the pres- 
sure of his malady, a perpetual low fever, 
both of body and mind, had, in a great de- 
gree, diminished the native energy of his 
faculties and affections. 

Owing to these causes, Cowper was so fa? 



462 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



preserved in this season of trial, that, instead 
of mourning the loss of a person in whose 
life he had seemed to live, all perception of 
that loss was mercifully taken from him ; and, 
from the moment when he hurried away from 
the inanimate object of his filial attachment, 
he appeared to have no memory of her hav- 
ing existed, for he never asked a question 
concerning her funeral, nor ever mentioned 
her name. 

Towards the summer of 1797, his bodily 
health appeared to improve, but not to such 
a degree as to restore any comfortable activi- 
ty to his mind. In June he wrote a brief 
letter to Hayley, but such as too forcibly ex- 
pressed the cruelty of his distemper. 

The process of digestion never passed 
regularly in his frame during the years that 
he resided in Norfolk. Medicine appeared to 
have little or no influence on his complaint, 
and his aversion at the sight of it was ex- 
treme. 

From asses' milk, of which he began a 
course on the twenty-first of June in this 
year, he gained a considerable acquisition' of 
bodily strength, and was enabled to bear an 
airing in an open carriage, before breakfast, 
with Mr. Johnson. 

A depression of mind, which suspended 
the studies of a writer so eminently endeared 
to the public, was considered by men of piety 
and learning as a national misfortune, and 
several individuals of this description, though 
personally unknown to Cowper, wrote to him 
in the benevolent hope that expressions of 
friendly praise, from persons who could be 
influenced only by the most laudable motives 
in bestowing it, might re-animate his dejected 
spirit. Among these might be enumerated 
Dr. Watson, the Bishop of Llandaff, who 
kindly addressed him in the language of en- 
couragement and of soothing consolation; 
but the pressure of his malady had now 
made him utterly deaf to the most honorable 
praise. 

He had long discontinued the revisal of his 
Homer, when his kinsman, dreading the effect 
of the cessation of bodily exercise upon his 
mind during a long winter, resolved, if pos- 
sible, to engage him in the revisal of this 
work. One morning, therefore, after break- 
fast, in the month of September, he placed 
the Commentators on the table, one by one ; 
namely, Villoison, Barnes, and Clarke, open- 
ing them all, together with the poet's trans- 
lation, at the place where he had left off a 
twelvemonth before, but talking with hirq, as 
he paced the room, upon a very different sub- 
ject, namely, the impossibility of the things 
befalling him which his imagination had repre- 
sented ; when, as his companion had wished, 
he said to him, " And are you sure that I 
shall be lure till the book you are reading is 
Jhiished'?" "Quite sure,"" replied his kins- 



man, " and that you will also be here to com 
plete the revisal of your Homer," pointing to 
the books, "if you will resume it to day.' 1 
As he repeated these words he left the room, 
rejoicing in the well-known token of theii 
having sunk into the poet's mind, namely, 
his seating himself on the sofa, taking u^« 
one of the books, and saying in a low and 
plaintive voice, " I may as well do this, for ] 
can do nothing else."* 

In this labor he persevered, oppressed as 
he was by indisposition, till March 1799. 
On Friday evening, the eighth of that month, 
he completed his revisal of the Odyssey, 
and the next morning wrote part of -a new 
preface. 

To watch over the disordered health of 
afflicted genius, and to lead a powerful, but 
oppressed, spirit by gentle encouragement, 
to exert itself in salutary occupation, is an 
office that requires a very rare union of ten- 
derness, intelligence, and fortitude. To con- 
template and minister to a great mind, in a 
state that borders on mental desolation, is 
like surveying, in the midst of a desert, the 
tottering ruins of palaces and temples, where 
the faculties of the spectator are almost ab- 
sorbed in wonder and regret, and where e very- 
step is taken with awful apprehension. 

Hayley, in alluding to Dr. Johnson's kind 
and affectionate offices, at this period, bears 
the following honorable testimony to his 
merits, which we are happy in transcribing. 
"It seemed as if Providence had expressly 
formed the young kinsman of Cowper to 
prove exactly such a guardian of his declin- 
ing years as the peculiar exigencies of his 
situation required. I never saw the human 
being that could, I think, have sustained the 
delicate and arduous office (in which the in- 
exhaustible virtues of Mr. Johnson perse- 
vered to the last) through a period so long, 
with an equal portion of unwearied tender- 
ness and unshaken fidelity. A man who 
wanted sensibility would have renounced the 
duty ; and a man endowed with a particle 
too much of that valuable, though peiilous, 
quality, must have felt his own health utterly 
undermined, by an excess of sympathy with 
the sufferings perpetually in his sight. Mr. 
Johnson has completely discharged, perhaps, 
the most trying of human duties ; and I trust 
he will forgive me for this public declaration. 
that, in his mode of discharging it, he has 
merited the most cordial esteem from all who 
love the memory of Cowper. Even a stran- 
ger may consider it as a strong proof of his 
tender dexterity in soothing and guiding the 
afflicted poet, that he was able to engage him 
steadily to pursue and finish the revisal and 
correction of his Homer, during a long period 
of bodily and mental sufferings, when his 
troubled" mind recoiled from all intercourse 

* Sketch of the Life of Cowper. 



LIFE OF COWPER 



463 



with his most intimate friends, and labored 
tinder a morbid abhorrence of all cheerful 
exertion." 

In the summer of 1798, his kinsman was in- 
duced to vary his plan of remaining for some 
months in the mnrine village of Mundsley, 
and thought it more eligible to make frequent 
visits from Dereham to the coast, passing a 
week at a time by the sea-side. 

Cowper, in his poem on "Retirement," 
seems to inform us what his own sentiments 
were, in a season of health, concerning the 
regimen most proper for the disease of mel- 
ancholy. 

Virtuous and faithful Heberden. whose skill 
Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, 
Gives melancholy up to nature's care, 
And sends the patient into purer air. 

The frequent change of place, and the 
magnificence of marine scenery, produced at 
times a little relief to his depressed spirits. 
On the 7th of June 1798, he surveyed the 
light-house at Happisburgh, and expressed 
some pleasure on beholding, through a tele- 
scope, several ships at a distance. Yet, in 
his usual walk with his companion by the 
eea-side, he exemplified but too forcibly his 
own affecting description of melancholy si- 
lence : 

That silent tongue 
Could give advice, could censure, or commend, 
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend ; 
Renounc'd alike its office and its sport. 
Its brisker and its graver strains fall short: 
Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway. 
And, like a summer-brook, are past away. 

On the twenty-fourth of July, Cowper had 
the honor of a visit from a lady, for whom 
he had long entertained affectionate respect, 
the Dowager Lady Spencer — and it was 
rather remarkable, that on the very morn- 
ing she called upon him he had begun his 
revisal of the Odyssey, which was originally 
inscribed to her. Such an incident in a hap- 
pier season would have produced a very en- 
livening effect on his spirits : but, in his 
present state, it had not even the power to 
lead him into any free conversation with his 
distinguished visitor. 

The only amusement that he appeared to 
admit without reluctance was the reading of 
his kinsman, who, indefatigable in the supply 
of such amusement, had exhausted a succes- 
sive series of works of fiction, and at this 
period began reading to the poet his own 
works. To these he listened also in silence, 
and heard all his poems recited in order, till 
the reader arrived at the history of John 
Gilpin, which he begged not to hear. Mr. 
Johnson proceeded to his manuscript poems ; 
to these he willingly listened, but made not 
a single remark on any. 

In October, 1798, the pressure of his mel- 
ancholy seemed to be mitigated in some lit- 



tle degree, for he exerted himself so fur a* 
to write the following letter, without solicit 
ation, to Lady Hesketh. 

Dear Cousin, — You describe delightfu 
scenes, but you describe them to one, who. 
if he even saw them, could receive no de- 
light from them : who has a faint recollec- 
tion, and so faint, as to be like an almost 
forgotten dream, that once he was suscep- 
tible of pleasure from such causes. The 
country that you have had in prospect has 
been always famed for its beauties ; but the 
wretch who can derive no gratification from 
a view t)f nature, even under the disadvan- 
tage of her most ordinary dress, will have 
no eyes to admire her in any. 

In one day, in one minute, I should rather 
have said, she became an universal blank to 
me, and though from a different cause, yet 
with an effect as difficult to remove as blind- 
ness itself. 

Mundsley, Oct. 13, 1798. 

On his return from Mundsley to Dereham, 
in an evening towards the end of October, 
Cowper, with Miss Perowne and Mr. John- 
son, was overturned in a post-chaise : he 
discovered no terror on the occasion, and 
escaped without injury from the accident. 

In December he received a visit from hk' 
nighly esteemed friend, Sir John Throck- 
inorton, but his malady was at that time so 
oppressive that it rendered him almost in- 
sensible to the kind solicitude of friendship. 

He still continued to exercise the powers 
of his astonishing mind : upon his finishing 
the revisal of his Homer, in March, 1799, his 
kinsman endeavored in the gentlest manner 
to lead* him into new literary occupation. 

For this purpose, on the eleventh of 
March he laid before him the paper contain- 
ing the commencement of his poem on " The 
Four Ages." Cowper altered a few lines ; he 
also added a few, but soon observed to his 
kind attendant — " that it was too great a work 
for him to attempt in his present situation." 

At supper Mr. Johnson suggested to him 
several literary projects that he might exe- 
cute more easily. He replied — " that he had 
just thought of six Latin verses, and if he 
could compose anything it must be in pur- 
suing that composition." 

The next morning he wrote the six verses 
he had mentioned, and subsequently added 
the remainder, entitling the poem, " Montes 
Glaciales." 

It proved u versification of a circumstance 
recorded in a newspaper, which had been read 
to him a few weeks before, without his appear- 
ing to notice it. This poem he translated into 
English verse, on the nineteenth of March, to 
oblige Miss Perowne. Both the original and 
the translation appear in the Poems. 



464 



COWPER'S WORKS 



On the twentieth of March he wrote the 
slanzas entitled " The Castaway," founded 
on an anecdote in Anson's Voyage, which 
his memory suggested to him, although he 
laad not looked into the book for many years. 

As this poem is the last original produc- 
tion from the pen of Cowper, we shall intro- 
duce it here, persuaded that it will be read 
with an interest proportioned to the extraor- 
dinary pathos of the subject, and the still more 
extraordinary powers of the poet, whose lyre 
could sound so forcibly, unsilenced by the 
gloom of the darkest distemper, that was 
conducting him, by slow gradations, to the 
shadow of death. 

THE CASTAWAY. 

Obscurest night involv'd the sky ; 

Th' Atlantic billows roar'd, 
When such a destin'd wretch as I, 

Wash'd headlong from on board, 
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
His floating home forever left. 

No braver chief could Albion boast 
Than he with whom he went, 

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
With warmer wishes sent. 

He lov'd them both, but both in vain, ' 
Nor him beheld, nor her again. 

Not long beneath the 'whelming brine, 

Expert to swim, he lay ; 
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 

Or courage die away ; 
But wag'd with death a lasting strife, 
Supported by despair of life. 

He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd 

To check the vessel's course, 
But so the furious blast prevail'd, 

That, pitiless, per force, 
They left their out-cast mate behind? 
And scudded still before the wind. 

Some succor yet they could afford ; 

And such as storms allow, 
The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 

Delay'd not to bestow. 
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore, 
Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
Their haste himself condemn, . 

Aware that flight in such a sea, 
Alone could rescue them ; 

Yet bitter felt it still to die 

Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 

He long survives, who lives an hour 

In ocean self-upheld: 
And so long he with unspent pow'r, 

His destiny repell'd : 
And ever, as the minutes flew, 
Entreated help, or cry'd — " Adieu !" 

At length, his transient respite past, 

His comrades, who before 
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast, 

Could catch the sound no more. 
For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
The stifling wave, and then he sank. 



No poet wept him, but the page 

Of narrative sincere, 
That tell his name, his worth, his age. 

Is wet with Anson's tear. 
And tears by bards or heroes shed, 
Alike immortalize the dead 

I therefore purpose not, or dream, 

Descanting on his fate ! 
To give the melancholy theme 

A more enduring date, 
But misery still delights to trace 
Its 'semblance in another's case. 

No voice divine the storm allay'd, 

No light propitious shone ; 
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, 

We perish'd, each alone ; 
But I beneath a rougher sea, 
And 'whelm'd in deeper gulfs than be. 

In August he translated this poem into 
Latin verse. In October he went with Miss 
Perowne and Mr. Johnson to survey a larger 
house in Dereham, which he preferred to 
their present residence, and in which the 
family. were settled in the following De- 
cember. 

Though his corporeal strength was now 
evidently declining, the urgent persuasion 
of his kinsman induced him to amuse his 
mind with frequent composition. Between 
August and December, he wrote all the 
translations from various Latin and Greek 
epigrams, which the reader will find in thft 
present volume. 

In his new residence, he amused himself 
with translating a few fables of Gay's into 
Latin verse. The fable which he used to 
recite when a child — " The Hare and many 
Friends" — became one of his latest amuse 
ments. 

These Latin fables were all written in 
January, 1800. Towards the end of that 
month, Hayley requested him to new-model 
a passage in his Homer, relating to the curi- 
ous tnoimment of ancient sculpture, so grace- 
fully described by Homer, called the Cretan 
Dance. This being the last effort of his pen, 
and the passage being interesting, afc a rep- 
resentation of ancient manners, we here in 
sert it. 

To these the glorious artist added next 
A varied dance, resembling that of old 
In Crete's broad isle, by Daedalus, compos'd 
For bright-hair'd Ariadne. There the youths 
And youth-alluring maidens, hand in hand, 
Danc'd jocund, ev'ry maiden neat attir'd 
In finest linen, and the youths in vests 
Well- woven, glossy as the glaze of oil. 
These all wore garlands, and bright falcionsthosu 
Of burnish'd gold, in silver trappings hung; — 
They, with well-tutor'd step, now nimbly ran 
The circle, swift, as when, before his wheel 
Seated, the potter twirls it with both hands 
For trial of its speed ; now, crossing quick, 
They pass'd at once into each other's place. 
A circling crowd surveyed the lovely dance, 



LIFE OF COWPER 



465 



Delighted ; two. the leading pair, their heads 
.With graceful inclination bowing oft. 
Pass'd swift betwen them, and began the song. 
See Cowper s Version, Book xviii. 

On the very day that this endearing mark 
of his kindness reached Hay ley, a dropsical 
appearance in his legs induced Mr. Johnson 
to have recourse to fresh medical assistance. 
Cowper was with great difficulty persuaded 
to take the remedies prescribed, and to try 
the exercise of a post-chaise, an exercise 
which he could not bear beyond the twenty- 
second of February. 

In March, when his decline became more 
and more visible, he was visited by Mr. 
Rose. He hardly expressed any pleasure 
on the arrival of a friend whom he had so 
long and so tenderly regarded, yet he showed 
evident signs of regret at his departure, on 
the sixth of April. 

The illness and impending death of his 
talented son precluded Hayley from sharing 
with Mr. Rose in these last marks of affec- 
tionate attention towards the man, whose 
genius and virtues they had once contem- 
plated together with mutual veneration and 
delight; whose approaching dissolution they 
felt, not only as an irreparable loss to them- 
selves, but as a national misfortune. On 
the nineteenth of April, Dr. Johnson re- 
marks, the weakness of this truly pitiable 
sufferer had so much increased, that his 
kinsman apprehended his death to be near. 
Adverting, therefore, to the affliction, as well 
of body as of mind, which his beloved in- 
mate was then enduring, he ventured to 
speak of his approaching dissolution as the 
signal of his deliverance from both these 
miseries. After a pause of a few moments, 
which was less interrupted by the objections 
of his desponding relative than he had dared 
to hope, he proceeded to an observation 
more consolatory still ; namely, that, in the 
world to which he was hastening, a merciful 
Redeemer had prepared unspeakable happi- 
ness for all his children — and therefore for 
nim. To the first part of this sentence, he 
had listened with composure,' but the con- 
cluding words were no sooner uttered, than 
his passionately expressed entreaties, that 
his companion would desist from any further 
observations of a similar kind, clearly proved 
that, though it was on the eve of being in- 
vested with angelic light, the darkness of 
delusion still veiled his spirit.* 

On Sunday, the twentieth, he seemed a 
little revived. 

On Monday he appeared dying, but re- 
covered so much as to eat a slight dinner. 

Tuesday and Wednesday he grew appa- 
rently weaker every hour. 

On Thursday he sat up as usual in the 
evening. 

• Sketch of the Life of Cowper, by Dr. Johnson. 



Tn the course of the night, when exceed 
ingly exhausted, Miss Perowne offered hire 
some refreshment. He rejected it with these 
words, the very last that he was heard to 
utter, ' ; What can it signify ?" 

Dr. Johnson closes the affecting account 
in the following words. 

"At five in the morning of Friday 25th, a 
deadly change in his features was observed 
to take place. He remained in an insensible 
state from that time till about five minutes 
before five in the afternoon, when he ceased 
to breathe. And in so mild and gentle a man- 
ner did his spirit take its flight, that though 
the writer of this Memoir, his medical attend- 
ant Mr. Woods, and three other persons, 
were standing at the foot and sid^e of the bed, 
with their eyes fixed upon his dying counte- 
nance, the precise moment of his departure 
was unobserved by any." 

From this mournful period, till the features 
of his deceased friend were closed from 
his view, the expression which the kinsman 
of Cowper observed in them, and which he 
was affectionately delighted to suppose " an 
index of the last thoughts and enjoyments of 
his soul, in its gradual escape from the 
depths of despondence, was that of calm- 
ness and composure, mingled, as it were, 
with holy surprise." 

He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in 
the church of East Dereham, on Saturday, 
May 2nd, attended by several of his relations. 

He left a will, but without appointing his 
executor. The administration, therefore, of 
the little property he possessed devolved oh 
his affectionate relative, Lady Hesketh ; but 
not having been carried into effect by that 
Lady, the office, on her decease, was under- 
taken by his cousin german, Mrs. Bodham. 

Lady Hesketh raised a marble tablet to his 
memory, with the following inscription from 
the pen of Hayley : 

IN MEMORY OF 

WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ,, 

BORN IN HERTFORDSHIRE, 

1731, 

BURIED IN THIS CHURCH. 

Ye. who with warmth the public triumph fee 
Of talents dignified by sacred zeal. 
Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just. 
Pay yo:r; fond tribute due to Cowper's dust! 
England exulting in his spotless fame, 
Ranks with her dearest sons his favorite name 
Sense, fancy, wit. suffice not all to raise 
So clear a title to affection's praise , 
His highest honors to the heart belong ; 
His virtues form'd the magic of his song. 

We have now conducted the endeared sub- 
ject of this biography through the various 
scenes of his chequered and eventful life, till 
its last solemn termination ; and it is impo«- * 
30 



466 



COWPER S WORKS. 



sible that any other feelings can have been 
awakened than those of admiration for his 
genius, homage for his virtues, and profound 
sympathy for his sufferings. It was fully an- 
ticipated by his friends, that the hour of final 
liberation, at least, would have been cheered 
by that calm sense of the divine presence, 
which is the delightful foretaste of eternal 
rest and glory. Young beautifully observes : 

The chamber where the good man meets his fate 

Is privileged beyond the common walk 

Of virtuous life, quite on the verge of heaven. 

The Bible proclaims the same animating 
truth. " Mark the perfect man, and behold 
the upright, for the end of that man is 
peace !" The divine faithfulness is an ample 
security for the fulfilment of these declar- 
ations ; but the promises of God, firm and un- 
changeable' as they are in themselves, after 
all, can be realized only in a mind disposed 
for their reception ; as the light cannot pa>s 
through a medium that is incapable of ad- 
mitting it. Such, alas ! -is the influence of 
physical causes and of a morbid temperament 
on the inward perceptions of the soul, that 
it is possible to be a child of God, without a 
consciousness of the blessing, and to have a 
title to a crown, and yet feel to be immured 
in the depths of a dungeon. 

The consolation to the friends of the un- 
happy sufferer, if not to the patient himself, 
is, that the chains are of his own forging, 
and that, if he had but the discernment to 
know it, the delusion would promptly vanish, 
and the peace of God flow into the soul like 
a river. 

That such was the case with Cowper, no 
one can doubt for a moment, A species of 
mental aberration, on a particular subject, in- 
/olved his mind in a strange and sad delusion. 
The Sun of Righteousness, therefore, failed 
in his last moments to impart its refreshing 
light and comfort, because the cloud of de- 
spair intervened, and obscured the setting 
beams of grace and glory. 

Who can contemplate so mysterious a 
process of the mind, without exclaiming — 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
How passing wonder He, who made him such ! 
vVh-o centred in our make such strange extremes ! 

It is impossible to dwell on the manner of 
Cowper's death, and not to be reminded of 
the wish cherished by himself on this subject, 
and recorded so impressively in the following 



So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, 
More golden than that age of fabled gold 
Renown'd in ancient song; notvex : d with care, 
Or stain'd with guilt, beneficient. approved 
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. 
So glide m; life away and so. at Zo-si, 



My share of duties decently fulfill' 'd, 
May some disease, not tardy to perform 
Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, 
Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, 
Beneath the turf that I have often trod.* 

God mercifully granted the best portion 
of his prayer, but saw fit to deny the rest. 
No conscious guilt or open transgress'on 
stained his life ; his heart was the seat "of 
every beneficent and kind affection. As an 
author, he was blessed with an honorable 
career of usefulness ; the public voice con- 
ferred upon him the title to immortality, and 
succeeding times have ratified the claim. But 
if perception be necessary to enjoyment, he 
was not " peaceful in his end ;" for he died 
without this conviction. He did not, like 
Elijah, ascend in a chariot of fire ; it was his 
lot rather to realize the quaint remark of 
some of the old divines, " God sometimes 
puts his children to bed in the dark," that 
they may have nothing whereof to boast ; 
that their salvation may appear to be more 
fully the result of his own free and unmerited 
mercy, and that in this, as in all things, he 
may be known to act as a sovereign, who 
"giveth no account of his matters."-}- 

But the severest exercises of faith are al- 
ways mingled with some gracious purpose ; 
and God may perhaps see fit to appoint these 
dark dispensations, that the transition into 
eternity may be more glorious ; and that the 
emancipated spirit, bursting the shackles of 
death and sin, and delivered from the bond- 
age of its fears, may rise with a nobler tri- 
umph from the depths of humiliation into the 
very presence-chamber of its God. 

l^hese remarks are so closely connected 
with the subject of Cowper's afflicting mal- 
ady, that the time is now arrived when it is 
necessary to enter into a more detailed view 
of its nature and character; to trace' its 
origin and progress, and to disengage this 
complicated question from that prejudice and 
misrepresentation which have so inveterately 
attached to it. At the same time, it is with 
profound reluctance that the Editor enters 
upon this painful theme, from a deep con- 
viction that it does not form a proper subject 
for discussion, and that the veil of secrecy is 
never more suitably employed, than when it 
is thrown over infirmities which are too sa- 
cred to meet the gaze of public observation. 
This inquiry is now, however, no longer op- 
tional. Cowper himself has, unfortunately, 
suffered in the public estimation by the man- 
ner in which his earliest biographer, Hayley 
has presented him before the public. Bv 
suppressing some very important letters, 
which tended to elucidate his real character, 
an air of mystery has been imparted which 
deeply affects its consistency : while, by atui 
buting what he could not sufficiently concea 
* The Task, book vi. t Job xxxiii. 13. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



461 



of the malady of the poet to the operation of 
religious causes, truth has been violated, and 
an unmerited wound inflicted upon religion 
itself. Thus Hayley, from motives of deli- 
cacy most probably, or from misapprehension 
of the subject, has committed a double error ; 
while others, misled by his authority, have 
unhappily aided in propagiiting the delusion. 

The Private Correspondence of Cowper, 
which is exclusively incorporated with the 
prosent edition, is of the first importance, as 
it dispels the mystery previously attached to 
his character. All that now remains is, to 
estabhsn by undeniable evidence that, so far 
from religious causes having been instru- 
mental to his malady, the order of events 
and the testimony of positive facts both mili- 
tate again such « conclusion. 

For this purpose, we shall now introduce 
to the notice of tLs \eader, copious extracts 
from the Memoir of Ocwper, written by him- 
self, containing the p.\ticulars of his life, 
from his earliest years .o the period of his 
malady and subsequent ,vcovery. This re- 
in ark able document was in bonded to record 
his sense of the Divine meicy in the preser- 
vation of his life, during a season ot disas- 
trous feeling ; and to perpetuate the remem- 
brance' of that grace which overruled this 
event, in so remarkable a manner, to his best 
and eternal interests. He designed this 
document principally for the perusal of Mrs. 
Unwin, to whose hands it was most confiden- 
tially entrusted. A copy was also presented 
to Mr. Newton, and ultimately to Dr. John- 
Bon ; but the parties were strictly enjoined 



never to allow another copy to be taken 
By some means the Memoir at length found 
its way before the public. On this ground 
the editor feels less difficulty in communicat- 
ing its purport; as the seal of secrecy has 
been already broken, though in the estima- 
tion of Dr. Johnson and his friends, in so 
unauthorized a manner. Its publication, how- 
ever has been unquestionably attended by 
one beneficial result, in having established, 
beyond the possibility of contradiction, that 
so far from Cowper's religious views having 
been the source of his malady, they were the 
first occasion and instrument of its cure.* 

The Memoir is interesting in another re- 
spect. It elucidates the early events of Cow- 
per's history. One important subject is how- 
ever omitted, his attachment to Miss Theo- 
dora Cowper, the failure of which formed no 
small ingredient in the disappointments of his 
early life. This omission we shall be enabled 
to supply. 

With these preliminary remarks we shall 
now introduce this curious and remarkable 
document, simply suppressing those portions 
which violate the feelings, without being es- 
sential to the substance of the narrative. 

* The following is the result of the information obtained 
by the Editor on this subject, after the minutest inquiry. 
A lady who was on a visit at Mr. Newton's, in London, 
saw, it is said, this Memoir of Cowper lying, among other 
papers, on the table. She was led to peruse it, and felt 
a deeper interest in the contents, from having herself 
been recently recovered from a state of derangement. She 
privately copied the manuscript, and communicated it to 
some friend. It was finally published by a pious char 
acter, who considered that in so doing he exonerated the 
religious views of Cowper from the charge of having 
been instrumental to his malady. 



MEMOIR OF THE EARLY LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER, Esq, 



WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 



I cannot recollect, that, till the month of 
December, in the thirty-second year of my 
life, I had ever any serious impressions of the 
religious kind, or at all bethought myself of 
the things of my salvation, except in two or 
three instances. The first was of so transi- 
tory a nature, and passed when I was so 
very young, that, did I not intend what fol- 
lows for a history of my heart, so far as re- 
ligion has been its object, I should hardly 
mention it. 

At six years old, I was taken from the 
nursery, and from the immediate care of a 
most indulgen* mother, smd sent to a consid- 



erable school in Bedfordshire.* Here I had 
hardships of different kinds to conflict with 
which I felt more sensibly in proportion to the 
tenderness with which I had been treated at 
home. But my chief affliction consisted in 
my being singled out from all the other boys 
by a lad about fifteen years of age, as a prop- 
er object upon whom he might let loose the 
cruelty of his temper. 1 choose to forbear a 
particular recital of the many acts of barbar- 



* Market Street. Hayley places this village in Hert- 
fordshire, and Cowper in Bedfordshire. Both are right, 
for the public road or street forms a boundary between 
the two counties. 



t 68 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



fty with which he made it his business con- 
tinually to persecute me : it will be suffi- 
cient to say, that he had, by his savage treat- 
ment of me, impressed such a dread of his 
figure upon my mind, that I well remember 
being afraid to lift up my eyes upon him, 
higher than his knees; and that I knew him 
by his shoe-buckles better than any other part 
of his dress. May the Lord pardon him, and 
may we meet in glory ! 

One day, as I was sitting alone on a bench 
in the school, melancholy, and almost ready 
to weep at the recollection of what I had al- 
ready suffered, and expecting at the same time 
my tormentor every moment, these words of 
the Psalmist came into my mind, " I will not 
be afraid of what man can do unto me." I ap- 
plied this to my own case, with a degree of 
trust and confidence in God that would have 
been no disgrace to a much more experienced 
Christian. Instantly I perceived in myself a 
briskness of spirits, and a cheerfulness, which 
I had never before experienced, — and took 
several paces up and down the room with 
joyful alacrity — his gift in whom I trusted. 
Happy had it been for me, if this early effort 
towards a dependence on the blessed God had 
been frequently repeated by me. But, alas ! 
it was the first and last instance of the kind 
between infancy and manhood. The cruelty 
of this boy, which he had long practised in so 
secret a manner that no creature suspected it, 
was at length discovered. He was expelled 
from the school, and I was taken from it. 

From hence, at eight years old, I was sent 
to Mr. D., an eminent surgeon and oculist, 
having very weak eyes, and being in danger 
of losing one of them. I continued a year 
in this family, where religion was neither 
known nor practised; and from thence was 
despatched to Westminster. Whatever seeds 
of religion I might carry thither, before my 
seven years' apprenticeship to the classics was 
expired, they were all murred and corrupted ; 
the duty of the school-boy swallowed up 
every other ; and I acquired Latin and Greek 
at the expense of a knowledge much more 
important.* 

Here occurred the second instance of se- 
rious consideration. As I was crossing St. 

* We deeply lament that boys frequently leave public 
ichools most discreditably deficient even in the common 
principles of the Christian faith. My late lamented friend, 
the Rev. Legh Richmond, used to observe that Christ 
was crucified between classics and mathematics. A great 
Improvement might be effected in the system of modern 
education, if a brief but compendious summary of divine 
truth, or analysis of the Bible, were drawn up, divided 
into parts, suited to the different gradations of age and 
knowledge, and introduced into our public schools under 
the sanction of the Episcopal Bench. Care should also 
be taken, in the selection of under-masters, to appoint 
men of acknowledged religious as well as classical attain- 
ments, who might specially superintend the religious im- 
Brovement of the boys. Such are to be found in our 
Universities, men not less eminent for divine than pro- 
fane knowledge. A visible reformation would thus be 
effected, powerfully operating on the moral and spiritual 
tharacter of the rising generation. 



Margaret's churchyard, late one evening, I saw 
a glimmering light in the midst of it, which 
excited my curiosity. Just as I arrived at the 
spot, a grave-digger, who was at work by the 
light of his lanthorn, threw 7 up a skull which 
struck me upon the leg. This little accident 
[ was an alarm to my conscience ; for that event 
! may be numbered among the best religious 
i documents which I received at Westminster. 
I The impression, however, presently went off, 
j and I became so forgetful of mortality, that, 
i strange as it may seem, surveying my activity 
and strength, and observing the evenness of 
: my pulse, 1 began to entertain, with no small 
S complacency, a notion that perhaps I might 
I never die ! This notion was, however, very 
| short-lived ; for I was soon after struck with a 
I lowness of spirits, uncommon at my age, and 
j frequently had intimations of a consumptive 
\ habit. I had skill enough to understand their 
j meaning, but could never prevail on myself 
to disclose them to any one ; fbr I thought 
j any bodily infirmity a disgrace, especially a 
consumption. This messenger from the Lord, 
however, did his errand, and perfectly con- 
vinced me that I was mortal. 

That I may do justice to the place of my 
education, I must relate one mark of licligious 
discipline, which, in my time, was observed at 
Westminster; I mean, the pains which Dr. 
Nicholls took to prepare us for confirmation. 
The old man acquitted himself of his duty 
like one who had a deep sense of its impor- 
tance ; and I believe most of us were struck 
by his manner, and affected by his exhortation. 
For my own part, I then, for the first time, 
attempted prayer in secret ; but being little 
accustomed to that exercise of the heart, 
and having very childish notions of religion, I 
found it a difficult and painful task ; and was 
even tken frightened at my own insensibility. 
This difficulty, though it did not subdue my 
good purposes, till the ceremony of confirma- 
tion was past, soon after entirely conquered 
them ; I relapsed into a total forgetfulness of 
God, with the usual disadvantage of being 
more hardened, for having been softened to 
no purpose. | 

At twelve or thirteen I was seized with the 
smdl-pox. I only mention this to show that, 
at that early age, my heart was become proof 
against the ordinary means which a gracious 
God employs for our chastisement. Though 
I was severely handled by the disease, and in 
imminent dunger, yet neither in the course of 
it, nor during my recovery, had I any senti- 
ment of contrition, any thought of God or 
eternity. On the contrary, I was scarcely 
raised from the bed of pain and sickness, be- 
fore the emotions of sin became more violent 
in me than ever ; and Satan seemed rather to 
have gained than lost an advantage ; so readily 
did I admit his suggestions, and so passive was 
I under them. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



46) 



By this time I became such an adept in 
falsehood that I was seldom guilty of a fault 
for which I could not, at a very short notice, 
invent an apology, capable of deceiving the 
wisest. These I know are called school-boys' 
tricks ; but a sad depravity of principle, ;>nd 
the work of the father of lies, are universally 
at the bottom of them. 

At the age of eighteen, being tolerably fur- 
nished with a grammatical knowledge, but as 
ignorant in all points of religion as the satchel 
at my back, I was taken from Westminster; 
and, having spent about nine months at home, 
was sent to acquire the practice of the law 
with an attorney. There I might have lived 
and died wilL:ut hearing or seeing anything 
that might remind me of a single Christian 
duty, had it not been that I was at liberty to 
spend my leisure time (which was well nigh 
ad my time) at my uncle's,* in Southampton 
Row. By this means I had indeed an op- 
portunity of seeing the inside of a church, 
whither I went with the family on Sundays, 
which probably I should otherwise never have 
seen. 

At the expiration of this term, I became, 
in a manner, complete master of myself; 
and took possession of a complete set of 
chambers in the Temple, at the age of 
twenty-one. This being a critical season of 
mv life, and one upon which much depended, 
it pleased my all-merciful Father in Jesus 
Christ to give a check to my rash and ruin- 
ous career of wickedness at the very onset. 
/ was struck, not long after my settlement in 
\he Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, as 
none but they who have felt the same can have 
ihe least conception of Day and night I was 
upon the rack, lying down in horror, and 
rising up in despair.f I presently lost all 
relish for those studies to which I had be- 
fore been closely attached : the classics had 
no longer any charms for me ; I had need 
of something more salutary than amuse- 
ment, but I had no one to direct me where 
to find it. 

At length I met with Herbert's Poems ; 
and gothic and uncouth as they were, I yet 
found in them a strain of piety which I could 
not but admire. This was the only author 
I had any delight in reading. I pored over 
him all day long ; and though I found not 
here, what I might have found, a cure for 
my malady, yet it never seemed so much al- 
leviated as while I was reading him. At 
length I was advised by a very near and 
iear relative, to lay him aside ; for he thought 
nich an author more likely to nourish my 
disorder than to remove it.} 

* Ashley Cowper, Esq. 

\ Here we first observe the ground-work of Cowper's 
malady, originating in constitutional causes, and morbid 
temperament. 

t A relative of Cowper's ought to have been the last to 
orohibit the pe usal of Herbert's Poems, because Dr, John 



In this state of mind I continued near 9 
twelvemonth ; when, having experienced the 
inefficacy of all human means, I at length 
betook myself to God in prayer; such is 
the rank which our Redeemer holds in out 
esteem, never resorted to but in the last in 
stance, when all creatures have failed to sue 
cor us. My hard heart was at length soft- 
ened; and my stubborn knees brought to 
bow. I composed a set of prayers, and 
made frequent use of them. Weak as my 
faith was, the Almighty, who will net break 
the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking 
flax, was graciously pleased to hear me. 

A change of scene was recommended to, 
me ; and I embraced an opportunity of going 
with some friends to Southampton, where I 
spent several months. Soon after our ar- 
rival, we walked to a place called Freeman- 
tie, about a mile from the town : the morn- 
ing was clear and calm ; the sun shone bright 
upon the sea ; and the country on the bor- 
ders of it was the most beautiful I had ever 
seen. We sat down upon an eminence, at 
the end of the arm of the sea, which runs 
between Southampton and the New Forest. 
Here it was, that, on a sudden, as if another 
sun had been kindled that instant in the 
heavens, on purpose to dispel sorrow and 
vexation of spirit, I felt the weight of all my 
misery taken off; my heart became light and 
joyful in a moment ; I could have wept with 
transport had I been alone. I must needs 
believe that nothing less than the Almighty 
fiat could have filled me with such inexpres- 
sible delight ; not by a gradual dawning of 
peace, but as it were with a flash of his life- 
giving countenance. I think I remember 
something like a glow of gratitude to the 
Father of mercies for this unexpected bless- 
ing, and that I ascribed it to his gracious ac- 
ceptance of my prayers. But Satan, and my 
own wicked heart, quickly persuaded me 
that I was indebted for my deliverance to 
nothing but a change of scene and the amus- 
ing varieties of the place. By this means 
he turned the blessing into a poison ; teach- 
ing me to conclude, that nothing but a con- 
tinued circle of diversion, and indulgence of 
appetite, could secure me from a relapse.* 

Donne, the pious and eminent Dean of St. Paul's, one of 
Cowper's ancestors, was the endeared friend of that holj 
man, to whom, not long before his death, he sent a seal* 
representing a Harare of Christ extended upon an anchor, 
the emblem of Hope, to be kept as a memorial. 

Izaak Walton bears the following expressive testimony 
to Herbert's Temple, or Sacred Poems 

" A book, in which by declaring his own spiritual con- 
flicts, he hath comforted and raised many a dejected and 
discomposed soul, and charmed them into sweet and' 
quiet thoughts; a book, by the frequent reading whereof, 
and the assistance of that Spirit that seemed to inspire 
the author, the reader may attain habits of peace and 
piety, and all the gifts of the Holy Ghost and Heaven ; 
and may, by still" reading, still keep those sacred Area 
burning' upon the altar of so pure a heart, as shall free 
it from the anxieties of this world, and keep it fixed upon 
things that are above." See Walton's Lives. 

* W 3 do not know a state of mmd more to be dlpro 



*70 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Upon this false principle, as soon as I re- 
turned to London, I burnt my prayers, and 
away went all thoughts of devotion and de- 
pendence upon God my Saviour. Surely it 
was of his mercy that I was not consumed ; 
glory be to his grace ! Two deliverances 
from danger not making any impression, 
having spent about twelve years in the Tem- 
ple, in an uninterrupted course of sinful in- 
dulgence, and my associates and companions 
being either, like myself, professed Chris- 
tians, or professed infidels, I obtained, at 
length, so complete a victory over my con- 
science, that all remonstrances from that 
quarter were in vain, and in a manner 
silenced ; though sometimes, indeed, a ques- 
tion would arise in my mind, whether it 
were safe to proceed any farther in a course 
so plainly and utterly condemned in the 
word of God. I saw clearly that if the gos- 
pel were true, such a conduct must inevitably 
end in my destruction ; but I saw not by 
what means I could change my Ethiopian 
complexion, or overcome such an inveterate 
habit of rebelling against God. 

The next thing that occurred to me was a 
doubt whether the gospel were true or false. 
To this succeeded many an anxious wish for 
the decision of this important question; for 
I foolishly thought, that obedience would 
presently follow, were I but convinced that 
it was worth while to attempt it. Having 
no reason to expect a miracle, and not hoping 
to be satisfied with anything less, I acqui- 
esced, at length, in the force of that devilish 
conclusion, that the only course I could take 
to secure my* present peace was to wink 
hard against the prospect of future misery, 
and to resolve to banish all thoughts of a 
subject, upon which I thought to so little 
purpose. Nevertheless, when I was in the 
company of deists, and heard the gospel 
blasphemed, I never failed to assert the truth 
of it with much vehemence of disputation ; 
for which I was the better qualified, having 
been always an industrious and diligent in- 
quirer into the evidences by which it was 
externally supported. I think I once went 
so far into a controversy of this kind, as to 
assert, that I would gladly submit to have 
my right hand cut off, so that I might but 
be enabled to live according to the gospel. 
Thus have I been employed, when half in- 

cated than what is indicated in this passage. It is the 
science of self-tormenting, that withers every joy, and 
blights all our happiness. That Saian tempts is a scrip- 
ural truth ; but the same divine authority also informs 
as, that ' k every man is tempted when he is drawn away 
of hi* own lus*t and enticed," James i. 14: that Cod suf- 
fereth no man to be tempted above what he is able, and 
that if we resist Satan he will flee from us. The mind 
that feels itself harassed by these mental temptations 
must take refuge in the promises of God, such as Isaiah 
xli. 10; xliii. 2; lix. 19; 2 Cor. xii. 9. and plead them in 
prayer. Resistance to temptation will weaken ;t, faith 
will overcome it, and the panoply of Heaven, .i we be 
careful to gird ourselves with it, will secure us against 
all its inroads. ■ 



toxicated, in vindicating the truth of scrip, 
ture, while in the very act of rebellion againsl 
its dictates. Lamentable inconsistency of 
a convinced judgment with an unsanctified 
heart ! An inconsistency, indeed, evident to 
others as well as to myself, inasmuch as a 
deistical friend of mine, with whom I was 
disputing upon the subject, cut short the 
matter, by alleging that, if what I said were 
true, I was certainly lost by my own showing. 

By this time, my patrimony being well 
nigh spent, and there being no appearance 
that I should ever repair the damage by a 
fortune of my own getting, I began to be ^ 
little apprehensive of approaching want. It 
was, I imagine, under some apprehensions 
of this kind, that I one day said to a friend 
of mine, if the clerk to the journals of the 
House of Lords should die, I had some 
hopes that my kinsman, who had the place 
in his disposal, would appoint me to succeed 
him. We both agreed that the business of 
that place, being transacted in private, would 
exactly suit me. Thus did I covet what God 
had commanded me not to covet. It pleased 
the Lord to give me my heart's desire, and 
with it an immediate punishment for my 
crime. The man died, and, by his death, not 
only the clerkship of the journals became 
vacant, but it became necessary to appoint 
officers to two other places, jointly, as depu- 
ties to Mr. De Grey,* who at this time re- 
signed. These were the office of reading 
clerk, and the clerkship of the committees, 
of much greater value than that of the jour- 
nals. The patentee of these appointments 
(whom I pray to God to bless for his benev- 
olent intention to serve me) called on me at 
my chambers, and, having invited me to 
take a turn with him in the garden, there 
made me an offer of the two most profitable 
places; intending the other for his friend 
Mr. A. Dazzled by so splendid a proposal, 
and not immediately reflecting upon my in- 
capacity to execute a business of so public a 
nature, I at once accepted it ; but at the 
same time (such was the will of Him whoso 
hand was in the whole matter) seemed to 
receive a dagger in my heart. The wound 
was given, and every moment added to the 
smart of it. All the considerations, by which 
I endeavored to compose my mind to its for- 
mer tranquillity, did but torment me the 
more ; proving miserable comforters and 
counsellors of no value. I returned to my 
chambers thoughtful and unhappy ; my coun- 
tenance fell ; and my friend was astonished, 
instead of that additional cheerfulness he 
might so reasonably expect, to find an air of 
deep melancholy in all I said or did. 

Having been harassed in this manner by day 
and night, for the space of a week, perplexed 

* Afterwards Lord Chief Justice of the Court of Co» 
mon Pleas, and created Lord Walsingham. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



47 i 



oetween the apparent folly of casting away 
the only visible chance I had of being w.ell 
provided for and the impossibility of retain- 
ing it, I determined at length to write a let- 
ter to my friend, though he lodged in a 
manner at the next door, and we generally 
spent the day together. I did so, and therein 
begged him to accept my resignation, and to 
appoint Mr. A. to the places he had given 
me ; and permit me to succeed Mr. A. I 
was well aware of the disproportion between 
the value of his appointment and mine ; but 
my peace was gone ; pecuniary advantages 
were not equivalent to what I had lost; and 

flattered myself, that the clerkship of the 
ournals would fall fairly and easily within 
the scope of my abilities. Like a man i . a 
fever, I thought a change of posture would 
relieve my pain ; and, as the event will show T , 
was equally disappointed. At length I car- 
ried my point; my friend, in this instance, 
preferring the gratification of my desires to 
his own interest ; for nothing could be so 
likely to bring a suspicion of bargain and 
sale upon his nomination, which the Lords 
would not have endured, as his appointment 
of so near a relative to the least profitable 
office, while the most valuable was allotted 
to a stranger. 

The matter being thus settled, something 
like a calm took place in my mind. I was, 
indeed, not a little concerned about my char- 
acter ; being aware, that it must needs suffer 
by the strange appearance of my proceeding. 
This, however, being but a small part of the 
anxiety I had labored under, was hardly felt, 
when the rest was taken off. I thought my 
path to an easy maintenance was now plain 
and open, and for a day or two was toler- 
ably cheerful. But, behold, the storm was 
giithering all the while ; and the fury of it 
was not the less violent for this gleam of 
sunshine. 

In the beginning, a strong opposition to 
my friend's right of nomination began to 
show itself. A powerful party was formed 
among the lords to thwart it, in favor of an 
old enemy of the family, though one much 
indebted to its bounty; and it appeared plain 
that, if we succeeded at last, it would only be 
by fighting our ground by inches. Every 
advantage, I was told, woul 1 be sought for, 
and eagerly seized, to disconcert us. I was 
bid to expect an examination at the bar of 
the house, touching my sufficiency for the 
post I had taken. Being necessarily igno- 
rant of the nature of that business, it became 
expedient that I should visit the office daily, 
in order to qualify myself for the strictest 
scrutiny. All the horror of my fears and 
perplexities now returned. A thunderbolt 
would have been as welcome to me as this 
fitelligence. I knew, to demonstration, that 
fipon these terms the clerkship of the jour- 



nals was no place for me. To require my 
attendance at the bar of the house, that I 
might there publicly entitle myself to the 
office, was, in effect, to exclude me .from it. 
In the meantime, the interest of my friend, 
the honor of his choice, my own reputation 
and circumstances, all urged me forward; all 
pressed me to undertake that which I saw 
to be impracticable. They whose spirits are 
formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition 
of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal poisoi^ 
may have some idea of the horrors of my sit- 
uation; others can have none. 

My continual misery at length brought on 
a nervous fever : quiet forsook me by day, 
and peace by night; a finger raised against 
me was more than I could stand against. In 
this posture of mind, I attended regularly at 
the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the 
rack, the most active spirits were essentially 
necessary for my purpose. I expected no 
assistance from anybody there, all the infe- 
rior clerks being under the influence of my 
opponent; and accordingly I received none. 
The journal books were indeed thrown open 
to me, a thing which could not be refused; 
and from which, perhaps, a man in health, 
and with a head turned to business, might 
have gained all the information he wanted; 
but it was not so with me. I read without 
perception, and was so distressed, that had 
every clerk in the office been my friend, it 
could have availed me little ; for I was not in 
a condition to receive instruction, much less 
to elicit it out of manuscripts, without direc- 
tion. Many months went over me thus em 
ployed; constant in the use of means, df» 
spairing as to the issue. 

The feelings of a man when he arrives at 
the place of execution, are probably much 
like mine every time I set my foot in the 
office, which was every day for more than 
half a year together. 

At length, the vacation being pretty far 
advanced, I made a shift to get into the coun- 
try, and repaired to Margate. There, by the 
help of cheerful company, a new scene, and 
the intermission of my painful employment, 
I presently began to recover my spirits; 
though even here, for some time after my ar- 
rival (notwithstanding, perhaps, that the pre- 
ceding day. had been spent agreeably, and 
without any disturbing recollection of my 
circumstances), my first reflections, when I 
awoke in the morning, were horrible and full 
of wretchedness. I looked forward to the 
approaching winter, and regretted the flight 
of every moment which brought it nearer; 
like a man borne away by a rapid torrent into 
a stormy sea, whence he sees no possibility 
of returning, and where he knows he cannot 
subsist. At length, indeed, I acquired such 
a facility of turning away my thoughts from 
the ensuing crisis, that for weeks together, 1 



472 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



hardly adverted to it at all; but the stress of 
the tempest was yet to come, and was not to 
be avoided by any resolution of mine to look 
another way. 

" How wonderful are the works of the 
Lord, and his ways past finding out!" Thus 
was he preparing me for an event which I 
least of all expected, even the reception of 
his blessed gospel, working by means which, 
in all human contemplation, must needs seem 
directly opposite to that purpose, but which, 
in his wise and gracious disposal, have, I trust, 
effectually accomplished it. 

About the beginning of October, 1763, I 
was again required to attend the office and 
prepare for the push. ' This no sooner took 
place, than all my misery returned ; again I 
visited the scene of ineffectual labors ; again 
I felt myself pressed by necessity on either 
side, with nothing but despair in prospect. 
To this dilemma was I reduced, either to 
keep possession of the office to the last ex- 
tremity, and by so doing expose myself to a 
public rejection for insufficiency (for the little 
knowledge I had acquired would have quite 
forsaken me at the bar of the house) ; or else 
to fling it up at once, and by this means run 
the hazard of ruining my benefactor's right 
of appointment, by bringing his discretion 
into question. In this situation, such a tit of 
passion has sometimes seized me, when alone 
in my chambers, that I have cried out aloud, 
and cursed the hour of my birth; lifting up 
my eyes to heaven, at the same time, not as 
a supplicant, but in the spirit of reproach 
against my Maker. A thought would some- 
times come across my mind, that my sins had 
perhaps brought this distress upon me, that 
the hand of divine vengeance was in it; but 
in the pride of my heart, I presently acquit- 
ted myself, and thereby implicitly charged 
God with injustice, saying, " What sins have 
I committed to deserve this V 

I saw plainly that God alone could deliver 
me ; but was firmly persuaded that he would 
not, and therefore omitted to ask it. Indeed, 
athis hands, I would not; but as Saul sought 
to the witch, so did I to the physician, Dr. 
Heberden; and was as diligent in the use 
of drugs, as if they would have healed my 
wounded spirit, or have made the rough places 
plain before me. I made, indeed, one effort 
of a devotional kind; for, having found a 
prayer or two, I said them a few nights, but 
with so little expectation of prevailing that 
way, that I soon laid aside the book, and 
with it all thoughts of God and hopes of a 
remedy. 

I no; v began to look upon madness as the 
only chance remaining. I had a strong kind 
of fcreboding that so it would one day fare 
with me; and 1 wished for it earnestly, and 
kooked forward to it with impatient expecta- 
"u'on My chief fear >^as, that my senses 



would not fail me time enough to excuse ml 
appearance at the bar of the House of Lords, 
which was the only purpose I wanted it to 
answer. Accordingly, the day of decision 
drew near, and I was still in my senses ' 
though in my heart I had formed many wish- 
es, and by word of mouth expressed many 
expectations to the contrary. 

Now came the grand temptation; the point 
to which Satan had all the while been driving 
me. I grew more sullen and reserved, fled 
from society, even from my most intimate 
friends, and shut myself up in my chambers. 
The ruin of my fortune, the contempt of my 
relations and acquaintance, the prejudice I 
should do to my patron, were all urged on 
me with irresistible energy. Being recon- 
ciled to the apprehension of madness, I be- 
gan to be reconciled to the apprehension of 
death. Though formerly, in my happiest 
hours, I had never been able to glance a 
single thought that w T ay, without shuddering 
at the idea of dissolution, I now wished for 
it, and found myself but little shocked at the 
idea of procuring it myself. I considered life 
as my property, and therefore at my own dis- 
posal. Men of great name, I observed, had 
destroyed themselves; and the world still 
retained the profoundest respect for their 
memories. 

[An imperative sense of duty compels me 
to throw a veil over the afflicting details which' 
follow. Respect for the known wishes of 
my departed brother-in-law, a desire not to 
wound the feelings of living characters, and 
a consciousness that such disclosures are not 
suited to meet the public eye, confirm me in 
this resolution. It maybe said, that the facts 
are accessible, and may be known; why make 
a mystery of communicating them ? My an- 
swer is, I am a lather; I will not inflict a 
shock on the youthful minds of my own 
children, neither, will I be instrumental in 
conveying it to those of others. I will make 
such use of the Memoir as may answer the 
purpose I have in view, buf I will not be the 
medium of revealing the secrets of the pris- 
on-house. It is sufficient to state that Cow- 
per meditated the crime of self-destruction, 
and that he was arrested in his purpose by 
an Almighty arm. To quote his own em- 
phatic words, "Unless my Eternal Father in 
Christ Jesus had interposed to disannul my 
covenant with death, and my agreement with 
hell, that I might hereafter be admitted into 
the covenant of mercy, I had by this time 
been the just object of his boundless ven- 
geance." 

All expectations of being able to hold the 
office in parliament being now at an end, h». 
despatched a friend to his relative at the 
coffee-house.] 

As soon, he observes, as the .atter arrived 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



473 



t apprised him of the attempt I had been 
making. His words were, "My dear Mr. 
Cowper, you terrify me ; to be sure you can- 
not hold the office at this rate. Where is 
the deputation ?" I gave him the key of the 
drawers where it was deposited; and, his 
business requiring his immediate attendance, 
he took it away with him ; and thus ended 
all my connexion with the parliament house. 

To this moment I had felt no concern of a 
spiritual kind. Ignorant of original sin, in- 
sensible of the guilt of actual transgression, 
I understood neither the law nor the Gospel; 
the condemning nature of the one, nor the 
restoring mercies of the other. I was as 
much unacquainted with Christ, in all his 
saving offices, as if his blessed name had 
never reached me. Now, therefore, a new 
scene opened upon me. Conviction of sin 
took place, especially of that just committed; 
the meanness of it, as well as its atrocity, 
were exhibited to me in colors so inconceiv- 
ably strong, that I despised myself, with a 
contempt not to be imagined or expressed, 
for having attempted it. This sense of it 
secured me from the repetition of a crime, 
which I could not now reflect on without ab- 
horrence. 

A sense of God's wrath, and a deep despair 
of escaping it, instantly succeeded. The fear 
of death became much more prevalent in me 
than ever the desire of it had been. 

A frequent flashing, like that of fire, before 
my eyes, and an excessive pressure upon the 
brain, made me apprehensive of an apoplexy. 

By the advice of my dear friend and bene- 
factor,, who called upon me again at noon, I 
sent for a physician, and told him the fact, 
and the stroke I apprehended. He assured 
me there was no danger of it, and advised 
me by all means to retire into the country. 
Being made easy in that particular, and not 
knowing where to better myself, I continued 
in my chambers, where the solitude of my 
situation left me at full liberty to attend to 
my spiritual state ; a matter I had till this 
day never sufficiently thought of. 

At this time I wrote to my brother, at 
Cambridge, to inform him of the distress I 
had been in, and the dreadful method I had 
taken to deliver myself from it; assuring 
him, as I faithfully might, that I had laid 
aside all such horrid intentions, and was de- 
sirous to live as long as it would please the 
Almighty to permit me. 

My sins were now set in array against me, 
and I began to see and feel that I had lived 
without God in the world. As I walked to 
and fro in my chamber, I said within myself, 
u There never was so abandoned a wretch, so 
great a sinner." All my worldly sorrows 
seemed as though they had never been ; thp 
terrors which succeeded them seemed so 
^preat and so much more afflicting. One 



moment I thought myself shut out from 
mercy by one chapter ; the next by another. 
The sword of the Spirit seemed to guard the 
tree of life from my touch, and to flame 
against me in every avenue by which I at- 
tempted to approach it. I particularly re- 
member, that the parable of the barren fig 
tree was to, me an inconceivable source of 
anguish ; and I applied it to myself with a 
strong persuasion in my mind that, when the 
Saviour pronounced a curse upon it, he had 
me in his eye, and pointed that curse directly 
at me. 

I turned over all Archbishop Tillotson's 
sermons, in hopes of finding one upon the 
subject, and consulted my brother upon the 
true meaning of it ; desirous, if possible, to 
obtain a different interpretation of the mattei 
than my evil conscience would suffer me to 
fasten on it. " O Lord, thou didst vex me 
with all thy storms, all thy billows went over 
me; thou didst run upon me like a giant in 
the night season, thou didst scare me with 
visions in the night season." 

In every book I opened, I found something 
that struck me to the heart. I remember tak- 
ing up a volume of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
which lay upon the table in my kinsman's 
lodgings, and the first sentence which I saw 
was this : " The justice of the gods is in it." 
My heart instantly replied, "It is a truth;" 
an i I cannot but observe, that as I found 
something in every author to condemn me, 
so it was the first sentence, in general, I 
pitched upon. Everything preached to me, 
and everything preached the curse of the law. 

I was now strongly tempted to use lauda- 
num, not as a poison, but as an opiate, to 
compose my spirits ; to stupefy my awakened 
and feeling mind, harassed with sleepless 
nights and days of uninterrupted misery. 
But God forbad it, who would have nothing 
to interfere with the quickening work he had 
begun in me ; and neither the want of rest, 
nor continued agony of mind, could bring 
me to the use of it : I hated and abhorred 
the very smell of it. 

Having an obscure notion about the effi- 
cacy of faith, I resolved upon an experiment 
to prove whether I had faith or not. For 
this purpose, I resolved to repeat the Creed : 
when I came to the second period of it, all 
traces of the former were struck out of my 
memory, nor conld I recollect one syllable of 
the matter. While I endeavored to recover 
it, and when just upon the point, I perceived 
a sensation in my brain, like a tremulous vi- 
bration in all the fibres of it. By this means 
I lost the words in the very instant when I 
thought to have laid hold of them. This 
threw me into an agony ; but growing a little 
calmer, I made an attempt for the third time 
here again I failed in the same m inner as 
before. 



474 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



In this condition my brother found me, and 
the first words I spoke to him were, " Oh ! 
brother, I am lost! think of eternity, and 
then think what it is to be lost !" I had, in- 
deed, a sense of eternity impressed upon my 
mind, which seemed almost to amount to a 
full comprehension of it. 

My brother, pierced to the heart with the 
sight of my misery, tried to comfort me, but 
all to no purpose. T refused comfort, and 
my mind appeared to me in such colors, that 
to administer it to me was only to exasperate 
me, and to mock my fears. 

At length, I remembered my friend Martin 
Madan, and sent for him. I used to think 
him an enthusiast, but now seemed convinced 
that, if there was any balm in Gilead, he 
must administer it to me. On former occa- 
sions, when my spiritual concerns had at any 
time occurred to me, I thought likewise on 
the necessity of repentance. I knew that 
many persons had spoken of shedding tears 
for sin ; but when I asked myself, whether 
the time would ever come when I should 
weep for mine, it seemed to me that a stone 
might sooner do it. 

Not knowing that Christ was exalted to 
give repentance, I despaired of ever attaining 
to it. My friend came to me ; we sat on the 
bed-side together, and he began to declare to 
me the gospel. He spoke of original sin, 
and the corruption of every man born into 
the world, whereby every one is a child of 
wrath. I perceived something like hope 
dawning in my heart. This doctrine set me 
more on a level with the rest of mankind, 
and made my condition appear less desperate. 

Next he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy 
of the blood of Jesus, and his righteousness, 
for our justification. While I heard this part 
of his discourse, and the scriptures on which 
he founded it, my heart began to burn within 
me, my soul was pierced with a sense of my 
bitter ingratitude to so merciful a Saviour; 
and those tears, which I thought impossible, 
burst forth freely. I saw clearly that my 
case required such a remedy, and had not the 
least doubt within me but that this was the 
gospel of salvation. 

Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively 
faith in Jesus Christ ; not an assent only of 
the understanding, but a faith of application, 
an actual laying hold of it, and embracing it 
as a salvation wrought out for ne personally. 
Here I failed, and deplored my want of such 
a faith. He told me it was the gift of God, 
Vhich he trusted he would bestow upon me. 
I could only reply, " I wish he would :" a very 
irreverent petition ;* but a very sincere one, 
and such as the blessed God, in his due time, 
was pleased to answer. 

My brother, finding that I had received 

* It could hardly be called irreverent, unless the man- 
ner in which it was uttered rendered it such. 



consolation from Mr. Madan, was very anx- 
ious that I should take the earliest opportu- 
nity of conversing with him again ; and, foi 
this purpose, pressed me to go to him imme- 
diately. I was for putting it off, but my 
brother seemed impatient of delay; and, at 
length, prevailed on me to set out. I men- 
tion this, to the honor of his candor and hu- 
manity ; which would suffer no difference o, 
sentiments to interfere with them. My wel- 
fare was his only object, and all prejudices 
fled before his zeal -to procure it. May he 
receive, for his recompense, all that happiness 
the gospel, which I then first became ac- 
quainted with, is alone able to impart ! 

Easier, indeed, I was, but far from easy. 
The wounded spirit within me was les« in 
pain, but by no means healed. What I nad 
experienced was but the beginning of sor- 
rows, and a long train of still greater terrors 
was at hand. I slept my three hours well, 
and then awoke with ten times a stronger 
alienation from God than ever. 
f At eleven o'clock my brother called upon 
me, and, in about an hour after his arrival, 
that distemper of mind, which I had so ar- 
dently wished for, actually seized me. 

While I traversed the apartment, expect- 
ing every moment the earth would open her 
mouth and swallow me, my conscience scar- 
ing me, and the city of refuge out of reach 
and out of sight, a strange and horrible dark- 
ness fell upon me. If it were possible that 
a heavy blow could light on the brain, with- 
out touching the skull, such was the sensa- 
tion I felt. I clapped my hand to my fore- 
head, and cried aloud through the pain it gave 
me. At every stroke my thoughts and ex- 
pressions became more wild and incoherent; 
all that remained clear was the sense of sin, 
and the expectation of punishment. These 
kept undisturbed possession all through my 
illness, without interruption or abatement. 

My brother instantly observed the change, 
and consulted with my friends on the best 
mode to dispose of me. It was agreed 
among them, that I should be carried to St. 
Alban's, where Dr. Cotton kept a house for 
the reception of such patients, and with 
whom I was known to have a slight ac- 
quaintance. Not only his skill as a physi- 
cian recommended him to thei choice, but 
his well-known humanity and sweetness of 
temper. It will be proper to draw a vei. 
over the secrets of my prison-house : let it 
suffice to say, that the low state of body and 
mind to which I was reduced was perfectly 
well calculated to humble the natural vain- 
glory and pride of my heart. 

These are the efficacious means which In- 
finite Wisdom thought meet to make use of 
for that purpose. A sense of self-loathing 
and abhorrence ran through all my insanity. 
Conviction of sin, and expectation of instant 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



47* 



iudgmenl, never left me, from the 7th of De- 
cember 1763, until the middle of July fol- 
owing. The accuser of the brethren was 
ever busy with me night and day, bringing 
to myjecollection in dreams the commission 
of long-forgotten sins, and charging upon 
my conscience things of an indifferent nature 
as atrocious crimes. 

All that passed in this long interval of eight 
months may be classed under two heads, con- i 
viction of sin,- and despair of mercy. But 
blessed be the God of my salvation for every 
sigh I drew, for every tear I shed ; since thus 
it pleased him to judge me here, that I might 
not be judged hereafter. 

After five months of continual expectation 
that the divine vengeance would overtake me, 
I became so familiar with despair as to have 
contracted a sort of hardiness and indiffer- 
ence as to the event. I began to persuade 
myself that, while the execution of the sen- 
tence was suspended, it would be for my in- 
terest to indulge a less horrible train of ideas 
than I had been accustomed to muse upon. 
By the means I entered into conversation 
with the doctor, laughed at his stories, and 
told him some of my own to match them ; 
still, however, carrying a sentence of irrevo- 
cable doom in my heart. 

He observed the seeming alteration with 
pleasure. Believing, as well he might, that 
my smiles were sincere, he thought my re- 
covery well-nigh completed ; but they were, 
in reality, like the green surface of a morass, 
pleasant to the eye, but a cover for nothing 
but rottenness and filth. The only thing that 
could promote and effectuate my cure was yet 
wanting ; an experimental knowledge of the 
redemption which is in Christ Jesus. 

In about three months more (July 25, 
1764) my brother came from Cambridge to 
visit me. Dr. C. having told him that he 
thought me greatly amended, he was rather 
disappointed at finding me almost as silent 
and reserved as ever ; for the first sight of 
him struck me with many painful sensations 
both of sorrow for my own remediless con- 
dition and envy of his happiness. 

As soon as we were left alone, he asked 
me how I found myself; I answered, "As 
much better as despair can make me." We 
went together into the garden. Here, on 
expressing a settled assurance of sudden 
judgment, he protested to me that it was all 
a delusion; and protested so strongly, that 
I could not help giving some attention to 
him. I burst into tears, and cried out, " If it 
be a delusion, then am I the happiest of be- 
ings." *Something like a ray of hope was 
shot into my heart ; but still I vas afraid to 
-ndulge it. ■ We dined together, and I spent 
the afternoon in a more cheerful manner. 
Something seemed to whisper to me every 
woment, " Still there is mercy." 



Even after he left me, this change of sen 
timent gathered ground continually; yet my 
mind was in such a fluctuating state, that 1 
can only call it a vague presage of better 
things at hand, without being able to assign 
a reason for it. The servant observed a 
sudden alteration in me for the better ; and 
the man, whom I have ever since retained in 
my service,* expressed great joy on the oc- 
casion. 

I went to bed and slept well. In the 
morning, I dreamed that the sweetest boy I 
ever saw came dancing up to my bedside ; 
he seemed just out of leading-strings, yet I 
took particular notice of the firmness and 
steadiness of his tread. The sight affected 
me with pleasure, and served at least to har- 
monize my spirits ; so that I awoke for the 
first time with a sensation of delight on my 
mind. Still, however, I knew not where to 
look for the establishment of the comfort I 
felt ; my joy was as much a mystery to my- 
self as to those about me. The blessed 
God was preparing for me the clearer light 
of his countenance, by this first dawning of 
that light upon me. 

Within a few days of my first arrival at 
St. Alban's, I had thrown aside the word of 
God, as a book * in which I had no longer 
any interest or portion. The only instance, 
in which I can recollect reading a single 
chapter, was about two months before my 
recovery. Having found a Bible on the 
bench in the garden, I opened upon the 11th 
of St. John, where Lazarus is raised from 
the dead ; and saw so much benevolence, 
mercy, goodness, and sympathy with misei 
able man, in our Saviour's conduct, that I 
almost shed tears even after tb^ relation ; 
little thinking that it was an exact type of 
the mercy which Jesus was on the point of 
extending towards myself. I sighed, and 
said, " Oh, that I had not rejected so good a 
Redeemer, that I had not forfeited all his 
favors!" Thus was my heart softened, 
though not yet enlightened. I closed the 
book, without intending to open it again. 

Having risen with somewhat of a more 
cheerful feeling, I repaired to my room, 
where breakfast waited for me. While I 
sat at table, I found the cloud of horror, 
which had so long hung over me, was every 
moment passing away; and every moment 
came fraught with hope. I was continually 
more and more persuiided that I was not ut- 
terly doomed to destruction. The way of 
salvation was still, however, hid from my 
eyes ; nor did I see it at all clearer than be- 
fore my illness. I only thought that if it 
would please God to spare me, I would lead 
a better life; and that I would yet escape 
hell, if a religious observance of my duty 
would secure me from it. 

* Samuel Roberta. 



476 



COWl^ER'S WORKS, 



Thus may the terror of the Lord make a 
vharisee ; but only the sweet voice of mercy in 
the gospel can make a Christian. 

[We are now arrived at the eventful crisis 
of Cowper's conversion and restoration, which 
is thus recorded in his own words.] 

But the happy period which was to shake 
off my fetters, and afford me a clear opening 
of the free mercy of God in Christ Jesus, 
was now arrived. I flung myself into a chair 
near the window, and, seeing a Bible there, 
ventured once more to apply to it for comfort 
and instruction. The first verse I saw was 
the 25th of the 3rd of Romans; "Whom 
God hath set forth to be a propitiation 
through faith in his blood, to declare his 
righteousness for the remission of sins that 
are past, through the forbearance of God." 

Immediately I received strength to believe 
it, and the full beams of the Sun of Right- 
eousness shone upon me. I saw the suffi- 
ciency of the atonement he had made, my 
pardon sealed in his blood, and all the fulness 
and completeness of his justification. In a 
moment I believed, and received the gospel. 
Whatever my friend Madan had said to me, 
long before, revived in all its clearness, with 
demonstration of the Spirit and with power. 
Unless the Almighty arm had been under me, 
I think I should have died with gratitude and 
joy. My eyes fiMed with tears, and my voice 
choked with transport, I could only look up 
to heaven in silent fear, overwhelmed with 
love and wonder. But the work of the Holy 
Ghost is best described in his own words, it 
is "joy unspeakable, and full of glory." 
Thus was my heavenly Father in Christ 
Jesus pleased to give me the full assurance 
of faith, and out of a strong, stony, unbe- 
lieving heart to raise up a child unto Abra- 
ham. How glad should I now have been 
to have spent every moment • in prayer and 
thanksgiving ! 

I lost no opportunity of repairing to a 
throne of grace * but flew to it wifrh an ear- 
nestness irresistible, and never to be satis- 
fied. Could I help it? Could I do other- 
wise than love and rejoice in my reconciled 
Father in Christ Jesus ? The Lord had en- 
larged my heart, and I ran in the way of his 
commandments. For many succeeding weeks 
tears were ready to flow, if I did but speak 
of the gospel, or mention the name of Jesus. 
To rejoice day and night was all my employ- 
ment. Too happy to sleep much, I thought 
it was but lost time that was spent in slum- 
ber. O that the ardor of wy first love had 
continued! B»it I have knr wn many a life- 
less and unhallowed hour since ; long inter- 
vals of darkness, interrupted by short returns 
of peace and joy in believing. 

My physician, ever watchful and apprehen- 
Bive for my welfare, was now alarmed lest 



the sudden transition from despair to jo} 
should terminate in a fatal frenzy. But " the 
Lord was my strength and my song, and was 
become m) salvation." I said, " I shall not 
die, but live, and declare the works of the 
Lord ; he has cha&tened me sore, but not 
given me over unto death. O give thanks un- 
to the Lord, for his mercy endureth forever." 

In a short time, Dr. C. became satisfied, 
and acquiesced in the soundness of my cure : 
and much sweet communion I had with him. 
concerning the things of our salvation. He 
visited me every morning while I stayed with 
him, which was near twelve months after my 
recovery, and the gospel was the delightftf 
theme of our conversation. 

No trial has befallen me since, but what 
might be expected in a state of warfare. 
Satan, indeed, has changed his battery. Be- 
fore my conversion, sensual gratification was 
the weapon with which he sought to destroy 
me. Being naturally of an easy, quiet dis- 
position, I was seldom tempted to anger ; yet 
that passion it is which now gives me the 
most disturbance, and occasions the sharpest 
conflicts. But Jesus being my strength, I 
fight against it; and if I am not conqueror 
yet I am ,not overcome. 

I now employed my brother to seek out 
an abode for. me in the neighborhood of 
Cambridge, being determined by the Lord's 
leave, to see London, the scene of my former 
abominations, no more. I had still one place 
of preferment left, which seemed to bind 
me under the necessity of returning thither 
again.. But I resolved to break the bond, 
chiefly because my peace of conscience was 
in question. I held, for some years, the 
office of commissioner of bankrupts with 
about 60/. per annum. Conscious of my 
ignorance of the law, I could not take the 
accustomed oath, and resigned it ; thereby 
releasing myself from an occasion of great 
sin, and every obligation to return to Lon- 
don. By this means, I reduced myself to 
an income scarcely sufficient for my mainten- 
ance ; but I would rather have starved in 
reality than deliberately offend against my 
Saviour; and his great mercy has since raised 
me up such friends, as have enabled me to 
enjoy all the comforts and conveniences of 
life. I am well assured that, while I live, 
" bread shall be given me, and water shall be 
sure," according "to his gracious promise. 

After my brother had made many unsuc- 
cessful attempts to procure me a dwelling 
near him, I one day poured out my soul in 
prayer to God, beseeching him that, wherever 
he should be pleased, in his fatherly mercy 
to lead me, it might be in the society of those, 
who feared his name, and loved the Lord 
Jesus Christ in sincerity ; a prayer of which 
I have good reason to scknowledge h s gra- 
cious acceptance. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



«: 



In the beginning of June, 1765, 1 received 
a letter from my brother, to say he had taken 
lodgings for me at Huntingdon, which he 
believed would suit me. Though it was six- 
teen miles from Cambridge, I was resolved 
to take them ; for I had been two months in 
perfect health, and my circumstances required 
a less expensive way of life. It was with 
great reluctance, however, that I thought of 
leaving the place of my second nativity ; I 
had so much leisure there to study the bless- 
ed word of God, and had enjoyed so much 
happiness ; but God ordered everything for 
me like an indulgent Father, and had pre- 
pared a more comfortable place of residence 
than I could have chosen for myself. 

On the 7th of June, 1765, "having spent 
more than eighteen months at St. Alban's, 
partly in bondage, and partly in the liberty 
wherewith Christ had made me free, I took 
my leave of the place at four in the morning, 
and set out "for Cambridge. 

The servant, whom I lately mentioned as 
rejoicing in my recovery, attended me. He 
had maintained such an affectionate watch- 
fulness over me durir r my whole illness, and 
waited on me with so much patience and 
gentleness, that I could not bear to leave him 
behind, though it was with some difficulty 
the Doctor was prevailed on to part with 
him. The strongest argument of all was 
the earnest desire he expressed to follow 
me. He seemed to have been providentially 
thrown in my way, having entered Dr. C.'s 
service just time enough to attend me; and 
I have strong ground to hope, that God will 
use me as an instrument to bring him to a 
knowledge of Jesus. It is impossible to say 
with how delightful a sense of his protection 
and fatherly care of me, it has pleased the 
Almighty to favor me, during the whole 
journey. 

I remembered the pollution which is in the 
world, and the sad share I had in it myself; 
and my heart ached at the thought of enter- 
ing it again. The blessed God had endued 
me with some concern for his glory, and I 
was fearful of hearing it traduced by oaths 
and blasphemies, the common language of 
this highly favored, but ungrateful country.* 
But " fear not, I am with thee,'Mvas my com- 
fort, I passed the whole journey in silent 
2ommunion with God ; and those hours are 
unongst the happiest I have known. 

I repaired to Huntingdon the Saturday 
after my arrival at Cambridge. My brother, 
who had attended me thither, had no sooner 
left me than, finding myself surrounded by 
strangers and in a strange place, my spirits 
began to sink, and I felt (such were the back- 

* There is considerable improvement in public man- 
ners since this period, and oaths and blasphemies would 
not be tolerated in well-bred society. May the hallowed 
nfluence of the Gospel be instrumental in producing a 
still happier change 1 



slidings of my heart) like a traveller in the 
midst of an inhospitable desert, without a 
friend to comfort or a guide to direct me. I 
walked forth, towards the close of the day 
in this melancholy frame of mind, and, hav- 
ing wandered about a mile from the town, 
I found my heart, at length, so powerfully 
drawn towards the Lord, that, having gained 
a retired and secret nook in the corner ot 
a field, I kneeled down under a bank, and 
poured forth my complaints before him. It 
pleased my Saviour to hear me, in that this 
oppression was taken off, and I was enabled 
to trust in him that careth for the stranger 
to roll my burden upon him, and to rest as- 
sured that, wheresoever he might cast my 
lot, the God of all consolation would still be 
with me. But this was not all. He did for 
me more than either I had asked or thought. 

The next day, I went to church for the 
first time after my recovery. Throughout 
the whole service, I had much to do to re- 
strain my emotions, so fully did I see the' 
beauty and the glory of the Lord. My heart 
was full of love to all the congregation, e* 
pecially to them in whom I observed an air oi 
sober attention. A grave and sober person 
sat in the pew with me; him I have since 
seen and often conversed with, and have 
found him a pious man, and a true servant 
of the blessed Redeemer. While he was 
singing the psalm, I looked at him, and, ob- 
serving him intent on his holy employment 
I could not help saying in my heart, witr 
much emotion, " Bless you, for praising Him 
whom my soul loveth !" 

Such was the goodness of the Lord to me 
that he gave me "the oil of joy for mourn, 
ing, and the garment of praise for the spirit 
of heaviness;" and though my voice was 
silent, being stopped by the intenseness of 
what I felt, yet my soul sung within me, and 
even leaped for joy. And when the gospel 
for the day was read, the sound of it was 
more than I could well support. Oh, what 
a word is the word of God, when the Spirit 
quickens us to receive it, and gives the hear- 
ing ear, and the understanding heart ! The 
harmony of heaven is in it, and discovers its 
author. The parable cf the prodigal son 
was the portion. I saw myself in that glass 
so clearly, and the loving-kindness of my 
slighted and forgotten Lord, that the whole 
scene was realized to me, and acted over in 
my heart. 

I went immediately after church to the 
place where I had prayed the day before, and 
found the relief I had there received was but 
the earnest of a richer blessing. How shall 
I express what the Lord did for me, except 
by saying, that he made all his goodness to 
pass before me ! I seemed to speak to him 
face to face, as a man conversing with his 
friend, except that my speech was only in 



tears of joy, and groanings which cannot be 
uttered. I could say, indeed, with Jacob, not 
w how dreadful," but how lovely, " is this 
place! This is none other than the house 
of God." 

Four months I continued in my lodging. 
Some few of the neighbors came to see me, 
but. their visits were not very frequent; and, 
in general, I had but little intercourse, ex- 
cept with my God in Christ Jesus. It was 
he who made my solitude sweet, and the wil- 
derness to bloom and blossom as the rose; 
and my meditation of him was so delightful 
that, if I had few other comforts, neither did 
I want any. 

One day, however, towards the expiration 
of this period, I found myself in a state of 
desertion. That communion which I had so 
long been able to maintain with the Lord 
was suddenly interrupted. I began to dis- 
like my solitary situation, and to fear I should 
never be able to weather out the winter in 
so lonely a dwelling. Suddenly a thought 
struck me, which I shall not fear to call a 
suggestion of the good providence which had 
brought me to Huntingdon. A few months 
before, I had formed an acquaintance with the 
Rev. Mr. Unwin's family. His son, though 
he had heard that I rather declined society 
than sought it, and though Mrs. Unwin her- 
self dissuaded him from visiting me on that 
account, was yet so strongly inclined to it, 
that, notwithstanding all objections and ar- 
guments to the contrary, he one day engaged 
himself, as we were coining out of church, 
after morning prayers, to drink tea with me 
that afternoon. To my inexpressible joy, I 
found him one whose notions of religion 
were spiritual and lively; one whom the 
Lord had been training up from his infancy 
for the service of the temple. We opened 
our hearts to each other at the first inter- 
view, and, when we parted, I immediately 
retired to my chamber, and prayed the Lord, 
who had been the author, to be the guardian 
of our friendship, and to grant to it fervency 
and perpetuity even unto death ; and I doubt 
not that my gracious Father heard this prayer 
also. 

The Sunday following I dined with him. 
That afternoon, while the rest of the family 
was withdrawn, I had much discourse with 
Mrs. Unwin. I am not at liberty to describe 
the pleasure I had in conversing with her, 
because she will be one of the first who will 
have the perusal of this narrative. Let it 
suffice to s^y, I found we had one faith, and 
had been baptized with the same baptism. 

When I returned home, I gave thanks. to 
God, who had so graciously answered my 
prayer.-, by bringing me into the society of 
Christians. She has since been a means in 
the hand of God of supporting, quickening, 
ind strengthening me, in my walk with him. 



It was long before I thought of any othel 
connexion with this family than as a friend 
and neighbor. On the day, however, above 
mentioned, while *l was revolving in my mind 
the nature of my situation, and beginning, 
for the first time, to find an irksomeness in 
such retirement, suddenly it occurred to me 
that I might probably find a place in Mr 
Unwin's family as a boarder. A young gen- 
tleman, who had lived with him as a pupil, 
was the day before gone to Cambridge. It 
appeared to me, at least, possible, that I might 
be allowed to succeed him. From the mo- 
ment this thought struck me, such a tumult 
of anxious solicitude seized me, that for two 
or three days I could not divert my mind to 
any other subject. 1 blamed and condemned 
myself for want of submission to the Lord's 
will ; but still the language of my mutinous 
and disobedient heart was, "Give me the 
blessing, or else I die." 

About the third evening after I had deter- 
mined upon the measure, I, at length, made 
shift to fasten my thoughts upon a theme 
which had no manner of connexion with it. 
While I was pursuing my meditations, Mr. 
Unwin and family quite out of sight, my at- 
tention was suddenly called home again by 
the words which had been continually play- 
ing in my mind, and were, at length, repeated 
with such importunity that I could not help re- 
garding them : — " The Lord God of truth will 
do this." I was effectually convinced, that 
they were not of my own production, and 
accordingly I received from them some as- 
surance of success; but my unbelief and 
fearfulness robbed me of much of the com- 
fort they were intended to convey ; though I 
have since had many a blessed experience of 
the same kind, for which I can never be suf- 
ficiently thankful. 1 immediately began to 
negotiate the affair, and in a few days it was 
entirely concluded. 

I took possession of my new abode, Nov. 
11, 1765. I have found it a place of rest 
prepared for me by God's own hand, where 
he has blessed me with a thousand mercies, 
and instances of his fatherly protection ; and 
where he has given me abundant means of 
furtherance in the knowledge of our Lord 
Jesus, both by the study of his own word, 
and communion with his dear disciples. May 
nothing but death interrupt our union ! 

Peace be with the reader, through faith in 
our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen ! 



Painful as this memoir is in some of its 
earlier details, yet we know nothing more 
simple andbeauiiful in narrative, more touch 
ing and ingenuous in sentiment than its happy 
sequel and consummation. It resembles the 
storm that desolates the plain, but which is 
afterwards succeeded by the glowing beauties 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



47* 



of the renovated landscape. No document 
ever furnished an ampler refutation of the 
remark that ascribes his malady to the oper- 
ation of religious causes. On the contrary, it 
appears that his :rst relief, under the tyranny 
of an unfeeling school-boy, was in the exer- 
cise of prayer, and that some of his happiest 
moments, in the enjoyment of the Divine 
piesence, were experienced in the frame of 
mind which he describes, when at Southamp- 
ton — that in proportion as he forgot the 
heavenly Monitor, his peace vanished, his 
passions resumed the ascendency, and he 
presented an unhappy compound of guilt and 
wretchedness. The history of his malady is 
developed in his own memoir with all the 
clearness of the most circumstantial evidence. 
A morbid temperament laid the foundation; 
an extreme susceptibility exposed him to- con- 
tinual nervous irritation ; and early disap- 
pointments deepened the impression. At 
length, with a mind unoccupied by study, and 
undisciplined by self-command — contemplat- 
ing a " public exhibition of himself as mortal 
poison," he sank under an offer which a more 
buoyant spirit would have grasped as an 
object of honorable ambition. In this state 
religion found him, and administered the 
happy cure. 

That a morbid temperament was the origi- 
nating cause of his depression, is confirmed 
by an affecting passage in one of his poems. 

Jn the beautiful and much admired lines on 
his mother's picture, there is the following 
pathetic remark : 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 

In dwelling on these predisposing causes, the 
Editor thinks it right to state, in the most 
unequivocal manner, that there is not the re- 
motest reason for supposing that any heredi- 
tary malady existed in the family of Covvper 
sufficient to account for this afflicting dispen- 
sation. There was an inflammatory action 
of bis blood, and peculiar irritability of the 
nervous system, which a wise and salutary 
self-contro. and the early influence of relig- 
ious principles might have subdued, or at 
least modified. Employment, also, or the 
active- exercise of the faculties, seems indis- 
pensable to health and happiness.* He who 
lives without an allotted occupation is sel- 
dom either wise, virtuous, or happy. The 
mind recoils upon itself, and is consumed by 
its own fires. Providence, after the Fall, in 
mercy, not less than in justice, decreed that 
man should live by the sweat of his brow ; 
that, in the same moment that he was re- 
minded of his punishment, he might find the 

* Cowper adopted a profession, but never pursued it 
■rith perseverance. 



toil itself a powerful alleviation to his suf- 
ferings, and the exercise of all his faculties 
the road to competency, to usefulness, and 
honor. 

Two events contributed to exercise a most 
injurious influence on the morbid mind of 
Cowper, not recorded in his' own Memoir. 
We allude to the death of his friend, Sir 
William Russel,and his hopeless attachment 
to- Miss Theodora Cowper. 

Sir Vyilliam was the contemporary of Cow 
per at Westminster, and his most intimate 
friend. This intercourse was continued in 
their riper years, on the footing of the most en- 
dearing friendship. Unhappily, young Rus- 
sel was cut off by a premature death,* while 
bathing in the Thames, amidst all the open- 
ing prospects of life, and with accomplish- 
ments and virtues that adorned his rank and 
station. This occurrence inflicted a great 
moral shock on the sensitive mind of Cowper. 

But it was his attachment to Miss Theo 
dora Jane Cowper that formed the eventful 
era in his early life, and clouded all his future 
prospects. The relation of this fact is wholly 
omitted by Hayley^ in compliance, 'we pre- 
sume, with the express wishes of the family. 
it was, indeed, understood to be a prohibited 
subject, and involved in much mystery. The 
name of this lady was never uttered by 
Cowper, nor mentioned in his presence; 
and, after his death, delicacy towards the sur 
vivor equally imposed the duty of silence. 
The brother-in-law of the Editor, the Rev. 
Dr. Johnson, conscious that a correspond- 
ence mast have existed between the poet 
and the fair object of his attachment, re- 
quested to know whether he could be fur- 
nished with any documents, and permitted, 
without a violation of delicacy, to lay them 
before the public. The writer was also com- 
missioned by him to solicit an interview, and 
to urge the same request, but without suc- 
cess. An intimation was at length conveyed 
that no documents could see the light till 
after the decease of the owner. The death 
of this lady, in the year 1824, at a very ad- 
vanced age, removed the veil of secrecy, 
though the leading facts were known by a 
small circle of friends, through the confiden- 
tial communications of Lady Hesketh and 
Dr. Johnson. We now proceed to the de- 

* Shortness of life seems to have been peculiar to this 
family. The writer well remembers the two last baro« 
nets, viz., Sir John Russel, whose form was so weak 
and fragile, that, when resident at the University of Ox 
ford, he was supported by instruments of steel. He died 
at the early age of twenty-one. 2ndly. Sir George Russel, 
his brother, who survived only till his twenty-second 
year. The editor followed him to his graze. The familj 
residence was at Chequers, in Buckinghamshire, an an 
cient seat, and restored at great expense by these last direcl 
descendants of their race. Chequers was formerly noted 
as the place where Hampden, Cromwell, and a fe\» 
others, held their secret meetings, and concerted theii 
measures of opposition against the government of 
Charles I. The estate afterwards devolved to Rober 
Greenhill, Esq. 



480 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tails of this transaction. Miss Theodora 
Cowper was the second daughter of Ashley 
Cowper, Esq., the poet's uncle, and sister to 
Lady Hesketh ; she was, consequently, own 
cousin to Cowper. She is described as hav- 
ing been a young lady possessed of great per- 
sonal attractions, highly accomplished, and 
distinguished by the qualities that engage 
affection and regard. It is no wonder that a 
person of Cowper's susceptibility yielded to 
so powerful an influence. She soon became 
the theme of his poetical effusions, which 
have since been communicated to the public* 
They are juvenile compositions, but interest- 
ing, as forming the earliest productions of his 
muse, and recording his attachment to his 
cousin. Miss Theodora Cowper was by no 
means insensible to the regards of her ad- 
mirer, and the father w r as eventually solicited 
to ratify her choice. But Mr. Ashley Cow- 
per, attached as he was to his nephew, and 
anxious to promote the happiness of his 
daughter, could by no means be induced to 
listen to the proposition. His objections 
were founded, first, on the near degree of 
relationship in which they stood to each 
other; and secondly, on the inadequacy of 
Cowper's fortune. From this resolution no 
entreaty could induce him to depart. The 
poet, therefore, was compelled to cherish a 
hopeless passion, which no lapse of time was 
capable of effacing; and his fair cousin, on 
her part, discovered a corresponding fidelity. 

The subsequent melancholy event, record- 
ed in the Memoir, at once extinguished all 
further hopes on the subject. 

How 7 powerfully his feelings were affected 
by the death of his friend, Sir William, and 
by his disappointment in love, may be seen 
by the following pathetic lines, referring to 
Miss Theodora Cowper : — 

Doom'd as I am. in solitude to waste 

The present moments, and regret the past; 

Depriv'd of every joy I valued most, 

My friend torn from me and my mistress lost; 

Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, 

The dull effect of humor, or of spleen ! 

Still, still, I mourn with each returning day, 

Him. snatch'd by fate in early youth away ; 

And her — through tedious years of doubt and 

pain 
Fix'd in her choice and faithful — but in vain ! 
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, 
Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; 
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, 
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes; 
See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, 
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown! 
See me neglected on, the world's rude coast, 
Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 

Such were the preparatory causes that 
weakened and depressed the mind of Cow- 
per. The immediate and exciting cause of 
lis unhappy derangement has already been 

* Poems, the Early Productions of William Cowper. 



faithfully disclosed as well as the occasion 
that ministered to its cure. 

Pursuing this interesting and yet painful 
subject in the order of events, it appears that, 
after spending nearly ten years in the enjoy- 
ment of much inward peace, he was visited in 
the year 1773, at 01ney,with a return, not of 
his original derangement, but with a severe 
nervous fever, and a settled depression of 
spirits. This attack began to subside at th«i 
close of the year 1776, though his full pow- 
ers were not recovered till some time after 
What he suffered is feelingly expressed in a 
letter to Mr. Hill. " Other distempers only 
batter the walls; but they (nervous fevers) 
creep silently into the citadel, and put the 
garrison to the sword."* 

The death of his brother, the Rev. John 
Cowper, may have been instrumental to this 
long indisposition. At the same time we 
think that his situation at Olney was by no 
means favorable to his health ; and that more 
time should have been allotted for relaxation 
and exercise. 

• In January, 1787, he experienced a fresh 
attack, though surrounded by the beautifu 
scenery of Weston ; which ' seems to prove 
that local causes were not so influential as 
some have suggested. A much better reason 
may be assigned in the lamented death of his 
endeared friend, Mr. Unwin. This illness 
continued eight months, and greatly enfee- 
bled his health and spirits. "This last tem- 
pest," he remarks, in a letter to Mr. Newton, 
" has left my nerves in a worse condition 
than it found them ; my head, especially, 
though better informed, is more infirm than 
ever."f In December, 1791, Mrs. Unwin ex- 
perienced her first attack: and in May, 1792, it 
was renewed with aggravated symptoms, dur- 
ing Hayley's visit to Weston. He describes 
its powerful effect on Cowper's nerves in ex- 
pressive language, and none can be more 
expressive than his own, at the close of the 
same year. " The year ninety-two shall 
stand chronicled in my remembrance as the 
most melancholy that I have ever known, ex- 
cept the fewweeks that I spent at Eartham."| 
Cowper's mental depression kept pace with 
the spectacle of her increasing imbecility, till 
at length, yielding to the pressure of these 
accumulating sorrows, he sank under the 
violence of the shock. 

The coincidence of these facts is worthy of 
observation, as they seem to prove that the 
embers of the original constitutional malady 
never became extinct, and required only some 
powerful stimulant to revive the flame. Re- 
ligious feelings unquestionably concurred, 
because whatever predominates in the mind 
furnishes the materials 'of excitement; but 
it was not the religion of a creed, for what 

* See p. 58. t See p. 284. 

t See Letter Dec. 26 1792. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



481 



creed ever proclaimed the delusion under 
which Cowper labored?* His persuasion 
was in opposition to his creed, for he knew 
that he was once saved, and yet believed that 
he should be lost, though his creed assured 
him that, where divine grace had once re- 
vealed its saving power, it never failed to 
perfect its work in mercy — that the Saviour's 
love is unchangeable, and that whom he hath 
loved he loveth unto the end (John xiii. 1). 
His case, therefore, was an exception to his 
creed, and consequently must be imputed to 
the operation of other causes. 

We trust we have now succeeded in tracing 
to its true source the origin of Cowper's mal- 
ady, and that the numerous facts which have 
been urged must preclude the possibility of 
future misconception. 

There are some distinguishing features in 
this mysterious malady which are too extraor- 
dinary not to be specified. We notice the fol- 
lowing : — 

1st. The free exercise of his mental pow- 
ers continued during the whole period of his 
depression, with the exception of two inter- 
vals, from 1773 to 1776, and a season of 
eight months in the year 1787. With these 
intermissions of study, all his works were 
written in moments of depression and un- 
ceasing nervous excitement. 

It still further shows the singular mechan- 
ism of his wonderful mind, that his Montes 
Glaciales, or Ice Islands, exhibiting decided 
marks of vigor of genius, were composed 
in the last stage of his malady — within five 
weeks of his decease — when his heart was 
lacerated by sorrow, his imagination scared by 
dreams, and the heavens over his head were 
as brass. The public papers had announced 
a phenomenon, which the voyages of Cap- 
tains Ross and Parry have now made more 
familiar, viz., the disruption of- immense 
masses of ice in the North Pole, and their 
appearance in the German Ocean. Cowper 
seized this incident as a fit subject for his 
poetic powers, and produced the poem from 
which we make the following extract : — 

What portents, from what distant region, ride, 
Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish d tide 1 — 
What view we now 1 more wondrous still ! Be- 
hold ! 
Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold ; 
A.nd all around the pearl's pure splendor show. 
4nd all around the ruby's fiery glow. 
Come they from India, where che burning earth. 
All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth ; 
And where the costly gems, that beam around 
The brows of mightiest potentates, are found 1 
No. Never such a countless, dazzling store 
Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore — 
Whence sprang they then % 

* Cowper believed that he had incurred the Divine 
displeasure, because he did not commit the crime of self- 
destruction ; a persuasion so manifestly absurd as to 
afford undeniable proof of derangement. 



-Par hence, where most severe 



Bleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year, 
Their infant growth began. He bade arise 
Their uncouth forms, potentous in our eyes. 
Oft, as dissolv'd by transient suns the snow 
Left the tall cliff to join the flood below, 
He caught and curdled with a freezing blast 
The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. 
By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile 
And long successive ages roll'd the while, 
Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand 
Tall as its rival mountains on the land. 
Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill 
Or force of man, had stood the structure still; 
But that though firmly fixt supplanted yet 
By pressure of its own enormous weight, 
It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound 
That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, 
Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, 
As if instinct with strong desire to lave, 
Down went the pond'rous mass. 

See Poems. 

2ndly. His malady, however oppressive to 
himself, was not perceptible to others. 

The Editor is enabled to state this remark- 
able fact on the authority of Dr. Johnson, 
confirmed by the testimony of Lady Throck- 
morton, and John Kiggins, Esq., of Turvey 
Abbey, formerly of Weston. 

There was nothing in his general manner, 
or intercourse with society, to excite the sus- 
picion of the wretchedness that dwelt within. 
Among strangers he was at all times reserved 
and silent, but in the circle of familiar friends, 
where restraint was banished, not only did he 
exhibit no marks of gloom, but he could par. 
ticipate in the mirth of others, or inspire it 
from his own fertile resources of wit and hu- 
mo' . The prismatic colors, so to speak, were 
discernible through the descending shower. 
The bow in the heavens was not only em- 
blematic of his imagination, but might be in- 
terpreted as the pledge of promised mercy. 
For it seemed to be graciously ordered that his 
lively and sportive imagination should be a 
relief to the gloomy forebodings of his mind ; 
and that, in vouchsafing to him this alleviation, 
God proclaimed, " Behold, I do set my bow in 
the cloud, it shall be for a covenant between 
me and thee." 

3rdly. The rare union, in the same mind, 
of a rich vein of humor with a spirit of pro- 
found melancholy was never perhaps so strik- 
ingly exemplified as in the celebrated pro- 
duction of John Gilpin. The town resounded 
with its praises. Henderson recited it to over- 
flowing auditories ; Mr. Henry Thornton ad- 
dressed it to a large party of friends at Mr. 
Newton's. Laughter might be said to hold 
both his sides, and the gravest were compelled 
to acknowledge the power of comic wit. We 
scarcely know a more extraordinary phenom- 
enon than what is furnished by the history 
. of this performance. For it appears, by tho 
author's own testimony, that it was written 
" in the saddest mood, and but for that saddest 
31 



482 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



mood, perhaps, had never been written at 
all."* It is also known that this depression 
was not incidental or temporary, but a fixed 
and settled feeling ; that he was in fact ab- 
sorbed, for the most part, in the profoundest 
melancholy ; that he considered himself to be 
cut off from the mercy of his God, though 
his life was blameless and without reproach; 
and that, finally, having enlightened his coun- 
try with strains of the sublimest morality, he 
died the victim of an incurable despair. As 
a contrast to the inimitable humor of John 
Gilpin, let us now turn to that most affecting- 
representation which the poet draws of his 
own mental sufferings, occasioned by the 
painful depression which has been the subject 
of so many remarks. 

Look where he comes — in this embowered alcove 
Stand close concealed, and see a statue move ; 
L ; ps busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, 
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below, 
Interpret to the marking eye distress, 
Such as its symptoms can alone express. 
That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue . 
Could argue once, could jest or join the song, 
Could give advice, could censure or commend, 
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
Renounced alike its office and its sport, 
Its brisker and its graver strains fall short; 
Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway, 
And like a summer- brook are pa^t away. 
This is a sight for pity to peruse, 
Till she resemble faintly what she views; 
Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, 
Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. 
This, of all maladies that man infest, 
Claims most compassion, and receives the least. 
See Poem on Retirement. 

The minute and mournful delineation of 
mental trouble here submitted to the eye of 
the reader, and the fact of this living image 
of woe being a portrait of Cowper drawn by 
his own hand, impart to it a character of in- 
imitable pathos, and of singular and indescrib- 
able interest. 

The physical and moral solution of this 
evil, and its painful influence on the mind, till 
the cure is administered by an almighty Phy- 
sician, are beautifully and affectionately de- 
scribed. 

Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, 
Each yielding harmony, disposed aright ; 
The screws reversed (a task which if he please 
God in a moment executes with ease). 
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, 
Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. 
Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair 
As ever recompensed the peasant's care, 
Nor soft declivities, with tufted hills, 
Nor view of waters turning busy mills, 
Parks in which 'art preceptress nature weds, 
Nor garden* interspersed with /lowery beds, 

* See p. 143. 



Nor gales, that catch the scent o e blooming grove^ 
And waft it to the mourner as he roves — 
Can call up life into his faded eye, 
That passes all he sees unheeded by ; 
No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, 
No cure for such, till God, who makes than, heals. 

Retirement. 

The lines which follow are important, as 
proving by his own testimony that, so far 
from his religious views being the oceas ; cn 
of his wretchedness, it was to this source alorw 
that he looked for consolation and support, 

And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill, 

That yields not to the touch of human skill; 

Improve the kind occasion, understand 

A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand 

To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon, 

The purple evening and resplendent moon, 

The stars, that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night 

Seem drops descending in a shower of light, 

Shine not. or undesired and hated shine, 

Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine' 

Yet seek Him, in his favor life is found, 

All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound : 

Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth 

Shall seem to start into a second birth! 

Nature, assuming a more lovely face. 

Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, 

Shall be despised and overlooked no more, 

Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before, 

Impart to things inanimate a voice, 

And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice ; 

The sound shall run along the winding vales, 

And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. 

Retirement. 

The Editor has entered thus largely into 
the consideration of Cowper's depressive 
malady, because it has been least understood, 
and subject to the most erroneous misrepre- 
sentations, affecting the character of Cowper 
and the honor of religion. One leading ob- 
ject of the writer's, in engaging in the present 
undertaking, has been to vindicate both from 
so injurious an imputation. 

We have now to lay before the reader 
another most interesting document, of which 
Cowper is the acknowledged author. Tt con- 
tains the affecting account of the last illness 
and peaceful end of his brother, the Rev. John 
Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, Cam- 
bridge. The original manuscript was faith- 
fully transcribed by Newton, and then pub- 
lished with a preface, which we have thought 
proper to retain. It cannot fail to be read 
with deep interest and edification ; and, while 
it is a monument of Cowper's pious zeal and 
fraternal love, it is a striking record of the 
power of divine grace in producing that great 
change of heart which we deem to be essen- 
tial to every professing Christian. This docu- 
ment is now extremely scarce, and not acces- 
sible but through private sources.* 

* We are indebted for this copy to a mv.ch esteemed 
and highly valued friend, the Rev. Charles Bridges, 



ADELPH1. 



tSKETCH OF THE CHARACTER, AND AN ACCOUNT OF THE LAST ELNE8S. 

OF THE LATE 

REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M. 

FELLOW OF BENNET COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 

WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE WITH JOY, 20th MARCH, 1770. 
WRITTEN BY HIS BROTHER, 

THE LATE WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

OF THE INNER TEMPLE, AUTHOR OF "THE TASK," ETC. 

FAITHFULLY TRANSCRIBED FROM HIS ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, 

BY JOHN NEWTON, 

RECTOR OF ST. MARY, WOOLNOTH, AND ST MARY, WOOLCHURCH 



Tu supplicanti protinus admoves 
Aurem, benignus : pro lachrimis mini 
Risura reducis, pro dolore 
Laetitiamque, alacremque plausum. 

Buchanan, Ps. xxx. 



NEWTON'S ORIGINAL PREFACE. 



The Editors motives, which induce him to 
publish the following narrative, are chiefly 
two. 

First, that so striking a display of the 
power and mercy of God may be more gen- 
erally known to the praise and glory of his 
grace and the instruction and comfort of his 
people. 

Secondly, the boasted spirit of refinement, 
the stress laid upon unassisted human reason, 
and the consequent scepticism to which they 
lead, and which so strongly mark the charac- 
ter of the present times, are not now confined 
merely to the dupes of infidelity ; but many 
persons are under their influence, who would 
be much offended if we charged them with 
having renounced Christianity. While no 
theory is admitted in natural history, which 
is not confirmed by actual and positive exper- 
iment, religion is the only thing to which a 
trial by this test' is refused. The very name 
of vital experimental religion excites con- 
empt and scorn, and provokes resentment. 



The doctrines of regeneration by the pewer* 
ful operation of the Holy Spirit, and the ne- 
cessity of his continual agency and influence 
to advance the holiness and comforts of those 
in whose hearts he has already begun a work 
of grace, are not only exploded and contra- 
dicted by many who profess a regard for the 
Bible, and by some who have subscribed to 
the articles and liturgy of our established 
church, but they who avow an attachment to 
them are, upon that account, and that account 
only, considered as hypocrites or visionaries, 
knaves or fools. 

The Editor fears that many unstable persons 
are misled and perverted by the fine words 
and fair speeches of those who lie in wait to 
deceive. But he likewise hopes that, by the 
blessing of God, a candid perusal of what is 
here published, respecting the character, sen- 
timents, and happy death of the late Rever- 
end John Cowper, may convince them, some 
of them at least, of their mistake, and break 
the snare in which they have been entangled 
John Newton. 



A SKETCH OF THE LIFE 



OF THE LAI E 



REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M. 



As soon as it had pleased God, after a long 
and sharp season 'of conviction, to visit me 
with the consolations of his grace, it became 
one of my chief concerns, that my relations 
might be made partakers of the same mercy. 
In the first letter I wrote to my brother,* I 
took occasion to declare what God had done 
for my soul, and am not conscious that from 
that period down to his last illness I wilfully 
neglected an opportunity of engaging him, if 
it were possible, in conversation of a spiritual 
kind. When I left St. Alban's, and went to 
visit him at Cambridge, my heart being fall 
of the subject, I poured it out before him 
without reserve ; and, in all my subsequent 
dealings with him, so far as I was enabled, 
took care to show that I had received, not 
merely a set of notions, but a real impression 
of the truths of the gospel. 

At first I found him ready enough to talk 
with me upon these subjects; sometimes he 
would dispute, but always without heat or 
animosity ; and sometimes would endeavor to 
reconcile the difference of our sentiments, by 
supposing that, at the bottom, we were both 
of a mind and meant the same thing. 

He was a man of a most candid and in- 
genuous spirit ; his temper remarkably sweet, 
and in his -behavior to me he had always 
manifested an uncommon affection. His out- 
ward conduct, so far as it fell under my notice, 
or I could learn it by the report of others, 
was perfectly decent and unblameable. There 
was nothing vicious in any part of his practice, 
but, being of a studious, thoughtful turn, he 
placed his chief delight in the acquisition of 
learning, and made such acquisitions in it that 
he had but few rivals in that of a classical 
kind. He was critically skilled in the Latin, 
Greek, and Hebrew languages, was beginning 
to make himself master of the Syriac, and 
perfectly understood the French and Italian, 
the latter of which he could speak fluently. 
These attainments, however, and many others 
in the literary way, he lived heartily to de- 
spise, not as useless when sanctified and em- 

* " . . . .1 had a brother once," &c. 

Tke Task, book ii. 



ployed in the service of God, but when sought 
after for their own sake, and with a view to 
the praise of men. Learned however as he 
was, he was easy and cheerful in his conver- 
sation, and entirely free from the stiffness 
which is generally contracted by men devoted 
to such pursuits. 

Thus we spent about two years, conversing 
as occasion offered, and we generally visited 
each other once or twice a week,,aslongas I 
continued at Huntingdon, upon- the leading 
truths of the gospel. By this time, however 
he began to be more reserved ; he would hear 
me patiently but never reply ; and this I found, 
upon his own confession afterward, was the 
effect of a resolution he had taken, in order 
to avoid disputes, and to secure the continu- 
ance of that peace which had always subsisted 
between us. When our family removed to 
Olney, our intercourse became less frequent. 
We exchanged an annual visit, and, whenever 
he came amongst us, he observed the same 
conduct, conforming to all our customs, at- 
tending family worship with us, and heard 
the preaching, received civilly whatever passed 
in conversation upBn the subject, but adhered 
strictly to the rule he had prescribed to him 
self, never remarking upon or objecting to 
anything he heard or saw. This, through the 
goodness of his natural temper, he was ena- 
bled to carry so far that, though some things 
unavoidably happened which we feared would 
give him offence, he never took any ; for it 
was not possible to offer him the pulpit, noi 
when Mr. Newton was with us once at the 
time of family prayer, could we ask my bro- 
ther to officiate, though, being himself a min- 
ister, and one of our own family for the time, 
the office seemed naturally to fall into his 
hands. 

In September 1769, I learned by letters 
from Cambridge that he was dangerously ill. 
I set out for that place the day after I received 
them, and found him as ill as I expected. He 
had taken cold on his return from a journey 
into Wales ; and, lest he should be laid up at 
a distance from home, had pushed forwa/d as 
far as he could from Bath with a fever upon 



LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 



48* 



him. Soon after his arrival at Cambridge he 
discharged, unknown to himself, such a pro- 
digious quantity of blood, that the physician 
ascribed it only to, the strength of his consti- 
tution that he was still alive ; and assured me, 
that if the discharge should be repeated, he 
must inevitably die upon the spot. In this 
state of imminent danger, he seemed to have 
no more concern about his spiritual interests 
than when in perfect health. His couch was 
strewed with volumes of plays, to which he had 
frequent recourse for amusement. I learned 
indeed afterwards, that, even at this time, the 
thoughts of God and eternity would often 
force themselves upon his mind ; but, not ap- 
prehending his life to be in danger, and trust- 
ing in the morality of his past conduct, he found 
it no difficult matter to thrust them out again. 

As it pleased God that he had no relapse. 
ne presently began to recover strength, and 
in ten days' time I left him so far restored, 
that he could ride many miles without fa- 
tigue, and had every symptom of returning 
health. It is probable, however, that though 
his recovery seemed perfect, this illness was 
the means which God had appointed to bring 
down his strength in the midst of his jour- 
ney, and to hasten on the malady which 
proved his last. 

On the 16th of February, 1770, 1 was again 
summoned to attend him, by letters which 
represented him as so ill that the physician 
entertained but little hopes of his recovery. 
I found him afflicted with asthma and dropsy, 
supposed to be the effect of an imposthume 
in his liver. He was, however, cheerful when 
I first arrived, expressed great joy at seeing 
me, thought himself much better than he had 
been, and seemed to flatter himself with hopes 
that he should be well again. My situation 
at this time was truly distressful. I learned 
from the physician, that, in this instance, as 
in the last, he was in much greater danger 
than he suspected. He did not seem to lay his 
illness at all to heart, nor could I find by his 
conversation that he had one serious thought. 
As often as a suitable occasion offered, when 
we were free from company and interruption, 
I endeavored to give a spiritual turn to the 
discourse; and, the day after my arrival, 
asked his permission to pray with him, to 
which he readily consented. I renewed my 
attempts in this way as often as I could, 
though without any apparent success : still 
he seemed as careless and unconcerned as 
ever; yet I could not but consider- his will- 
ingness in this instance as a token for good, 
jmd observed with pleasure, that though at 
other times he discovered no mark of seri- 
ousness, yet when I spoke to him of the 
Lord's dealings with myself, he received what 
I said with affection, would press my hand, 
and look kindly at me, and seemed to love 
me the better for it. 



On the 21st of the same month he had a 
violent fit of the asthma, which seized hirr 
when he rose, about an hour before noon, 
and lasted all the day. His agony was dread 
ful. Having never seen any person afflicted 
in the same way, I could not help fearing that 
he would be suffocated ; nor was the physi- 
cian himself without fears of the same kind. 
This day the Lord was very present with me 
and enabled me, as I sat by the poor suffer- 
er's side, to wrestle for a blessing upon him. 
I observed to him, that though it had pleased 
God to visit him with great afflictions, yet 
mercy was mingled with the dispensation. 1 
said, " You have many friends, who love you, 
and are willing to do all they can to serve 
you ; and so perhaps have others in the like 
circumstances ; but it is not the lot of every 
sick man, how much soever he may be be- 
loved, to have a friend that can pray for him." 
He replied, " That is true, and I hope God 
will have mercy upon me." His love for 
me from this time became very remarkable ; 
there was a tenderness in it more than was 
merely natural ; and he generally expressed 
it by calling for blessings upon me in the 
most affectionate terms, and with a look and 
manner not to be described. At-night, when 
he was quite worn out with the fatigue of 
laboring for breath, and could get no rest, his 
asthma still continuing, he turned to me and 
said, with a melancholy air, " Brother, I seem 
to be marked out for misery ; you know some 
people are so." That moment I felt my heart 
enlarged, and such a persuasion of the love 
of God towards him was wrought in my soul, 
that I replied with confidence, and, as if I had 
authority given me to say it, " But that is not 
your case; you are marked out for mercy." 
Through the whole of this most painful dis- 
pensation, he was blessed with a degree of 
patience and resignation to the will of God, 
not always seen in the behavior of established 
Christians under sufferings so great as his. I 
never heard a murmuring word escape him ; 
on the contrary, he would often say, when his 
pains were most acute, " I only wish it may 
please God to enable me to suffer without 
complaining ; I have no right to complain." 
Once he said, with a loud voice, " Let thy rod 
and thy staff support and comfort me :" and 
" Oh that it were with me as in times past, 
when the candle of the Lord shone upon my 
tabermu !e !" One evening, when I had been 
expressing my hope that the Lord would 
show him mercy, he replied, " I hope he will ; 
I am sure I pretend to nothing." Many times 
he spoke of himself in terms of the greatest 
self-abasement, which I cannot now particu- 
larly remember. I thought I could discern, 
in these expressions, the glimpses of ap- 
proaching day, and have no doubt at present 
but that the Spirit of God was gradually 
preparing him, in a way of true humiliation. 



486 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



fon that bright display of gospel-grace which 
he was soon after pleased to afford him.* 

On Saturday the 10th of March, about 
three in the afternoon, he suddenly burst into 
tears, and said, with a loud cry, " Oh, forsake 
me not !" I went to his bed-side, when he 
grasped my hand, and presently, by his eyes 
and countenance, I found that' he was in 
prayer. Then turning to me, he said. " Oh, 
brother, I am full of what I could say to 
you." The nurse asked him if he would 
have any hartshorn or lavender. He replied, 
" None of these things will serve my pur- 
pose." I said, "But I know what would, 
my dear, don't I ?" He answered, " You do, 
brother." 

Having continued some time silent, he said, 
" Behold, I create new heavens, and a new 
earth," — then, after a pause, " Ay, and he is 
able to do it too." 

I left him for about an hour, fearing lest 
he should fatigue himself with talking, and 
because my surprise and joy were so great 
that I could hardly bear them. When I re- 
turned, he threw his arms about my neck, 
and, leaning his head against mine, he said, 
" Brother, if I live, you and I shall be more 
.ike one another than we have been. But 
whether I live or live not, all is well, and will 
be so ; I know it will ; I have felt that which 
I never felt before ; and am sure that God 
has visited me with this sickness to teach me 
what I was too proud to learn in health. I 
never had satisfaction till now. The doc- 
trines I had been used to referred me to my- 
self for the foundation of my hopes, and 
there I could find nothing to rest upon. The 
sheet-anchor of the soul was wanting. I 
thought you wrong, yet wished to believe as 
you did. I found myself unable to believe, 
vet always thought that I should one day be 
Drought to do so. You suffered more than I 
have done, before you believed these truths ; 
but our sufferings, though different in their 
kind and measure, were directed to the same 
end. I hope he has taught me that which 
he teaches none but his own. I hope so. 
These things were foolishness to me once, 
but now I have a firm foundation, and am 
satisfied." 

In the evening, when I went to bid him 
good night, he looked steadfastly in my face, 
and, with great solemnity in his air and man- 
ner, taking me by the hand, resumed the 
discourse in these very words : " As empty, 
and yet full ; as having nothing, and yet pos- 
sessing all things — I see the rock upon which 
I once split, and I see the rock of my salva- 
tion. I have peace in myself, and if I live, I 
hope it will be that I may be made a mes- 
senger of peace to others. I have heard that 

* There is a beautiful illustration of this sudden and 
bappy change in Cowper's poem entitled " Hope." 
" As when a felon whom his country's laws," &.c. 



in a moment, which I could not have learned 
by reading manj* books for many years. I 
have often studied these points, and studied 
them with great attention, but was blinded 
by prejudice ; and, unless He, who alone is 
worthy to unloose the seals, had opened the 
book to me, I had been blinded still. Now 
they appear so plain, that though I am con- 
vinced no comment could ever have made me 
understand them, I wonder T did not see 
them before. Yet, great as my doubts and 
difficulties were, they have only served to 
pave the way, and being solved, they make 
it plainer. The light I have received comes 
late, but it is a comfort to me that I never 
made the gospel-truths a subject of ridicule. 
Though I dissented from the persuasion and 
the ways of God's people, I ever thought 
them respectable, and therefore not proper to 
be made a jest of. The evil I suffer is the 
consequence of my descent from the corrupt 
original stock, and of my own personal trans- 
gressions ; the good I enjoy comes to me as 
the overflowing of his bounty; but the crown 
of all his mercies is this, that he has given me 
a Saviour, and not only the Saviour of man- 
kind, brother, but my Saviour. 

"I should delight to see the people at 01- 
ney, but am not worthy to appear amongst 
them." He wept at speaking these words, 
and repeated them with emphasis. " I should 
rejoice in an hour's conversation with Mr. 
Newton, and, if I live, shall have much .dis- 
course with him upon these subjects, but am 
so weak in body, that at present I could not 
bear it." At the same time he gave me to 
understand, that he had been five years inquir- 
ing after the truth, that is, from the time of 
my first visit to him after I left St. Alban's, 
and that, from the very day of his ordination, 
which was ten years ago, he had been dissat- 
isfied with his own views of the Gospel, and 
sensible of their defect and obscurity; that 
he had always had a sense of the importance 
of the ministerial charge, and Had used to 
consider himself accountable for his doctrine 
no less than his practice ; that he could ap- 
peal to the Lord for his sincerity in all that 
time, and had never wilfully erred, but al- 
ways been desirous of coming to the knowl- 
edge of the truth. He added, that the mo- 
ment when he sent forth that cry* was the 
moment when light was darted into his soul ; 
that he had thought much about these things 
in the course of his illness, but never till that 
instant was able to understand them. 

It was remarkable that, from the very in- 
stant when he was first enlightened, he was 
also wonderfully strengthened in body, so 
that from the tenth to the fourteenth of 
March we all entertained hopes of his recov- 
ery. He was himself very sanguine in his 

* On the 10th of March, vide supra. 



LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 



48^ 



expectations of it, but frequently said that 
his desire of recovery extended no farther 
than his hope of usefulness ; adding, '' Un- 
less I may live to be an instrument of good 
to others, it were better for me to die now." 

As his assurance was clear and unshaken, 
»o he was very sensible of the goodness of 
the Lord to him in that respect. On the day 
when his eyes were opened, he turned to me, 
and, in a low voice, said, " What a mercy it is 
to a man in my condition, to know his accept- 
ance ! I am completely satisfied of mine." 
On another occasion, speaking to the same 
purpose, he said, " This bed would be a bed 
of misery, and it is so — but it is likewise a 
bed of joy and a bed of discipline. Was I to 
die this night, I know I should be happy. 
This assurance I hope is quite consistent 
with the word of God. It is built upon a 
sense of my own utter insufficiency, and the 
all-sufficiency of Christ." At the same time 
he said, " Brother, I have been building my 
glory upon a sandy foundation; I have la- 
bored night and day to perfect myself in 
things of no profit; I have sacrificed my 
health to these pursuits, and am now suffer- 
ing the consequence of my misspent labor. 
But how contemptible do the writers I once 
highly valued now appear to me ! ' Yea, 
doubtless, I count all things loss and dung 
for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ 
Jesus my Lord.' I must now go to a new 
school. I have many things to learn. I suc- 
ceeded in my former pursuits. I wanted to 
be highly applauded, and I was so. I was 
flattered up to the height of my wishes: now, 
I must learn a new lesson." 

On the evening of the thirteenth, he said, 
" What comfort have I in this bed, miserable 
as I seem to be ! Brother, I love to look at 
you. I see now who was right, and who was 
mistaken. But it seems wonderful that such 
a dispensation should be necessary to enforce 
what seems so very plain. I wish myself at 
Olney ; you have a good river there, better 
than all the rivers of Damascus. What a 
scene is passing before me ! Ideas upon these 
subjects crowd upon me faster than I can give 
them utterance. How plain do many texts 
appear, to which, after consulting all the com- 
mentators, I could hardly affix a meaning: 
and now I have their true meaning without 
any comment at all. There is but one key to 
the New Testament; there is but one inter- 
preter. I cannot describe to you, nor shall 
ever be able to describe, what I felt in the 
moment when it was given to me. May I 
make a good use of it ! How I shudder when 
I think of the danger I have just escaped ! I 
had made up my mind upon these subjects, 
and was determined to hazard all upon the 
iustness of my own opinions." 

Speaking of his illness, he said, he had been 
followed night and day from the very begin- 



ning of it with this text; J shall not die, bu\ 
live, and declare the works of the Lord. Thia 
notice was fulfilled to him, though not in 
such a sense as my desires of his recovery 
prompted me to put upon it. His remarkable 
amendment soon appeared to be no more than 
a present supply of strength and spirits, that 
he might be able to speak of the better life 
which God had given him, which was no 
sooner done than he relapsed as suddenly as 
he had revived. About this time he formed a 
purpose of receiving the sacrament, induced 
to it principally by a desire of setting his seal 
to the truth, in presence of those who were 
strangers to the change which had taken place 
in his sentiments. It must have been admin- 
istered to him by the Master of the College, 
to whom he designed to have made this short 
declaration, " If I die, I die in the belief of the 
doctrines of the Reformation, and of the 
Church of England, as it was at the time of 
the Reformation." But, his strength declining 
apace, and his pains becoming more severe, he 
could never find a proper opportunity of doing 
it. His experience was rather peace than joy, 
if a distinction may be made between joy and 
that heartfelt peace which he often spoke of 
in the most comfortable terms ; and which he 
expressed by a heavenly smile upon his coun- 
tenance under the bitterest bodily distress. 
His words upon this subject once were these, 
" How wonderful is it that God should look 
upon man, especially that he should look 
upon me ! Yet he sees me, and takes notice 
of all that I suffer. I see him too ; he is 
present before me, and I hear him say, Come 
unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden 
and I will give you restP Matt. xi. 28. 

On the fourteenth, in the afternoon, I per- 
ceived that the strength and spirits which had 
been afforded him were suddenly withdrawn, 
so that by the next day his mind became weak, 
and his speech roving and faltering. But still, 
at intervals, he was enabled to speak of di- 
vine things with great force and clearness. 
On the evening of the fifteenth, he said, 
t: ' There is more joy in heaven over one sin- 
ner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine 
just persons who need no repentance.' That 
text has been sadly misunderstood by i.:; 3 as 
well as by others. Where is that justperoon 
to be found 1 Alas ! what must have become 
of me, if I had died this day, se'nnight? 
What should I have had to plead? My own 
righteousness! That would have been of 
great service to me, to be sure. Well, whithei 
next ? Why, to the mountains to fall upon us, 
and to the hills to cover us. I am not duly 
thankful for the mercy I have received. Per 
haps I may ascribe some part of my insensi- 
bility to my great weakness of body. I hope 
at least that if I was better in health, it would 
be better with me in these respects also." 

The next day, perceiving that his under 



488 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Btanding began to suffer by the extreme weak- 
ness of his body, he said, " I have been vain 
of my understanding and of my acquirements 
in this place ; and now God has made me little 
better than an idiot, as much as to say, now be 
proud if you can. Well, while I have any 
senses left, my thoughts will be poured out 
in the praise of God. I have an interest in 
Christ, in his blood and sufferings, and my sins 
are forgiven me. Have I not cause to praise 
dm ? When my understanding fails me quite, 
is I think it will soon, then he will pity my 
weakness." 

Though the Lord intended that his warfare 
.should be short, yet a warfare he was to have, 
aid to be exposed to a measure of conflict 
with his own corruptions. His pain being 
extreme, his powers of recollection much im- 
paired, and the Comforter withholding for a 
season his sensible support, he was betrayed 
into a fretfulness and impatience of spirit 
which had never been permitted to show itself 
before. This appearance alarmed me, and, 
having an opportunity afforded me by every- 
body's absence, I said to him, " You were 
happier last Saturday than you are to-day. 
Are you entirely destitute of the consolations 
you then spoke of? And do you not some- 
times feel comfort flowing into your heart 
from a sense of your acceptance with God?" 
He replied, "Sometimes I do, but sometimes 
I am left to desperation." The same day, in 
the evening, he said, " Brother, I believe you 
are often uneasy, lest what lately passed 
should come to nothing." I replied by asking 
him, whether, when he found his patience and 
his temper fail, he endeavored to .pray for 
power against his corruptions ? He answered, 
" Yes, a thousand times in a day. But I see 
myself odiously vile and wicked. If I die in 
this illness, I beg you will place no other in- 
scription over me than such as may just men- 
tion my name and the parish where I was 
minister; for that I ever had a being, and 
what sort of a being I had, cannot be too soon 
forgot. I was just beginning to be a deist, 
and had long desired to be so ; and I will own 
to you what I never confessed before, that my 
function and the duties of it were a weari- 
ness to me which I could not bear. Yet, 
wretched creature and beast as I was, I was 
esteemed religious, though I lived without 
God in the world." About this time, I re- 
minded, him of the account of Jane way, which 
he once read at my desire. He said he had 
laughed at it in his own mind, and accounted 
it mere madness and folly. " Yet base as I 
am," said he, " I have no doubt now but God 
has accepted me also, and forgiven me all my 
Bins," 

I then asked him what he thought of my 
narrative ?* He replied, " I thought it strange, 

* Cowper s Memoir of Himself. 



and ascribed much of it to the state in whicti 
you had been. When I came to visit you in 
London, and found you in that deep distress, 
I would have given the universe to have ad. 
ministered some comfort to you. You may 
remember that I tried every method of doing 
it. -When I found that all my attempts were 
vain, I was shocked to the greatest degree. I 
began to consider your sufferings as a judg- 
ment upon you, and my inability to alleviate 
them, as a judgment upon myself. When 
Mr. M.* came, he succeeded in a moment. 
This surprised me ; but it does not surprise 
me now'. He had the key to your heart, which 
I had not. That which filled me with disgust 
against my office as a minister, was the same 
ill success which attended me in my own 
parish. There I endeavored to soothe the 
afflicted, and to reform the unruly by warning 
and reproof; but all that I could say in either 
case, was spoken to the wind, and attended 
with no effect." 

There is that in the nature of salvation by 
grace, when it is truly and experimentally 
known, which prompts every person to think 
himself the most extraordinary instance of its 
power. Accordingly, my brother insisted 
upon the precedence in this respect ; and upon 
comparing his case with mine, would by no 
means allow my deliverance to have been so 
wonderful as his own. He observed that, 
from the beginning, both his manner of life 
and his connexions had been such as had a 
natural tendency to blind his eyes, and to 
confirm and rivet his prejudices against the 
truth. Blameless in his outward conduct, and 
having no open immorality to charge himself 
with, his acquaintance had been with men of 
the same stamp, who trusted in themselves that 
they were righteous, and despised the doc- 
trines of the cross. Such were all who, from 
his earliest days, he had been used to proposo 
to himself as patterns for his imitation. Not 
to go farther back, such was the clergyman 
under whom he received the first rudiments 
of his education ; such was the schoolmaster, 
under whom he was prepared for the Univer- 
sity; and such were all the most admired 
characters there, with whom he was most am- 
bitious of being connected. He lamented 
the dark and Christless condition of the place 
where learning and morality were all in all, 
and where, if a man was possessed of these 
qualifications, he neither doubted himself, nor 
did anybody else question, the safety of his 
state. He concluded, therefore, that to show 
the fallacy of such appearances, and to root 
out the prejudices which long familiarity with 
them had fastened upon his mind, required a 
more than ordinary exertion of divine power 
and that the grace of God was more clearly 
manifested in such a work than in the con 

* The Rev. Martin Madao. 



LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 



489 



version of one like me, who had no outside 
righteousness to boast of, and who, if I was 
ignorant of the truth, was not, however, so 
desperately prejudiced against it. 

His thoughts, I suppose, had been led to 
this subject, when, one afternoon, while I was 
writing by the fire-side, he thus addressed 
himself to the nurse, who sat at his bolster. 
" Nurse, I have lived three-and-thirty years, 
and I will tell you how I have spent them. 
When I was a boy, they taught me Latin ; 
and because I was the son of a gentleman, 
they taught me Greek. These I learned un- 
der a sort of private tutor ; at the age of 
fourteen, or thereabouts, they sent me to a 
public school,' where I learned more Latin 
and Greek, and, last of all, to this place, 
where I have been learning more Latin and 
Greek still. Now has not this been a blessed 
life, and much to the glory of God ?" Then 
directing his speech to me, he said, "Brother, 
I was going to say I was born in such a year; 
but I correct myself : I would rather say, in 
such a year I came into the world. You 
know when I was born." 

As long as he expected to recover, the 
souls committed to his care were much upon 
his mind. One day, when none was present 
but myself, he prayed thus : — " O Lord, thou 
art good ; goodness is thy very essence, and 
thou art the fountain of wisdom. I am a 
poor worm, weak and foolish as a child. 
Thou has entrusted many souls unto me ; 
and I have not been able to teach them, be- 
cause I knew thee not myself. t Grant me 
ability, O Lord, for I can do nothing without 
thee, and give me grace to be faithful." 

In a time of severe and continual pain, he 
smiled in my face, and said, " Brother, I am 
as happy as a king." And, the day before 
he died, when I asked him what sort of a 
night he had had, he replied, a " sad night, 
not a wink of sleep." I said, "Perhaps, 
though, your mind has been composed, and 
you have been enabled to pray 2" " Yes," 
said he, "I have endeavored to spend the 
hours in the thoughts 'of God and prayer ; I 
have been much comforted, and all the com- 
fort I got came to me in this way." 

The next morning I was called up to be 
witness of his last moments. I found him 
in a deep sleep, lying perfectly still, and 
seemingly free from pain. I stayed with 
him till they pressed me to quit his room, 
and in about five minutes after I had left him 
he died ; sooner, indeed, than I expected, 
though for some days there had been no hopes 
of his recovery. His death at that time was 
rather extraordinary ; at least, I thought it 
so ; for, when I took leave of him the night 
before, he did not seem worse or weaker than 
he had been, and, for aught that appeared, 
might have lasted many days ; but the Lord, 
in whose sight the' death of hi s saints is pre- 



cious, cut short his sufferings, and gave him 
a speedy and peaceful departure. . 

He died at seven in the morning, on the 
20th of March, 1770. 

Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
At random, without honor, hope, or peace. 
From Thee is all that soothes the lite of man 
His high endeavor and his glad success, 
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
But, oh ! Thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown. 
Give what Thou canst, without. Thee we are poor, 
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. 
The Task, book v. 



The fraternal love and piety of Cowper 
are beautifully illustrated in this most inter- 
esting document. No sooner had he experi- 
enced the value of religion, and its inward 
peace and hope, in his own heart, than he 
feels solicitous to communicate the blessing 
to others. True piety is always diffusive. 
It does not, like the sordid miser, hoard up 
the treasure for self-enjoyment, but is en- 
riched by giving, and impoverished only by 
withholding. 

Friends, parents, kindred, first it will embrace. 
Our country next, and next all human race. 

The prejudices of his brother, and yet his 
mild and amiable spirit of forbearance ; the 
zeal of Cowper, and its final happy result, 
impart to this narrative a singular degree of 
interest. Others would have been deterred 
by apparent difficulties ; but true zeal is full 
of faith, as well as of love, and does not con- 
template man's resistance, but God's mighty 
power. 

The example of John Cowper furnishes 
also a remarkable evidence that a man may 
be distinguished by the highest endowments 
of human learning, and yet be ignorant of 
that knowledge which is emphatically called 
life eternal. 

The distinction between the knowledge 
that is derived from books, and the wisdom 
that cometh from above, is drawn by Cowper 
with a happy and just discrimination. 

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, 
Have ofttimes no connexion — knowledge dwells 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, 
The mere materials with which wisdom builds, 
'Tillsmooth'd, and squar'd, and fitted to its place 
Does but encumber whom it seems t" enrich. 
Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 

The Task, book vi. 

It is important to know how far the powers 
of human reason extend in matters of re 
ligion, and where they fail. Reas Dn can ex 



490 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



amine the claims of a <?ivine revelation, and 
determine its authority by the most conclu- 
sive arguments. It can expose error, land 
establish the truth ; attack infidelity within 
ts own entrenchments, and carry its victori- 
ous arms into the very camp of the enemy. 
It can defend all the outworks of religion, 
and vindicate its insulted majesty. But at 
this point its powers begin to fail. It cannot 
confer a spiritual apprehension of the truth 
in the understanding, nor a spiritual recep- 
tion of it in the heart. This is the province 
of grace. "No man knovveth the things of 
God, but the Spirit of God, and he to whom 
the Spirit hath revealed them.' 1 '' " Not by might, 
nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the 
Lord." Men of learning endeavor to attain 
to the knowledge of divine things, in the 
same manner as they acquire an insight into 
human things, that is, by human power and 
human teaching. Whereas divine things re- 
quire a divine power and divine teaching. 
"All thy children shall be taught of God." 
Not that human reason is superseded in its 
use. Man is always a rational and moral 
agent. But it is reason, conscious of its own 
weakness, simple in its views, and humble in 
its spirit, enlightened, guided, and regulated 
in all its researches by the grace and wisdom 
that is from above. John Cowper expresses 
the substance of this idea in the following 
emphatic words : — " I have learned that in a 
moment, which I could not have learned by 
reading many books for many years. I have 
often studied these points, and studied them 
with great attention, but was blinded by pre- 
judice ; and unless He, who alone is worthy 
to unloose the seals, had opened the book to 
me, I had been blinded still." 

The information supplied respecting John 
Cowper by preceding biographers is brief and 
scanty. The following are the particulars 
which the Editor has succeeded in obtaining. 
John Cowper was considered to be one of 
the best scholars' in the university of Cam- 
bridge. In 1759, he obtained the Chancel- 
lor's gold medal, and in 1762 gained both the 
prizes for Masters of Arts. He was subse- 
quently elected Fellow of Bennet, and be- 
came private tutor to Lord Walsingham. 
He translated the four first books of the 
Henriade ; his brother William, it is said, 
the four next (Ha) ley states two cantos, 
only, and alleges Cowper's own authority for 
the fact); E. B. Green, Esq., a relative of Dr. 
Green, the master of the college ,* the ninth, 
and Robert Lloyd the tenth book. It ap- 
peared in Smollett s edition, in 1762, but the 
writer has not been able to procure a copy. 
He aftewards engaged in an edition of Apol- 
'onius Rhodius,f when his sedentary and 

* He was afterwards Bishop of Lincoln, 
f The subject of this poem is the Argonautic expedition 
ODder Jason. 



studious habits produced an imposthume in 
the liver, which brought him to his grave in 
the thirty-third year of his age. He was 
buried at Foxton in Cambridgeshire, of which 
place he was rector. 

Dr. Bennet, Bishop of Cloyne, in a lettei 
addressed to Dr. Parr, bears the following 
honorable testimony to his merits. 

"to the rev. dr. parr. 

u Emanuel College, April 18, 1770. 
"We have lost the best classic and mosl 
liberal thinker in our university, Cowper of 
Ben'et. He sat so long at his studies, that 
the posture gave rise to an abscess in his 
liver, and he fell a victim to learning. The 
goddess has so few votaries here, that she 
resolved to take the b^st offering we had, 
and she employed Apollonius Rhodius to 
strike the blow. I write the author again, 
Apollonius Rhodius. Cowper had labored 
hard at an edition of him for several years 
and applied so much to his favorite author 
that it cost his life. I shall make a bold 
push for his papers. Yet, what omens I 
have ! Melancthon did but think of a trans- 
lation, and he died. Hoeltzlinus owns he 
wrote the latter part of the annotations, 
manu lassissima et corpore imbecillo, and 
died before he put the last hand to them. 
Cowper collates all the editions, makes a 
new translation, and follows his predecessors. 
One would think that by some unknown fate, 
or by some curse of his master, Callimachus, 
our poet was doomed to remain in obscurity 
His enemies may say, that the dulness ol 
his verses bears some resemblance to the 
torpedo, and benumbs or kills whatever 
touches it." — See Dr. Parr's Works, vol. 
vii. p. 75. 

The following elegy was also composed in 
honor of his memory by one of his fellow 
collegians, which evinces the high sense en- 
tertained of his character and classical attain- 
ments. • 

ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OP THE REV. JOHN COWPER, OP 

CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 

BY A FELLOW COLLEGIAN. 

Where art thou Moschus, and where are we alii * 
Thou from high Helicon's muse-haunted hill 
Advanc'd to Sion's mount celestial : 
Encumber'd we with earth and sorrow still. 

Before the throne thy golden lyre is strung, 
Seraphic descant fills thy raptur'd mind : 
On Camus' willows pale our harps are hung; 
Our footsteps linger on his banks behind. 

The chosen Lawgiver from Pisgah's hill 

His wond'ring eyes around in transport threw: 

On earthly Canaan having gaz'd his fill, 

To heavenly Canaan's glories quick withdrew. 



So. nurst in sacred and in classic lore, 
With varied science at its fountain fraught, 
From human knowledge to th' exhaustless store 
Of heaven he stole to taste the fuller draught. 

What boots the beauty of the classic page, 
And wh.it philosophy's sublimer rule, 
What all th' advances of maturing age, 
If dies the wise man as departs the fool 1 

Master of Greece's thundering eloquence, 
The force of Roman grace to him was known ; 
The well-turn'd period, join'd with manly sense: 
Sage criticism mark'd him for her own. 

Ah ! what avails the power of harmony, 
The poet's melody, the critic's skill ! 
The verse may live, yet must the maker die ; 
Such is stern Atropos's solemn will. 

Sweet bard of Rhodes,* bright star of Egypt's 

court. 
Whom Ptolemy's discerning bounty drew 
To guard fair science in the learned resort, 
Thy muse alone can pay the tribute due. 

Thy muse, that paints Medea's frantic love, 
And all tb°. transports of the enamor'd maid, 
Who dared each strongest obstacle remove, 
Her reason and her art by love betray 'd. 

While hardy Jason ploughs old Ocean's plain, 
First of the Greeks to tempt Barbarian seas, 
With him we share the dangers of the main, 
Nor dread the crash of the Symplegades. 

Vain wish ! thy deathless heroes should commend 
Thy verse to fame, and bid it sweeter sound. 
He who thy name's revival did intend, 
In bloom of youth is buried under ground.^ 

So. nested on the rock, the parent dove 
Sees down the cleft her callow offspring fall; 
Full little may its chirping plaints behove; 
She only hears, but cannot help its call.:}: 

Like the fair swan of fame, the grateful muse 
Assiduous tends on Lethe's barren bank, 
To raise the name that envious time would lose, 
Where many millions erst forever sank. 

While yet I wait, thou ever-honor'd shade, 
Some better bard should the memorial rear, 
The debt to friendship due by me be paid. 
Weak in poetic fire, in friendship's zeal sincere. 

We add the letter addressed by Cowper to 
iiis friend Mr. Unwin on this occasion. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

March 31, 1770. 

My dear Friend, — I am glad that the Lord 
made you a fellow-laborer with us in praying 
my dear brother out of darkness into light. 
It was a blessed work ; and when it shalf be 
your turn to die in the Lord, and to rest from 

• Apollonius Rhodius. He had the charge of the cele- 
brated library at Alexandria in the time of Ptolemy. 

t John Cowper. 

X The idea in this stanza is taken from the 4th book of 
Apollonius, line 1298.» 



all yov.r labors, that wo/k shall follow you 
I once entertained hopes of his recovery 
from the moment wher it pleased God to 
give him light in his soul, there was, for foul 
days, such a visible amendment in his bod} 
as surprised us all. Dr. Glynn himself was 
puzzled, and began to think that all his 
threatening conjectures would fail of their 
accomplishment. I am well satisfied that it 
was thus ordered, not for his own sake, but 
for the sake of us, who had been so deeply 
concerned for his spiritual welfare, that he 
might be able to give such evident proof of 
the work of God upon his soul as should 
leave no doubt behind it. As to his friends 
at Cambridge, they knew nothing of the mat- 
ter. He never spoke of these things but to 
myself; nor to me, when others were within 
hearing, except that he sometimes would 
speak in the presence of the nurse. He 
knew well to make the distinction between 
those who could understand him and those 
who could not ; and that he was not in cir- 
cumstances to maintain such a controversy 
as a declaration of his new views and senti- 
ments would have exposed him to. Just 
after his death, I spoke of this change to a 
dear friend of his, a fellow of the college, 
who had attended him through all his sick- 
ness with assiduity and tenderness. But he 
did not understand me. 

I now proceed to mention such particulars 
as I can recollect ; and which I had not op- 
portunity to insert in my letters to Olney; 
for I left Cambridge suddenly, and sooner 
than I expected. He was deeply impressed 
with a sense of the difficulties he should 
have to encounter, if it should please God to 
raise him again. He saw the necessity o* 
being faithful, and the opposition he should 
.expose himself to by being so. Under the 
weight of these thoughts, he one day broko 
out in the following prayer, when only my 
self was with him. "O Lord, thou art light; 
and in thee is no darkness at all. Thou art 
the fountain of all wisdom, and it is essen- 
tial to thee to be good and gracious. I am a 
child ; O Lord, teach me how I shall conduct 
myself! Give me the wisdom of the serpent 
with the harmlessness of the dove ! Bless 
the souls thou hast committed to the care of 
thy helpless miserable creature, who has no 
wisdom or knowledge of his own, and make 
me faithful to them, for thy mercy's sake !" 
Another time he said, "How wonderful it is, 
that God should look upon man; and how 
much more wonderful that he should look 
upon such a worm as I am ! Yet he does 
look upon me, and takes the exactest notice 
of all my sufferings. He is present, and I 
see him (I mean, by faith), and he stretches 
out his arms towards me," — and he then 
stretched out his own — " and he says, 'Come 
unto me all ye that are weary and heaw 



192 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



laden, and I will give you rest!'" He smiled 
and wept, when he spoke these words. When 
tie expressed himself upon these subjects, there 
was a weight and dignity in. his manner such 
as I never saw before. He spoke with the 
greatest deliberation, making a pause at the 
end of every sentence ; and there was some- 
thing in his air and in the tone of his voice 
inexpressibly solemn, unlike himself, and un- 
ike what I had ever seen in another. 

This had God wrought. I have praised 
him for his marvellous act, and have felt a 
; oy of heart upon the subject of my brother's 
death, such as I never felt but in my own 
conversion. He is now before the throne; 
and yet a little while and we shall meet, never 
more to be divided. YOurs, my very dear 
friend, with my affectionate respects to your- 
self and yours, W. C. 

Postscript. — A day or two before his death, 
he grew so weak and was so very ill, that he 
required continual attendance, so that he had 
neither strength nor opportunity to say much 
to me. Only the day before, he said he had 
had a sleepless, but a composed and quiet 
night. I asked him, if he had been able to 
collect his thoughts. He replied, " All night 
long I have endeavored to think upon God 
and to continue in prayer. I had great peace 
and comfort ; and what comfort I had came 
in that way." When I saw him the next 
morning at seven o'clock he was dying, fast 
asleep, and exempted, in all appearance, from 
the sense of those pangs which accompany 
dissolution. I shall be glad to hear from 
you, my dear friend, when you can find time 
to write, and are so inclined. The death of 
my beloved brother teems with many useful 
lessons. May God seal the instruction upon 
our hearts ! 



Besides the documents already inserted, 
Cowper translated the narrative of Mr. Van 
Lier, a minister of the Reformed Church, at 
the Cape of Good Hope. Mr. Van Lier was 
born in Holland, in the year 1764; his mother 
was pious, and brought him up in the prin- 
ciples of true religion, endeavoring from his 
early youth to direct his mind to the ministry. 
After the usual course of education, he en- 
tered at the University, where, though he did 
not neglect his studies, he forgot his God. 
His talents seem to have been considerable, 
his imagination ardent, but his passions not 
under sufficient control ; and, with all the ele- 
ments that might have formed a great char- 
acter, by the misapplication of his time, op- 
portunities, and faculties, he became vicious, 
and subsequently a sceptic. God, in mercy, 
exercised him with a series of trials, but the 
impression was always ultimately effaced — 
till at length the blow reached him which 



lacerated his heart, extinguished all his hope-j 
of earthly happiness, and thus finally brought 
him to God. Among the excellent books 
that contributed to dispel his errors, he speci- 
fied the " Cardiphonia" of Newton with grate- 
ful acknowledgment. It is justly considered 
the best of all his works, and has been made 
eminently useful. Mr. Van Lier subsequently 
wrote a narrative, in Latin, containing an ac- 
count of his conversion, and of all the re- 
markable events of his life. This narrative 
he addressed to Newton, at whose request it 
was translated by Cowper. It was published 
under the title of " The Power of Grace il- 
lustrated." Interesting as are its contents, 
yet, as they comprise nearly two hundred 
pages, we find it impossible to allow space 
for its insertion, though it is well entitled to 
appear in a separate form. 

He concludes his narrative in these words : 
." O happy and glorious hour, when I shall be 
delivered from all trouble and sin, from this 
body of death, from the wicked world, and 
from the snares of Satan ! when I shall ap- 
pear before my Saviour without spot, and 
shall so behold his glory, and be filled with 
his presence, as to be wholly and forever en- 
gaged in adoration, admiration, gratitude, and 
love !" 

As we are now drawing towards the con- 
clusion of this undertaking, some reference 
is due to names once honored by Cowper's 
friendship, and perpetuated in his works. A 
distinguished place is due to the Rev. Wil- 
liam Cawthorne Unwin. His death has been 
recorded in a former volume, as well as his 
burial in the cathedral at Winchester. A 
Latin epitaph was composed on this occasion 
by Cowper, but objected to by a relative of 
the family, because it adverted to his mother's 
early prayers that Goi might incline his heart 
to the ministry. We subjoin the epitaph 
which replaced" the pious and classical com- 
position of Cowper. 

IN MEMORY OP THE 

REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN, M.A. 

RECTOR OF STOCK, IN ESSEX. 

He was educated at the Charter-house, in Lon- 
don, under the Rev. Dr. Crusius ; and, having 
gone through the education of that school, he 
was at an early period admitted to Christ's College, 
Cambridge. He died in this city, the 29th of 
Nov., 1786. aged forty-one years, leaving a widov? 
and three young children. 

(The above is on a flat stone in the cathedral.) 

And is this the memorial of the interesting 

and pious Unwin ? Shall no monumental 

i tablet record that he was "the endeared and 

| valued friend of Cowper?" We have seldom 

j seen so cold and jejune an epitaph to com. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



491 



memorate a man distinguished by so many 
virtues, and associated with such interesting 
ecollections. We are happy in being en- 
abled to furnish a testimony more worthy of 
him in the following letter, addressed by 
Cowpei* to the present, Lord Carrington. 

TO ROBERT SMITH, ESQ.* 
Weston-Underwood, near Olney, Dec. 9, 1786. 

My dear Sir, — We have indeed suffered a 
great loss by the death of our friend Unwin ; 
and the shock that attended it was the. more 
severe, as till within a few hours of his de- 
cease there seemed to be no very alarming 
symptoms. All the account that we re- 
ceived from Mr. Henry Thornton, who acted 
like a true friend on the occasion, and with a 
tenderness toward all concerned that does 
him great honor, encouraged our hopes of 
his recovery ; and Mrs. Wnwin herself found 
him on her arrival at Winchester so cheerful, 
and in appearance so likely to live, that her 
letter also seemed to promise us all that we 
could wish on the subject. But an unex- 
pected turn in his distemper, which suddenly 
seized his bowels, dashed all our hopes, and 
deprived us almost immediately of a man 
whom we must ever regret. His mind hav- 
ing been from his infancy deeply tinctured 
with religious sentiments, he was always im- 
pressed with a sense of the importance of the 
great change of all ; and, on former occasions, 
when at any time he found himself indisposed, 
was consequently subject to distressing alarms 
and apprehensions. But in this last instance 
his mind was from the first composed and 
easy: his fears were taken away, and suc- 
ceeded by such a resignation as warrants us 
in saying, " that God made all his bed in his 
sickness." I believe it is always thus, where 
the heart, though upright towards God, as 
Unwinds assuredly was, is yet troubled with 
the fear of death. When death indeed comes, 
he is either welcome, or at least has lost his 
sting. 

I have known many such instances, and 
his mother, from the moment that she learned 
with what tranquillity he was favored in his 
last illness, for that very reason expected it 
would be his last. Yet not with so much 
certainty, but that the favorable accounts of 
him at length, in a great measure, superseded 
that persuasion. 

She begs me to assure you, my dear sir, 
how sensible she is, as well as myself, of the 
kindness of your inquiries. She suffers this 
stroke, not with more patience and submis- 
sion than I expected, for I never knew her 
hurried by any affliction into the loss of 
either, but in appearance at least, and at 
present, with less injury to health than I ap- 
prehended. She observed to me, after read- 

* Afterwards created Lord Carrington. 



ing your kind letter, that though it was 3 
proof of the greatness of her loss, yet it af 
forded her pleasure, though a melancholy 
one, to see how much her son had been loved 
and valued by such a person as yourself. 

Mrs. Unwin wrote to her daughter-in-law 
to invite her and ^he family hither, hoping 
that a change of scene, and a situation so 
pleasant as this, may be of service to her, 
but we have not yet received her answer. I 
have good hope, however, that, great as her 
affliction must be, she will yet be able to 
support it, for she well knows whither to re- 
sort for consolation. 

The virtues and amiable qualities of our 
friends are the things for which we most 
wish to keep them; but they are, on the 
other hand, the very things that in particular 
ought to reconcile us to their departure. We 
find ourselves sometimes connected with, and 
engaged in affection, too, to a person of 
whose readiness and fitness for another life 
we cannot have the highest opinion. The 
death of such men has a bitterness in it, 
both to themselves and survivors, which, 
thank God, is not to be found in the death of 
Unwin. 

I know, my dear sir, how much you valued 
him, and I know also, how much he valued 
you. With respect to him, all is well ; and 
of you, if I should survive you, which, per- 
haps, is not very probable, I shall say the 
same. 

In the meantime, believe me, with the warm- 
est wishes for your health and happiness, and 
with Mrs. Unwin's affectionate respects, 
Yours, my .dear sir, 

Most faithfully, W. C. 

Joseph Hill, Esq., survived Cowper many 
years, and lived to an advanced age. He 
formerly resided in Great Queen Street, and 
afterwards in Saville Row, and was eminent 
in his profession. His widow r survived him? 
and died in the year 1824. The letters ad- 
dressed to him by Cowper were arranged by 
Dr. Johnson, and ornamented with a suitable 
binding. They were finally left as an heir- 
loom at Wargrave, near Henley. Joseph 
Jekyll, Esq., the barrister, once celebrated 
for his wit and humor, succeeded to that 
property, and still survives at the moment in 
which we are writing. 

Samuel Rose, Esq., after a comparatively 
short career of professional eminence, was 
seized with a rheumatic fever, w r hich he 
caught at Horsham, in attending the Sussex 
sessions, in 1804. He died in the thirty- 
eighth year of his age, declaring to those 
around him, " I have lived long enough to 
review my grounds for confidence, and I have 
unspeakable comfort in assuring those I love 
that I am daily more reconciled in leaving 
the world now than at a later period." 



194 



COWPER S WORKS. 



Cowper's sentiments of him are expressed 
jq the following letter. 

TO JOSEPH HELL, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, Dec. 2, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I told you lately, that I 
had an ambition to introduce to your ac- 
quaintance my valuable friend, Mr. Rose. 
He is now before you. You will find him a 
person of genteel manners and agreeable 
conversation. As to his other virtues and 
good qualities, which are many, and such as 
are not often found in men of his years, I 
consign them over to your own discernment, 
perfectly sure that none of them will escape 
you. I give you joy of each other, and re- 
main, my dear old friend, most truly yours, 

W. C. 

In recalling the name of Lady Austen, it 
s sufficient to entitle her to grateful remem- 
brance, that it is to her we are indebted for 
the first suggestion of the poem of " The 
Task," that lasting monument of the fame of 
Cowper. It has also been recorded that she 
subsequently furnished the materials for the 
story of John Gilpin. 

Her maiden name was Richardson; she 
was married very early in life to Sir Robert 
Austen, Baronet, and resided with him in 
France, where he died. After this event, she 
lived with her sister Mrs. Jones, the wife of 
the Rev. Mr. Jones, minister of Clifton, near 
Olney. It was thus that her intercourse 
commenced with Cowper. In a subsequent 
period, she was married to a native of France, 
M. de TardifF, a gentleman, and a poet, who 
has expressed, in some elegant French verses, 
his just and deep sense of her accomplished, 
endearing character. In visiting Paris with 
him in the course of the summer of 1802, 
she sank under the fatigue of the excursion, 
and died in that city on the 12th of August. 
ft is due to the memory of this lady to res- 
cue her name from a surmise injurious to her 
sincerity and honor ; and the Editor rejoices 
that he possesses the means of affording her 
what he conceives to be an ample justifica- 
tion. In the published correspondence of 
the late respected Alexander Knox, Esq., a 
doubt is expressed how far she is not charge- 
able with endeavoring to supplant Mrs. Unwin 
in the affections of Cowper. It is already 
recorded that a breach occurred between the 
two ladies, and that the poet, with a sensi- 
tiveness and delicacy that reflect the highest 
credit on his feelings and judgment, relin- 
quished the society of Lady Austen from 
that period. They never met again. There 
is no direct charge conveyed by Mr. Knox, 
but there is evidently expressed the language 
of doubt and surmise. Local impressions 
are often the best interpretation of question- 
able occurrences. With this view the Editor 



has endeavored to trace the nature of the 
rupture, on the spot, by a communication 
with surviving parties. From these sources 
of inquiry it appears that Lady Austen was 
a woman of great wit and vivacity, and pos- 
sessed the power of exciting much interest 
by her manner and conversation — that Mrs. 
Unwin, who was of a more sedate and quiet 
character, seeing the ascendancy that Lady 
Austen thus acquired, became jealous, and 
that a rupture was the consequence. Mr. 
Andrews, an intelligent inhabitant of Olney, 
who is my informant, assured me that such 
was the substance of the case, and that the 
rest was mere surmise and conjecture. On 
my asking him whether he knew the impres- 
sions on Mr. Scott's mind with regard to 
this event, he added, " that he himself asked 
Mr. Scott the question, and that his reply 
was, ' Who can be surprised that two women 
should be continually in the society of one 
man, and quarrel sooner or later with each 
other V " The blunt and honest reply of Mr. 
Scott we apprehend to be the best commen- 
tary on the transaction. There may be jeal- 
ousies in friendship as well as in love ; and 
the possibility of female rivalship is sufficient 
to account for the rupture, without the inter- 
vention of either friendship or love. 

From Mrs. Livius, of Bedford, formerly Miss 
Barham,* and intimate with Newton, Cowper 
and Lady Austen, I learn that, though the 
vivacity and manner of Lady Austen weak- 
ened the belief of the depth of her personal 
religion, yet Mrs. Livius never entertained 
any doubt of its reality. Her own deep per- 
sonal piety during a long life, and her just 
discrimination of character, are sufficient to 
give weight and authority to her judgment. 

I take this opportunity of expressing her 
conviction that the loss of Lady Austen's so- 
ciety was a great privation to Cowper ; that 
she both enlivened his spirits and stimulated 
his genius, and that the jealousy of Mrs. Un- 
win operated injuriously by compelling him 
to relinquish so innocent a source of gratifi- 
cation. Hayley, in some lines written on 
the occasion of her death, speaks of her as 
one who 

Wak'd in a poet inspiration's flame ; 
Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask, 
And from the mind of Cowper — call'd " The 
Task." 

Of the Rev. Walter Bagot, who departed 
in the year 1806, aged seventy-five, the poet 
always spoke in the language of unfeigneM 
esteem and affection. 

Sir George Throckmorton's death has been 

* Sister of the late Joseph Foster Barham, Esq. I can- 
not mention this endeared character, with whom I have 
the privilege o f being so nearly connected, without re* 
cording my affectionate regard, and high estimation of 
her piety and rirtuea. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



499 



already recorded, and with this event the 
genius of the place may be said to have de- 
serted its hallowed retreats, for the mansion 
exists no longer. His surviving estimable 
widow, the Catharina of Cowper, resides at 
Northampton. 

Lady Hesketh, whose affectionate kindness 
to the poet must have endeared her to every 
reader, died in the year 1807, aged seventy- 
four. 

To the Editor's brother-in-law, the Rev. 
Dr. Johnson, several testimonies have already 
been borne in the course of this work. He 
was cousin to the poet, by one remove, which 
was the reason why he was usually designa- 
ted, as Cowper s kinsman, his mother having 
been the daughter of the Rev. Roger Donne, 
rector of Catfield, Norfolk, own brother to 
Cowper's mother. His unremitting and 
watchful care over the poet, for several suc- 
cessive years, and during a period marked by 
a painful and protracted malady, his generous 
sacrifice of his time, and of every personal 
consideration, that he might administer to 
the peace and comfort of his afflicted friend — 
his affectionate sympathy, and uniform for- 
getfnlness of self, in all the various relations 
of life — these virtues have justly claimed for 
Dr. Johnson the esteem and love of his 
friends, and the honorable distinction of be- 
ing ever identified with the endeared name 
of Cowper. He was rector of the united 
parishes of Yaxham and Welborne, in the 
county of Norfolk, where he preached the 
doctrines of the Gospel with fidelity, and 
adorned them by the Christian tenor of his 
life and conduct. He married Miss Livius, 
daughter of the late George Livius, Esq., 
formerly at the head of the commissariat, 
in India, during the government of Warren 
Hastings. The Editor was connected with 
him by marrying the sister of Mrs. Johnson. 
He departed in the autumn of the year 1833, 
after a short illness, and was followed to the 
grave by a crowded assemblage of his parish- 
ioners, to whom he was endeared by his 
virtues. He left his estimable widow and 
four surviving children to lament his loss. 
Cowper was engraved on his heart, and his 
Poems minutely impressed on his memory. 
Both, therefore, became a frequent theme 
of conversation ; and it is to these sources 
of information, that the writer is indebted 
for the knowledge of many facts and inci- 
dents that are incorporated in the present 
edition. 

The value which Cowper attached to the 
esteem of the Rev. W. Bull, the friend and 
travelling companion of John Thornton, Esq., 
may be seen in the following letter. It 
alludes to the approbation expressed by Mr. 
Bull on the publication of his first volume of 
poems. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL. 

March 24, 1782. 
Your letter gave me great pleasure, both 
as a testimony of your approbation and of 
your regard. I wrote in hopes of pleasing 
you, and such as you ; and though I must 
confess that, at the same time, I cast a side- 
long glance at the good liking of the world 
at large, I believe I can say it was more for 
the sake of their advantage and instruction 
than their praise. They are children ; if we 
give them physic, we must sweeten the rim 
of the cup with honey — if my book is so far 
honored as to be made the vehicle of true 
knowledge to any that are ignorant, I shall 
rejoice, and do already rejoice that it has 
procured me a proof of your esteem. 

Yours, most truly, W. C. 

Mr. Bull was distinguished by no common 
powers of mind, brilliant wit, and imagina- 
tion. It was at his suggestion that Cowper 
engaged in translating the poems of Madame 
Guion. He died, as he lived, in the hopes 
and consolations of the Gospel, and left a 
son, the Rev. Thomas Bull, who inherits his 
father's virtues. 



Wherever men have acquired celebrity by 
those powers of genius with which Provi- 
dence has seen fit to discriminate them, a 
curiosity prevails to learn all the minuter 
traits of person, habit, and real character. 
We wish to realize the portrait before our 
eyes, to see how far all the component parts 
are in harmony with each other ; or whether 
the elevation of mind which raises them 
beyond the general standard is perceptible 
in the occurrences of common life. Tell 
me, said an inquirer, writing from America, 
what was the figure of Cowper, what the 
character of his countenance, the expression 
of his eye, his manner, his habits, the house 
he lived in, whether its aspect was north or 
south, &c. This is amusing, but it shows 
the power of sympathy with which we are 
drawn to whatever commands our admira- 
tion, and excites the emotions of esteem and 
love. 

The person and mind of Cowper seem h 
have been formed with equal kindness by na ■ 
ture ; and it may be questioned if she ever 
bestowed on any man, with a fonder prodi- 
gality, all the requisites to conciliate affection 
and to inspire respect. 

He is said to have been handsome in his 
youth. His features strongly expressed the 
powers of his mind and all the sensibility of 
his heart ; and even in his declining years, 
time seemed to have spared much of its rav- 
ages, though his mind was harassed by uri. 
ceasing nervous excitement. 



496 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



He was of a middle stature, rather strong 
than delicate in the form of his limbs ; the 
color of his hair was a light brown, that of 
his eyes a bluish grey, and his complexion 
ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not 
finical ; in his diet temperate, and not dainty. 

He had an air of pensive reserve in his 
deportment, and his extreme shyness some- 
times produced in his manners an indescrib- 
able mixture of awkwardness and dignity ; 
but no person could be more truly graceful, 
when he was in perfect health, and perfectly 
pleased with his society. Towards women, 
in particular, his behavior and conversation 
were delicate and fascinating in the highest 



There was a simplicity of manner and char- 
acter in Cowper which always charms, and 
is often the attribute of reai genius. He was 
singularly calculated to excite emotions of 
esteem and love by those qualities that win 
confidence and inspire sympathy. In friend- 
ship he was uniformly faithful; and, if the 
events of life had not disappointed his fond- 
est hopes, no man would have been more 
eminently adapted for the endearments of 
domestic life. 

His daily habits of study and exercise are 
so minutely and agreeably delineated in his 
letters, that they present a perfect portrait of 
his domestic character. 

His voice conspired with his features to 
announce to all who saw and heard him the 
extreme sensibility of his heart ; and in read- 
ing aloud he furnished the chief delight of 
those social, enchanting winter evenings, 
which he has described so happily in the 
fourth book of " The Task." 

Secluded from the world as he had long 
been, he yet retained in advanced life sin- 
gular talents for conversation ; and his re- 
marks were uniformly distinguished by mild 
and benevolent pleasantry, by a strain of 
delicate humor, varied by solid and serious 
good sense, and those united charms of a 
cultivated mind, which he has himself very 
happily described in drawing the character 
of a venerable friend : 

Grave without dullness, learned without pride. 

Exact, yet not precise : though meek, keen-eyed ; 

Who, when occasion justified its use, 

Had wit. as bright as ready, to produce ; 

Could fetch from records of an earlier age, 

Or from philosophy's enlightened page, 

His rich materials, and regale your ear 

With strains, it was a privilege to hear. 

Yet, above all, his luxury supreme, 

And his chief glory, was the gospel theme : 

Ambitious not to shine or to excel, 

But to treat justly what he lov'd so well. 

But the traits of his character are nowhere 
ieveloped with happier effect than in his own 
unritings, and especially in his poems. From 



these we shall make a few extracts, and suf 
fer him to draw the portrait for himself. 

His admiration of the works of Nature : 

I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan, 
That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss 
But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd 
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
Had found me, or the hope of being free, 
My very .dreams were rural ; rural too 
The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, 
Sportive and jingling her poetic bells, 
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs. 
No bard could please me but whose lyre waa 

tun'd 
To Nature's praises. Task, book iv. 

The love of Nature's works 
Is an ingredient in the compound man, 
Infus'd at the creation of the kind. 

This obtains in all, 
That all discern a beauty in his works, [form'd 
And all can taste them : minds that have been 
And tutor'd, with a relish more exact, 
But none without some relish, none unmov'd. 
It is a flame that dies not even there 
Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds, 
Nor habits of luxurious city-life, 
Whatever else they smother of true worth 
In human bosoms, quench it or abate. 
The villas with which London stands begirt, 
Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, 
Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air, 
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheei 
The citizen, and brace his languid frame. 

Book ir. 

God seen, and adored, in the works of 
Nature : 

Not a flow'r 
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 
Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, 
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 
In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, 
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth 

Book vi. 

His fondness for retirement : 

Since then, with few associates, in remote 
And silent woods I wander, far from those 
My former partners of the peopled scene ; 
With few associates, and not wishing more. 
Here much I ruminate, as much I may. 
With other views of men and manners now 
Than once, and others of a life to come. 
I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray, 
Each in his own delusions; they are lost 
In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd 
And never won. Dream after dream ensues; 
And still they dream that they shall still succeed 
And still are disappointed. Rings the world 
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, 
And add two-thirds of the remaining half, 
And find the total of their hopes and fears 
Dreams, empty dreams. 

Book iii. 
His love for his country : 

England, with all thy faults I love thee still— 
My country ! and, while yet a nook is left, 






LIFE OF COWPER. 



4JT 



Where English minds and manners may be found, 
Shall be constraint to love thee. Tho' thy clime 
Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 
With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, 
L would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
And fields without a flower, for warmer France 
With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
"*f golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. 

Book ii. 

His humane and generous feelings : 

I was born of woman, and drew milk 
As sweet as charity from human breasts. 
I think, articulate. I laugh and weep, 
And exercise all functions of a man. 
How then should I and any man that lives 
Be strangers to each other 'I Pierce my vein, 
Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there, 
And catechise it well ; apply thy glass. 
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood 
Congenial with thine own. 

Book in. 

His love of liberty : 

Oh Liberty ! the prisoner's pleasing dream, 
The poet's muse, his passion and his theme ; 
Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurse ; 
Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse ; 
Heroic song from thy free touch acquires 
Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires : 
Place me where winter breathes his keenest air, 
And I will sing, if liberty be there ; 
And I will sing at liberty's dear feet, 
In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat. 

Table Talk. 

Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow'r, 
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
And we are weeds without it. 

Task, book v. 

His depressive malady, and the source of 
rts cure : 

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
Long since ; with many an arrow deep infix'd 
My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There was I found by One, who^had himself 
Been hurt by the archers. In his side be bore, 
And- in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.* 
With gentle force soliciting the darts [live. 

He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me 

Book iii. 

The employment of his time, and design 
of his life and writings : 

Me therefore studious of laborious ease, 

Not slothful, happy to deceive the time, 

Not waste it. and aware that human life 

Is but a loan to be repaid with use, 

When He shall call his debtors to account, 

From whom are all our blessings ; husiness finds 

E'en here: while sedulous I seek t' improve. 

At least neglect not. or leave unemploy'd 

The mind he gave me ; driving it, though slack 

Too oft, and much impeded in its work 

By causes not to be divulg'd in vain. 

To its just point — the service of mankind. 

Book iii. 

* The Saviour. 



But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek. 
In vain the poet sings, and the world hears 
If he regard not, though divine the theme. 
"Pis not in artful measures in the chime 
And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, 
To charm his ear whose eye is on the heart 
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain 
Whose approbation prosper — even mine. 

Book vi. 

The office of doing justice to the poetica* 
genius of Cowper has been assigned to an 
individual so well qualified to execute it with 
taste and ability, that the Editor begs thus 
publicly to record his acknowledgments and 
his unmingled satisfaction. The bowers of 
the muses are not unknown to the Rev. John 
Cunningham, and, in contemplating the po- 
etical labors of others, he might, with a small 
variation, justly apply to himself the well- 
known exclamation, "Ed anch'io son pit- 
tore."* 

All, therefore, that seems necessary, is 
simply to illustrate the beauties of Cowper's 
poetry in the same manner as we have ex- 
hibited his personal character. We shall 
present a brief series of poetical portraits. 

The following portrait of Lord Chatham 
is drawn with great force and spirit : 

In him Demosthenes was heard again ; 
And freedom taught him her Athenian strain. 
She clothed him with authority and awe, 
Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law 
His speech, his form, his action, full of grace, 
And all his country beaming in his face, 
He stood, as some inimitable hand 
Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 
No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose 
Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose, 
And every venal stickler for the yoke 
Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. 

Table Talk. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds : 

There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes 
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 
All her reflected features. 

Bacon the sculptor : 

Bacon there 
Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.f 

John Thornton, Esq. : 

Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds 
A streaui of liberal and heroic deeds ; 
The swell of pity, not to be confined 
Within the scanty limits of the mind, 
Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands 
A rich deposit, on the bordering lands : 
These have an ear for his paternal call, 
Who make some rich for the supply of all ; 

* Attributed to Correggio, after contemplating tb» 
works of Raphael. 

t Alluding to the monument of Lord Chatham, in Wert 
minster Abbey. 

32 



498 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ. 
And Thornton is familiar with the joy. 

Charity. 

The martyrs of the Reformation : 

Their blood is shed 
In confirmation of the noblest claim, 
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, 
To walk with God ; to be divinely free, 
To soar and to anticipate the skies. 
Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown, 
Till persecution dragg'd them into fame, 
And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their ashes flew 
■ — No marble tells us whither. With their names 
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : 
And history so warm on meaner themes, 
Is cold on this. She execrates indeed 
The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, 
But gives the glorious suff 'rers little praise. 

Task, book v. 

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress : 

thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing 
Back to the season of life's happy spring, 

1 pleas'd remember, and, while mem'ry yet 
Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget ; 
Ingenious dreamer', in whose well-told tale 
Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail ; 
Whose hum'rous vein, strong sense, and simple 

style, 
May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
Witty, and well-employ'd, and, like thy Lord, 
Speaking in parables his slighted word : 
I name thee not. lest so despis'd a name 
Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame : 
Yet, e'en in transitory life's late day, 
That mingles all my brown with sober grey, 
Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road, 
And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 

Tirocinium. 

Brown, the rural designer :* 

Lo !, he comes — 
Th' omnipotent magician, Brown, appears. 
Down falls the venerable pile, th" abode 
Of our forefathers, a grave whisker'd race ; 
But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, 
But in a distant spot ; where more expos'd 
It may enjoy th' advantage of the north, 
And agueish east, till time shall have transform'd 
Those naked acres to a shelt'ring grove. 
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn, 
Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise, 
And streams, as if created for his use, 
Pursue the track of his directing wand, 
Sinuous or straight now rapid and now slow, 
Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades, 
E'en as he bids. Th' enraptur'd owner smiles. 
'Tis finish'd. And yet, finish'd as it seems, 
Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show. 
\ mine to satisfy the enormous cost. 

The Task, book iii. 

London : 

Oh ! thou resort and mart of all the earth, 
Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind, 
And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
Much that I love and much that I admire, 

* Brown, in Cowper's time, was the great designer in 
Die art el laying out grounds for tbe nobility and gentry. 



And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair, 
That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh, 
And I can weep, can hope, and yet despond, 
Peel wrath and pity when I think on thee ! 
Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once, 
And thou hast many righteous. Well for thee— 
That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 
And therefore more obnoxious at this hour, 
Than Sodom in her day had power to be, 
For whom God heard his Abram plead in vatrt. 

THE CONTRAST. 

Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, 
With which she gazes at yon burning disk 
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots 1 
In London. Where her implements exact, 
With which she calculates, computes, and scans 
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 
Measures an atom, and now girds a world'? 
In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 
So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, 
As London— opulent, enlarg'd, and still 
Increasing London 1 Babylon of old 
Not more the glory of the earth than she, 
A more accomplished world's chief glory now. 

Book i. 

The gin-palace : 

Behold the schools, in which plebeian minds, 

Once simple, are initiated in arts, 

Which some may practise with politer grace, 

But none with readier skill. 'Tis here they learn 

The road that leads from competence and peace. 

To indigence, and rapine, till at last 

Society, grown weary of the load, 

Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. 

But censure profits little ; vain th' attempt 

To advertise in verse a public pest, 

That, like the filth with which the peasant feccts 

His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. 

Th' excise is fatten 'd with the rich result 

Of all this riot, and ten thousand casks, 

Forever dribbling out their base contents, 

Touch'd by the Midas, finger of the state, 

Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. 

Drink, and be mad then ; 'tis your country bids ! 

Gloriously drunk, obey th' important call ! 

Her cause demands the assistance of your 

throats ; 
Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. 

Task, book iv. 

We add a few short passages : 

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude ! 
But grant me still a friend in my retreat 
Whom I may whisper — solitude is sweet. 

Not to understand a treasure's worth . 
Till time has stolen away the slighted good 
Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 
And makes the world the wilderness it is. 

Not a year but pilfers as he goes 
Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep 

When one that holds communion with the skies 
Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, 
And once more mingles with us meaner things, 
'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings; 
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide 
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



499 



We must not omit a most splendid speci- 
men of Cowper's poetic genius, entitled the 
"Yardley Oak." It is an unfinished poem, 
and supposed to have been written in the 
year 1791, and laid aside, without ever hav- 
ing been resumed, when his attention w r as 
engrossed with the edition of Milton. What- 
ever may be the history of this admirable 
fragment, it has justly acquired for Cowper 
the reputation of having produced one of the 
richest and most' highly finished pieces of 
versification that ever flowed from the pen 
of a poet. Its existence even was unknown 
both to Dr. Johnson and Hayley, till the 
latter discovered it buried in a mass of pa- 
pers. We subjoin in a note a letter ad- 
dressed by Dr. Johnson to Hayley, contain- 
ing further particulars.* 

Though this fragment is inserted among 
the poems, we extract the following passages, 
as expressive of the vigor and inspiration of 
true poetic genius. 

Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball 
Which babes might play with ; and the thievish 

jay, 

.Seeking her food with ease might havepurloin'd 

The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 

Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 

And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 

But Fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 

Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 

Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, 

With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd 

The soft receptacle, in which, secure. 

Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 

So Fancy dreams. 

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the 

woods ; 
And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 
For owls to roost in ! Once thy spreading boughs 
O'erhung the champaign : and the numerous 

flocks. 
That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm. 

* " January 6, 1804. 
" Among our dear Cowper's papers, I found the fol- 
lowing memorandum : 

YARBLEY OAK IN -GIRTH, FEET 22, INCHES 6|. 
THE OAK AT VARDLEY LODGE, FEET 28, INCHES 5. 

As to Yardley Oak, it stands in Yardley Chase, where 
the Earls of Northampton have a fine seat. It was a 
favorite walk of oar dear Cowper, and he once carried 
me to see that oak. I believe it is five miles at least 
from Weston Lodge. It is indeed a noble tree, per- 
fectly sound, and stands in an open part of the Chase, 
with only one or two others near it, so as to be seen to 
advantage. 

"With respect to the oak at Yardley Lodge, that is 
quite in decay — a pollard, and almost hollow. I took an 
excrescence from it in the year 1791, and if 1 mistake not, 
Cowper told me it is said to have been an oak in the time 
of the Conqueror. This latter oak is on the road to the 
former, but not above half so far from Weston Lodge, 
;ieing only just beyond Killick and Dimjlederry. This is 
»11 I can tell you about the oaks. They were old ac- 
quaintances, and great favorites of the bard. How re- 
kneed 1 am to hear that he has immortalized one of them 
In blank verse! Where could those one hundred and 
Ibcty-one lines lie hid ? Till this very day I never heard 
*.' ti!i3ir existence, nor suspected it." 



No flock frequents thee now. 

While thus through all the stages thou hast 

push'd 
Of treeship — first a seedling hid in grass; 
Then twig ; then sapling ; and as cent'ry roll'd 
Slow after century, a giant bulk 
Of girth enormous with moss-cushion'd root 
Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
With prominent wens globose — till at the last, 
The rottenness which time is charg'd to inflict 
On other mighty ones, found also thee. 

Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
Could shake thee to the root — and time has been 
When tempests could not.* 

With these acknowledged claims to pop- 
ular favor, it is pleasing to reflect on the 
singular moderation of Cowper amidst the 
snares of literary fame. His motives seem 
to have been pure and simple, and his main 
design to elevate the character of the age, 
and to glorify God. He was not insensible 
to the value of applause, when conferred by a 
liberal and powerful mind, but even in this 
instance it was a subdued and chastened feel 
ing. A more pleasing evidence could not be 
adduced than when Hayley, in one of his 
visits to Weston, brought a recent newspa- 
per containing a speech of Mr. Fox, in which 
that distinguished orator had quoted the fol- 
lowing impressive verses on the Bastille, in 
the House of Commons. 

Ye horrid tow'rs, the abode of broken hearts; 

Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, 

That monarchs have supplied from age to age 

With music, such as suits their sov'reign ears, 

The siiihs and groans of miserable men! 

There's not an English heart that would not leap 

To hear that. ye were fall'n at last; to know, 

That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd 

In forging chains for us, themselves were free/f 

Mrs. Unwin discovered marks of vivid sat- 
isfaction, Cowper smiled, and was silent.]; 

* The late Samuel Whitbread, Esq., was an enthusias- 
tic admirer of the poetry of Cowper, and solicitous to 
obtain a relic of the Yardley Oak. Mr Bull, of Newport 
Pagnel, promised to send "a specimen, but some littl* 
delay having occurred, Mr. Whitbread addressed to hin> 
tiie following verses, which, emanating from such a man., 
and not having met the public eye, will, we are per- 
suaded, be considered as a literary curiosity, and of no 
mean merit. 

" Send me the precious bit of oak, 
Which your own hand so fondly took 
From off the consecrated tree, 
A relic dear to you and me. 
To many 'twould a bauble prove 
Nor worth the keeping.— Those who love 
The teeming grand poetic mind, 
Which God thought fit in chains to bind, 
< Of dreadful, dark despairing gloom ; 
Yet left within such ample room, 
For coruscations strong and bright : 
Such beams of everlasting light, 
As make men envy, love, and dread, 
The structure of that wondrous head, 
Must prize a bit of Judith's stem, 
That brought to light that precious gem — 
The fragment: which in verse sublime 
Records her honors to all time." 
t These lines were written prophetically, and previ- 
ously to the event. 
X The late Lord Erskine was a frequent reciter of pa* 



&00 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



We have mentioned how little Cowper 
was elated by praise. We shall now state 
now much he was depressed by unjust cen- 
sure. His first volume of poems had been 
severely criticised by the Analytical Review. 
His feelings are recorded in the following 
(hitherto unpublished) letter to John Thorn- 
ton, Esq. 

Olney, May 21, 1782. 

Dear Sir, — You have my sincere thanks 
for your obliging communication, both of my 
book to Dr. Franklin, and of his opinion of 
it to me. Some of the periodical critics, I 
understand have spoken of it with contempt 
enough ; but, while gentlemen of taste and 
candor have more favorable thoughts of it, 
I see reason to be less concerned than I have 
been about their judgment, hastily framed 
perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice 
against the subjects of which it treats. 

Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's 
sentiments reached me very seasonably, just 
when, in a fit of despondence, to which no 
man is naturally more inclined, I had begun 
to regret the publication of it, and had con- 
sequently resolved to write no more. For 
if a man has the fortune to please none but 
his friends and their connexions, he has rea- 
son enough to conclude that he is indebted 
for the measure of success he meets with, not 
to the real value of his book, but to the par- 
tiality of the few that approve it. But I now 
feel myself differently affected towards my 
favorite employment; for which sudden 
change in my sentiments I may thank you 
and your correspondent in France, his entire 
unacquaintedness with me, a man whom he 
never saw, nor will see, his character as a 
man of sense and condition, and his acknow- 
ledged merit as an ingenious and elegant 
writer, and especially his having arrived at 
an age when men are not to be pleased they 
know not why, are so many circumstances 

sages from Cowper's poems. The Editor is indebted to 
E. H. Barker, Esq., of Thetford, for the following anec- 
dote which was communicated to him by Joseph Jekyll, 
Esq., the eminent counsellor. 

Mr. Jekyll was dining with Lord Oxford, and among 
the company were Dr. Parr, Home Tooke, Lord Erskine, 
and Mr. W. Scott (brother to Lady Oxford). Lord Er- 
Bkine recited, in his admirable manner, the verses of 
Oowper about the Captive, without saying whose they 
Were; Dr. Parr expressed great admiration of the verses, 
and said that he had never heard of them or seen them 
Oefore; he inquired whose they were? H. Tooke said, 
•'Why, Cowper's." Dr. Parr said he had never read 
Cowper's poems. " Not read Cowper's poems ?" said 
Home Tooke, " and you never will, I suppose, Dr. Parr, 
till they are turned into Greek?" When the company 
went into the drawing-room. Lady Oxford presented 
Dr. Parr with a small edition of Cowper's Poems, and 
Mr. Jekyll was desired by her ladyship to write in the 
book, "From the Countess of Oxford to Dr. Parr." 
Home Tooke wrote also underneath, " Who never read 
the book," and signed his name to it: all present signed 
their names and added some remark, and among the rest 
VV. Scott. At the sale of Dr. Parr's books, this volume 
fetched about five pounds, beirg considered valuable and 
curious, as the W. Scott sign 3d was supposed to have 
been Sir W. Scott (since Lor 1 Stowell). Lord Stowell 
afterwards took great pains k contradict the report. 



that give a value to his commendations, and 
make them the most flattering a poor poet 
could receive, quite out of conceit with 
himself, and quite out of heart with hi?: 
occupations. 

If you think it worth your while, when yon 
write next to the Doctor, to inform him how 
much he has encouraged me by his approba- 
tion, and to add my respects to him, you will 
oblige me still further ; for next to the plea- 
sure it would afford me to hear that it has 
been useful to any, I cannot have a greater 
so far as my volume is in question, than to 
hear it has pleased the judicious. 

Mrs. Unwin desires me to. add her respect, 
ful compliments. 

I am, dear sir, 
Your affectionate and most obedient servant, 

W. C. 

To John Thornton, Esq. 
Clapham, Surrey. 

Through this harsh and unwarrantable ex- 
ercise of criticism, the world might never 
have possessed the immortal poem of " The 
Task," if an American Philosopher had not 
awarded that honorable meed of just praise 
and commendation, which an English critic 
thought proper to withhold. 

But it is not merely the poetic claims of 

Cowper which have earned for him so just a 

j title to public gratitude and praise. It would 

be unjust not to bestow particular notice on 

a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and 

i one that friendship ought especially to honor, 

| as she is indebted to it for a considerable 

J portion of her happiest sources of delight — 

I we mean the talent of writing letters. 

Those of Pope are generally considered to 
I be too labored, and deficient in ease. Swift 
| is frequently ill-natured and offensive. Gray 
j is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either 
l in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmth 
; of affection. 

The letters of Cowper are not distinguished 

i by any remarkable superiority of thought or 

j diction: it is rather the easy and graceful 

flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic 

, love of nature, his touching representations 

i of common and domestic life, and above all, 

the ingenuous disclosure of the recesses of 

his own heart, that constitute their charm 

! and excellence. They form a kind of bio- 

| graphical sketch, drawn by his own hand. 

j His poetry proclaims the author, his corre- 

| spondence depicts the man. We see him in 

his walks, in the privacy of his- study, in his 

daily occupations, amid the endearments of 

home, and with all the qualities that inspire 

friendship, and awaken confidence and love. 

We learn what he thought, what he said, his 

views of men and manners, lis personal 

habits and history. His ideas usually flow 

without premeditation. All is natural and 



LIFE OF COWPER 



501 



easy. There is no display, no evidence of 
conscious superiority, no concealment of his 
real sentiments. He writes as he feels and 
thinks, and with such an air of truth and 
frankness, that he seems to stamp upon the 
letter the image of his mind, with the same 
fidelity of resemblance that the canvass re- 
presents his external form and features. We 
see in them the sterling good sense of a man, 
the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and 
the winning softness and, delicacy of a wo- 
man's feelings. He can write upon any sub- 
ject, or write without one. He can 'embellish 
what is real by the graces of his imagination, 
)r invest what is imaginary with the sem- 
olance of reality. He can smile or he can 
weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with 
fervor on the loveliness of nature, talk 
about his tame hares, or cast the overflow- 
ings of an affectionate heart at the shrine of 
friendship. His correspondence is a wreath 
of many flowers. His letters will always be 
read with delight and interest, and by many, 
perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals 
of his poems. They are justly entitled to 
the eulogium which we know to have 'been 
pronounced upon them by Charles Fox, — 
that of being " the best specimens of episto- 
lary excellence in the English language." 

Among men distinguished by classical taste 
and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever 
be considered as elegant specimens of com- 
position, and formed after the best models of 
antiquity. 

There is one exquisite little gem, in Latin 
haxameters, entitled "Votum," beginning 
thus : 

O matutini rores, auraeque salubres, 

which we believe has never received an Eng- 
lish dress. A gentleman of literary taste has 
kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, 
which we are happy to subjoin in a note.* 
We trust the author will excuse the insertion 
of his name. 

We have thus endeavored to exhibit the 
lingular versatility of Cowper's genius, and 

* THE WISH. 

u Ye verdant hills, ye soft umbrageous vales, 
Fann'd by light Zephyr's health-inspiring gales ; 
VTe woods, whose boughs in rich luxuriance wave ; 
Ye sparkling rivulets, whose waters lave 
Those meads, where erst, at morning's dewy prime, 
(Reckless of shoals beneath the stream of Time,) 
My vagrant feet your flowery margin press'd, 
Whilst Heaven gave back the sunshine in my breast :— - 
O, would the powers that rule my wayward lot 
Restore me to the lone paternal cot ! 
There, far from folly, fraud's ensnaring wiles, 
The world's dark frown, or still more dangerous smiles, 
Let peaceful duties peaceful hours engage ; 
Till, winding gently down the slope of age, 
Tranquil I mark life's swift declining day 
Fling deeper shades athwart ray lessening way 
And pleased, at last put off this mortal coil, 
4gain to mirfgle with it kindred soil 
Beneath 1 he grassy turf, or silent stone ; 
Unseen tl e path I trod, my resting-place unknown." 

T. Ostler. 



the combination of powers not often united 
in the same mind. All that now remains it 
to consider the consecration of these fac tltiei 
to high and holy ends; and the influence of 
his writings on the literary, the moral, and 
religious character of his age. 

The great end and aim which he proposed 
to himself as an author has already been 
illustrated from his writings ; we add one 
more passage to show the sanctity of his 
character. 

Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot 
And cut up all my tollies by the root, 
I never trusted in an arm but thine, 
Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine. 
My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled, 
Were but the feeble efforts of a child ; 
Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part, 
That they proceeded from a grateful heart. 
Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood, 
Forgive their evil, and accept their good. 
I cast them at thy feet — my only plea 
Is what it was — dependence upon thee : 
While struggling in the v.ale of tears below, 
Tliat never failed, nor shall it fail me now. 

Truth. 

We confess that we are edified by this 
simple, yet sublime and holy piety. 

It was from this source that Cowper drew 
the materials that have given to his writings 
the character of so elevated a morality. Too 
seldom, alas! have poets consecrated their 
powers to the cause of divine truth. In mod- 
ern times, especially, we have witnessed a 
voluptuous imagery and appeal to the pas- 
sions, in some highly-gifted writers, which 
have contributed to undermine public moral 
ity, and to tarnish the purity of female minds. 
But it is the honorable distinction of Cow- 
per's poetry, that nothing is to be found to 
excite a blush on the cheek of modesty, nor 
a single line that requires to be blotted out. 
He has done much to introduce a purer and 
more exalted taste; he is the poet of nature, 
the poet of the heart and conscience, and, 
what is a still higher praise, the poet of 
Christianity. He mingled the waters of 
Helicon with the hallowed streams of Siloam, 
and planted the cross amid the bowers of the 
muses. Johnson, indeed, has remarked, that 
religion is not susceptible of poetry* If this 

* The reasons which he assigns, in justification of this 
opinion, are thus specified. 

"Let no pious ear be offended if I advance, in opposi- 
tion to many authorities, that poetical devotion cannot 
often please. The doctrines of religion may indeed b*' 
defended in a didactic poem; and he who has the happy 
power of arguing in verse will not lose it because his sub- 
ject is sacred. A poet may describe the beauty and the 
grandeur of nature, the flowers of the spring, and the 
harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide, and the 
revolutions of the sky, and praise the Maker for his 
works, in lines which no reader shall lay aside. The 
subject of the disputation is not piety, but the motives to 
piety ; that of the description is not God, but the works 
of God. 

"Contemplative piety, or the intercouse between God 
and tha human soul, cannot be poetical. Man, admitted 
to implore the mercy of his Creator, and plead the merit* 



502 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



be true, it can arise only from the want of 
religious authors and religious readers. But 
we venture to deny the position, and to 
maintain that religion ennobles whatever it 
touches. In architecture, what building ever 
rivalled the magnificence of the temple of 
Jerusalem, St. Peter's in Rome, or the im- 
posing grandeur of St. Paul's ? In painting, 
what power of art can surpass the Transfig- 
uration of a Raphael, the Ecce Homo of a 
Guido, or the Elevation and Descent of the 
Cross in a Rubens ? In poetry, where shall 
we find a nobler production of human genius 
than the Paradise Lost ? Again, let us listen 
to the language of the pious Fenelon : 

" No Greek or Latin poetry is comparable 
to the Psalms. That which begins, ' The 
God of gods, the Lord hath spoken, and hath 
called up the earth,' exceeds whatever human 
imagination has produced. Neither Homer, 
nor any other poet, equals Isaiah, in describ- 

of his Efedeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry 
can confer. 

" The essence of poetry is invention ; such invention 
a9, by producing something unexpected, surprises and 
delights. The topics of dev6tion are few, and being few 
are universally known ; but, few as they are, they can 
be made no more ; they can receive no grace from nov- 
elty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of ex- 
pression. 

' k Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to 
the mind than the things themselves afford. This effect 
proceeds from the display of those parts of nature which 
attract, and the concealment of those which repel the im- 
agination. But Religion must be shown as it is : sup- 
pression and addition equally corrupt it ; and such as it 
is. it is known already. 

" From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good 
poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his compre- 
hension and elevation of his fancy ; but this is rarely to 
be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion. What- 
ever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in 
the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot 
be exalted ; Infinity cannot be amplified ; Perfection can- 
uot be improved. 

"The employments of pious meditation are Faith, 
Thanksgiving, Repentance, and Supplication. Faith, in- 
variably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with dec- 
orations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy 
effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is 
confined to a few modes, and is to be felt, rather than 
expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of 
the Judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. 
Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through 
many topics of persuasion; but supplication to God can 
only cry for mercy. 

"Of sentiments purely religious it will be found that 
the most simple expression is the most sublime. Poetry 
loses its lustre and its power, because it is applied to 
the decoration of something more excellent than itself. 
All that pious verse can do is to help the memory and 
delight the ear, and for these purposes it may he very 
useful : but it supplies nothing to the mind. The ideas 
of Christian theology are too simple for eloquence, too 
gacred for fiction, and too majestic for ornament ; to re- 
commend them by tropes and figures, is to magnify by a 
roncave mirror the sidereal hemisphere."— See Life of 
A r aller. 

These remarks seem to be founded on very erroneous 
principles ; but having already offered our sentiments, 
we forbear any further comment, oxcept to state that we 
Drofess to belong to the school ol Cow per ; that we par- 
ticipate in the expression of his regret, m 

"Pity that Religion has so seldom found 
A skilful guide into poetic ground :" 

ind that we cordially share in his conviction, 

u The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray, 
\nd every Muse attend her on her way." 

Table Talk. 



ing the majesty of God, in whose presencl 
empires are as a grain of sand, and the whole 
universe as a tent, which to-day is set up, and 
removed to-morrow. Sometimes, as when 
he paints the charms of peace, Isaiah has the 
softness and sweetness of an eclogue; at 
others, he soars above mortal conception. 
But what is there in profane antiquity com- 
parable to the wailings of Jeremiah, when he 
mourns over the calamities of his people? or 
to Nahum, when .he foresees in spirit the 
downfall of Nineveh, under the assault of an 
innumerable army ? We almost behold the 
formidable host, and hear the arms and the 
chariots. Read Daniel, denouncing to Bel- 
shazzar the vengeance of God, ready to fall 
upon him ; compare it with the most sublime 
passages of pagan antiquity; you find noth- 
ing comparable to it. It must be added that, 
in the Scriptures, everything sustains itself; 
whether we consider the historical, the legal, 
or the poetical part of it, the proper character 
appears in all." 

It would be singular, if a subject which 
unveils to the eye of faith the glories of the 
invisible world, and which is to be a theme 
of gratitude and praise throughout eternity, 
could inspire no ardor in a poet's soul ; and 
if the wings of imagination could take flight 
to every world save to that which is eternal. 
We leave our Montgomeries to refute so 
gross an error, and appeal with confidence to 
the page of Cowper. 

We quote the following passage, to show 
that religion can not only supply the noblest 
theme, but also communicate a corresponding 
sublimity of thought and language. It is the 
glowing and poetical description of the mil- 
lennial period, commencing with — 

Sweet is the harp of prophecy. 

We have room only for the concluding por* 
tion : — 

One song employs all nations, and all cry, 
" Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us !" 
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
Shout to each other, and the mountain tops 
From distant mountains catch the flying joy ; 
Till, nation after nation taught the strain, 
Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. 
Behold the measure of the promise fill'd ; 
See Salem built the labor of a God ! 
Bright as a sun the sacred city shines ; 
All kingdoms and all princes of the earth 
Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands 
Flows into her ; unbounded is her joy, 
And endless her increase. Thy rams are there 
Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there ; 
The looms of Ormus. and the mines of Ind, 
And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. 
Praise is in all her gates : upon her walls, 
And in her streets, and in her spacious courts 
Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 
Kneels with the native of the farthest west; 
And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand, 
And worships. Her report has travell'd forth 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



50 



Into all lands. Prom every clime they come 
To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy, 

Sion ! An assembly such as Earth 

••law never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. 
Task, book vi. 

By this devotional strain of poetry, so 
adapted to the spirit of the present age, Cow- 
per is rapidly accomplishing- a revolution in 
the public taste, and creating a new race of 
readers. He is purifying the literary atmo- 
sphere from its noxious vapors. The muse 
has too long taken her flight downwards ; 
Cowper leads her to hold communion with the 
skies. He has taught us that literary celeb- 
rity, acquired at the cost of public morals, is 
but an inglorious triumph, and merits no 
better title than that of splendid infamy. His 
page has fully proved that the varied Held of 
nature, the scenes of domestic life, and the 
rich domain of moral and religious truth, are 
sufficiently ample for the exercise of poetic 
taste and fancy; while they never £iil to 
tranquillize the mind, to invigorate the princi- 
ples, and to enlarge the bounds of virtuous 
pleasure. 

The writings of Cowper have also been 
highly beneficial to the church of England. 
If he has been a severe, he has also been a 
faithful monitor. We allude to such passages 
as the following — 

There stands the messenger of truth : there stands 
The legate of the skies ! — His theme divine, 
His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
By him the violated law speaks out 
Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet 
As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. 
He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart, 
And, arra'd himself in panoply complete 
Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms 
Bright as his own. and trains, by every rule 
Of holy discipline, to glorious war, 
The sacramental host of God's elect ! [were ! 
Are all such teachers 1 Would to heaven all 
Task, book ii. 

1 vpnprnte the man, whose heart is warm, 
vViiosc hands are pure, whose doctrine and 

whose life, 
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 
That he is honest in the sacred cause. 
To such I render more than mere respect, 
Whose actions say that they respect themselves. 
But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, 
In conversation frivolous, in dress 
Extreme — 

From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, 
Preserve the church ! and lay not careless hands 
On skulls that cannot teach and will not learn. 

There was a period when the chase was not 
considered to be incompatible with the func- 
tions of the sacred office. On this subject 
Cowper exclaims, with just and indignant 
feeling — 

Is this the path of sanctity 1 Is this 

To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss 1 



Go, cast your oi'ders at your bishop's feet, 
Send your dishonor'd gown to Monmouth-street 
The sacred function in your hands is made — 
Sad sacrilege ! no function, but a trade ! 

The Progress of Error. 

The danger of popular applause : 

O popular applause ! what heart of man 

Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms 1 

The wisest and the best feel urgent need 

Of all their caution in the gentlest gales; 

But, swell'd into a gust — who then, alas ' 

With all his canvas set, and inexpert, 

And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power 

Ah, spare your idol ! think him human still. 

Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! 

Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. 

These rebukes, pungent as they are, were 
needed. The works of Mrs. Hannah More 
bear unquestionable testimony to this fact. 
But we may now record with gratitude a very 
perceptible change, and appeal to the eviden- 
ces of reviving piety among all classes of the 
clergy. 

Though the singular and mysterious malady 
of Cowper has been the occasion of repeated 
"remark, yet we cannot dismiss the subject 
without a few concluding reflections. 

In contrasting with his other letters the 
correspondence with Newton, the chosen de- 
positary of all his secret woe, it is difficult to 
recognise in the writer the same identity of 
character. His mind appears to have under- 
gone some transforming process, and the gay 
and lively tints of his sportive imagination to 
be suddenly shrouded in the gloom of a mys- 
terious and appalling darkness. We seem to 
enter into the regions of sorrow and despair, 
and to trace the terrific inscription so finely 
drawn by the poet, in his celebrated "Inferno;" 

' : Voi ch' entrate lasciate ogni speranza."* 

Ye who enter here leave all hope behind. 

In contemplating this afflicting dispensa- 
tion, and referring every event, as we must, 
to the appointment or permissive providence 
of God, we feel constrained to exclaim with 
the patriarch, " The thunder of his power who 
can understand?"^ But life, as Bishop Hall 
observes, is made up of perturbations ; and 
those seem most subject to their occurrence 
who are distinguished by the gifts of rank 
fortune, or genius. Such is the disciplin 
which the moral Governor of the world sees 
fit to employ for the purification of their pos- 
sessors! In recording the lot of genius, 
Milton, it is known, was blind, Pope was af- 
flicted with sickness, and Tasso, Swift, Smarts 
and Collins, were exposed to the aberrations 
of reason. "Moralists," says Dr. Johnson 
" talk of the uncertainty of fortune, and of 

* See the " Inferno" of Dante, where this motto is in 
scribed over the entrance into the abodes of won. 
t Job xxvi. 14. 



504 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the transitoriness of beauty; but it is yet 
more dreadful to consider that the powers of 
the mind are equally liable to change — that 
understanding may make its appearance and 
depart, that it may blaze and expire." It 
seems as if the mind were too ethereal to be 
confined within the bounds of its earthly 
prison, or that the too frequent and intense 
exercise of thought disturbs the digestive or- 
gans, and lays the foundation of hypochon- 
drical feelings, which cloud the serenity of the 
soul. It is painful to reflect how much our 
sensations of comfort and happiness depend 
on the even flow and circulation of the blood. 
But the connexion of physical and moral 
causes has been the subject of philosophical 
remark in all ages. The somewhat analogous 
case of the celebrated Dr. Johnson seems to 
have been overlooked by the preceding biog- 
raphers of Cowper. "The morbid melan- 
choly," observes Boswell, " which was lurking 
in his constitution, and to which we may as- 
cribe those peculiarities, and that aversion to 
regular life, which, at a very early period, 
marked his character, gathered such strength 
in his twentieth year, as to afflict him in a 
dreadful manner. While he was at Lichfield, 
in the college vacation, in 1729, he felt him- 
self overwhelmed with a horrible hypochon- 
dria, with perpetual irritation, fretfulness, and 
impatience ; and with a dejection, gloom, and 
despair, which made existence misery. From 
this dismal malady he never afterwards was 
perfectly relieved ; and all his labors, and all 
his enjoyments, were but temporary interrup- 
tions of its baleful influence." 

Let those to whom Providence has assigned 
a humbler path, learn the duty of content- 
ment, and be thankful that if they are enied 
the honors attendant on rank and genius, they 
are at least exempted from its trials. For 
where there are heights, there are depths ; and 
he who occupies the summit is often seen de- 
scending into the valley of humiliation. 

That a similar morbid temperament may be 
traced in the case of Cowper is indisputable ; 
nor can a more conclusive evidence be ad- 
duced than the words of his own memoir : — 
"I was struck, not long after my settlement in 
the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, 
as none but they who have felt the same can 
have the least conception of. Day and night 
I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, 
and rising up in despair."* In his subsequent 
attack, religion became an adjunct, not a cause, 
for he describes himself at that period as 
having lived without religion. The impres- 
sion under which he labored was therefore 
manifestly not suggested by a theological 
creed, but was the delusion of a distempered 
fancy. Every other view is founded on mis- 
conception, and must inevitably tend to mis- 
ead the public. 

* See page 469. 



Before we conclude the life of Cowper, 
there are some important reflections, arising 
from his unhappy malady, which we beg to 
impress on the attention of the reader. 

The fruitful source of all his misery was 
the indulgence of an over-excited state of 
feeling. His mind was never quiescent. Oc- 
currences, which an ordinary degree of self- 
possession would have met with calmness, or 
passive indifference, were to him the subject 
of mental agony and distress. His imagina- 
tion gave magnitude to trifles, till what was 
at first ideal, at length assumed the character 
of a terrible reality. He was always antici- 
pating evil ; and so powerful is the influence 
of fancy, that what we dread, we seldom fail 
to realize. Thus Swift lived in the constant 
fear of mental imbecility, and at length in- 
curred the calamity. We scarcely know a 
spectacle more pitiable, and yet more repre- 
hensible. For what is the use of reason, if 
we reject its dictates ? or the promise of the 
Spirit to help our infirmities, if we neverthe- 
less yield to their sway ? How important in 
the education of youth to repress the first 
symptoms of nervous irritability, to invigo- 
rate the principles, and to train the mind to 
habits of self-discipline, and firm reliance upon 
God ! The far greater proportion of human 
trials originate not in the appointment of 
Providence, but may be traced to the want 
of a well-ordered and duly regulated mind; 
to the ascendency of passion, and to the ab- 
sence of mental and moral energy. It is 
possible to indulge in a state of mind that 
shall rob every blessing of half its enjoyment, 
and give to every trial a double portion o? 
bitterness. 

We turn with delight to a more edifying 
feature in his character — 

His submission under this dark dispensation. 

It is easy to exhibit the triumphs of faith 
in moments of exultation and joy ; but the 
vivid energy of true faith is never more 
powerfully exemplified, than when it is left to 
its own naked exercise, unaided by the influ- 
ence of exciting causes. It is amid the deso- 
lation of hope, and when the iron enters into 
the soul — it is amid pain, depression, and 
sorrow, when the eye is suffused with tears 
and every nerve vibrates with emotion — to b6 
able to exclaim at such a moment, " Here I 
am, let him do with me as seemeth him 
good ;"* this is indeed the faith which is of 
the operation of the Spirit, which none but 
God can give, and which will finally lead to a 
triumphant crown. 

That the mind should still indulge its sor- 
rows, in moments of awakened feeling, is 
natural. On this subject we know nothing 
more touching than the manner in which 
Cowper parodies and appropriates to himseli 

* Letter to Newton, May 20, 1786. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



50t 



Milton's affecting lamentation over his own 
blindness :* 

Seasons return, but not to me returns 
God, or the sweet approach of heavenly day, 
Or sight of cheering truth, or pardon seal'd, 
Or joy, or hope, or Jesus' face divine ; 
But cloud. &c. 

To this quotation we might add the affecting 
conclusion of the poem of "The Castaway." 

We perish'd each alone ; 
But I beneath a rougher sea, 
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.f 

The overruling Providence of God is no 
less discernible in this event. 

The severest trials are not without their 
alleviation, nor the accompaniment of some 
gracious purpose. Had it not been for Cow- 
per's visitation, the world might never have 
been presented with The Task, nor the Church 
of Christ been edified with the Olney Hymns. 
He was constrained to write, in order to di- 
vert his melancholy. " Despair," he observes, 
"made amusement necessary, and I found 
poetry the mosi agreeable amusement."^ " In 
such a situation of mind, encompassed by the 
midnight of absolute despair, and a thousand 
times filled with unspeakable horror, I first 
commenced an author. Distress drove me to 
it; and the impossibility of subsisting with- 
out some employment, still recommends it."§ 
How wonderful are the ways of God, and 
what a powerful commentary on Cowper's 
own celebrated hymn — ■ 

God moves in a mysterious way, &c. 

[t will probably be found,. at the last great 
day, that the darkest dispensations were the 
most essential links in the chain of provi- 
dential dealings ; and that what we least un- 
derstood, and often contemplated with solemn 
awe on earth, will form the subject of never- 
ceasing praise in eternity. 

Whatever were ihs trials of Cowper, they 
are now terminated. 

It will be remembered that his kinsman 
saw, or thought he saw, in the features of 
his deceased friend, " an expression of calm- 
ness and composure, mingled, as it were, 
with holy surprise."|| We would not attach 
too much importance to a look, but rather 
rest our hopes of Cowper's happiness on the 
covenanted mercy and faithfulness of God. 
Still the supposition is natural and soothing; 
and we by no means think it improbable that 
the disembodied spirit might communicate to 
the earthly lineaments, in the moment of de- 
parture, the impression of its own heavenly 
oy. And O! what must have been the ex- 

* Paradise Lost, book iii. 

t See p. 464. 

j Letter to Newton, Aug. 6, 1785. 

§ Letter to Newton, May 20, 1780. 

Q See page 465. 



pression of that surprise and joy, when^as 
his immortal spirit ascended to him that gave 
it, instead of beholding the averted eye of 
an offended God, he recognized the radian*, 
smiles of his reconciled countenance, and the 
caresses of his tenderness and love — when 
all heaven burst upon his astonished view ; 
and when, amid angels, and archangels, and 
the spirits of just men made perfect, he was 
invited to bear his part in the glorious song 
of the redeemed, Thou art worthy, O Lord, 
to receive glory, and honor, and power ; for 
thou hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, 
and hast made us unto our God kings and 
priests forever and ever. 

But it is time to close our remarks on the 
Life and Writings of Cowper. It is a name 
that has long entwined itself around the 
affections of our heart, and appealed, from 
early days, both to conscience and feeling. 
We lament our inadequacy to fulfil all the 
duties of the present important undertaking 
bqt the motives which have powerfully urged 
us to engaged in it are founded on a wish to 
exhibit Cowper in accordance with his own 
Christian character and -principles ; to vindi- 
cate him from prevailing misconceptions ; and 
in imputing the gloom of depression, under 
which he labored, to its true causes, so to 
treat this delicate subject as to make it the 
occasion of sympathizing interest, and not of 
revolting and agonized feelings. The private 
correspondence, in this respect, is invaluable, 
and absolutely essential to the clear elucida 
tion of his case. Other documents have also 
been inserted that never appeared in any 
previous biography of Cowper; and private 
sources of information have been explored, 
not easily accessible to other inquirers. We 
trust this object has been attained, and the 
hope of so important a result is- a source of 
cheering consolation. The history of Cow- 
per is fruitful in the pathetic, the sublime 
and the terrible, so as to produce an effect 
that seems almost to realize the fictions of 
romance. A life composed of such materials 
cannot fail to command attention. It pos- 
sesses all the bolder lineaments of character, 
relieved by the familiar, the tender, the sport- 
ive, and the gay. Emotions art thus excited 
in which the heart loves to indulge ; for who 
does not delight alternately in the calmness 
of repose, and in the excitement of awakened 
feeling ? 

But, independently of the interest created 
by the events of Cowper's life, there is some- 
thing singularly impressive in the mechanism 
of his mind. It is so curiously wrought, and 
wonderfully made, as to form a subject for 
contemplation to the philosopher, the Chris- 
tian, and the medical observer. The union 
of these several qualifications seems neces- 
sary to analyze the interior springs of thought 
and action, to mark the character of God's 



606 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



providential dealings, and to trace the influ- 
ence of morbid temperament on the powers 
of the intellect and the passions of the soul. 
His mind presents the most wonderful com- 
binations of the grave and the gay, the social 
und the retired, ministering to the spiritual 
joy of others, yet enveloped in the gloom of 
darkness, enchained with fetters, yet vigorous 
and free, soaring to the heights of Zion, yet 
precipitated to the depths below. It resem- 
bles a beautiful landscape, overshadowed by 
a dark and impending cloud. Every moment 
we expect the cloud to burst on the head of 
the devoted sufferer ; and the awful anticipa- 
tion would be fulfilled, were it not that a 
divine hand, which guides every event, and 
without which not even a sparrow falls to the 
ground, interposes and arrests the shock. 
Upwards of twenty years expired, during 
which he was thus graciously upheld. He 
then began to sink under his accumulated 
sorrows. But it is worthy of observation, 
that during this period his mind never suf- 
fered a total alienation. It was a partial 
eclipse, not night, nor yet day. He lived 
.oiuf enough, both "for himself and others, 



sufficient to discharge all the claims of an 
affectionate* friendship, and to raise to him- 
self an imperishable name on the noble foun- 
dation of moral virtue. At length, when he 
stood alone, as it were, like a column in the 
melancholy waste ; when he was his own 
world, and the solitary agent, around which 
clung the sensations of a heart always full 
and the reflections of a mind unconscious of 
a pause — he died. But his last days and 
moments were soothed by the offices of 
Christian kindness and the most disinterested 
regard. His beloved kinsman never left him 
till he had closed his eyes in death, and till 
the disembodied spirit, at length, found the 
rest in heaven, which forever obliterated all 
its earthly sorrows. 

And there shall be no more curse, hut the 
throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it ; 
and his servants shall serve him. And they 
shall see his face ; and his name shall be in 
their foreheads. And there shall be no night 
there ; and they need no candle, neither light 
of the sun ; for the Lord God giveth them 
light; and they shall reign foreve* *nd *trr*~ 
Rev. xxii. 3 — 5. 



ON THE 

GENIUS AND POETRY OF COWPER 

BY THE REV. J. W. CUNNINGHAM, A.M., Vicar op Harrow. 



In presetting to the public the first Com- 
plete Edition of the Works of Cowper, it is 
thought desirable to prefix to the Poems a 
short dissertation on his Genius and Poetry. 
It is true that criticisms abound which have 
nearly the same object. It is true also that 
some of these criticisms are of a very high 
order of excellence. But perhaps their very 
number and merit supply a reason for adding 
at least one to the catalogue. The observa- 
tions of the different Reviewers are scattered 
over so large a number of volumes, and these 
volumes are, many of them, either of so ex- 
pensive or so ephemeral a character, that an 
essay which endeavors to collect these criti- 
cisms into a focus, and present them at once 
to the eye of the reader, is tar from superflu- 
ous. And the present critique pretends to 
little more than the accomplishment of this 
object. The writer is not ashamed to profit 
from the lab >r and genius of his predecessors 
in the same course, and to let them say for 
him, what he could not say so well for him- 
self. 

With this apology for what might other- 
wise be deemed a work of supererogation, 
ve enter upon the proposed undertaking. 

And here we must begin by observing that 
v is impossible not to be struck with certain 
peculiarities in the history of Cowper, as con- 
nected with his poetical productions. Al- 
though, as it has been truly said of him — 
* born a poet, if ever there was one," — think- 
ing and feeling upon all occasions as none 
but a poet could, expressing himself in verse 
with almost incredible facility, it does not ap- 
pear that Cowper, between the ages of four- 
teen and thirty-three, produced anything be- 
yond the most trifling specimens of his art. 
The only lines characteristic of his genius 
and peculiarities as a poet, and which, though 
composed at a distance of more than thirty 
years from the publication of " The Task," 
have so intimate a resemblance to it as to 
seem to be a page out of the same volume, 
are those written at the age of eighteen, on 
finding the heel of an old shoe. 



" This ponderous heel of perforated hide, 
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, 
Haply (Tor such its massy form bespeaks) 
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
Upbore : on ihis supported, oft he stretched, 
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, 
Flattening the stubborn clod ; till cruel time, 
(What will not cruel time 1) or a wry step, 
Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! 
He who could erst, w'th even, equal pace, 
Pursue his destin'd way, with symmetry, 
And some proportion form'd, now, on one side, 
Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boya 
Cursing his frail supporter, treach'rous prop ! 
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on." 

A few light and agreeable poems, two 
hymns written at Huntingdon, with about 
sixty others composed at Olney, are almost 
the only known poetical productions of his 
pen between the years 1749 and 1782, at 
which last period he committed his volume of 
poems in rhyme to the press. There are ex. 
amples in the physical world, of mountains 
reposing in coldness and quietness for ages ; 
and, at length, without any apparently new 
stimulus, awaking from their slumber, and 
deluging the surrounding vineyards with 
streams of fire. But it is, we believe, an un 
heard-of poetical phenomenon, for a mind 
teeming with such tendencies and capabilities 
as that of Cowper, to sleep through so long 
a period, and, at length, suddenly to awake, 
when illness and age might seem to have laid 
their palsying hand upon its energies, and 
at once to erect itself into poetical life and 
supremacy. In general, the poet either ' lisp* 
in numbers,' or begins to put forth his hidden 
powers under the exciting influence of some 
new passion or emotion — such as love, fear, 
hope, or disappointment. But how wide of 
this was the history of Cowper ! In his case, 
the muse had no infancy, but sprang full 
armed from the brain of the poet. 

But, if the tardy development of the poet- 
ical powers of our author was one peculi- 
arity in his case, the suddenness and com- 
pleteness of the development, when it did 
take place, was, under his circumstances, a 



508 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



BtiJl greater subject of surprise. In the ac- 
count of his life we learn, that, after quitting 
Westminster school, at the age of eighteen, 
he spent three years in a solicitor's office; 
and passed from thence, at' the age of twen- 
ty-one, into chambers in the Inner Temple. 
Soon after this event, he says of himself, " I 
was struck, riot long after my settlement in 
the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, 
as none but they who have felt the same can 
nave the least conception of. Day and night 
I was upon the rack,, lying down in horror, 
rising up in despair. I presently lost all rel- 
ish for the studies to which before I had been 
closely attached. The classics had no longer 
any charm for me. I had need of something 
more salutary than amusement, but I had no 
one to direct me where to find it." This de- 
jection of mind, as our readers are aware, led 
nim onward from depth to depth of misery 
and despair, till at length he was borne away, 
helpless and hopeless, in the year*1768, to an 
asylum for insane patients at St. Albans. 
Released from the awful grasp of a perverted 
imagination, chiefly by the power of that re- 
ligion, which, in spite of every fact in his his- 
tory, has been, with malignant hatred to 
Christianity, charged as the cause of his mad- 
ness, he spent the two happiest years of his 
life at Huntingdon. After this he retired 
with the Unwin family to Olney, in Bucking- 
hamshire ; and there, after passing through 
the most tremendous mental conflicts, sank 
again into a state of despondency ; from which 
he at length awoke, (if it might be called 
awaking,) not indeed to be freed from his de- 
lusions, butj whilst under their dominion, to 
delight, instruct, and astonish mankind, with 
some of the most original and enchanting 
poems in any language. The philosophical 
work of Browne, dedicated to Queen Caro- 
line, and composed, as the author says, by a 
man who had lost his " rational soul," has 
been always reputed the miracle of literature. 
But Browne's case is scarcely more remarka- 
ble than that of Cowper. That a work 
sparkling with the most childlike gayety and 
brilliant wit; exhibiting the most cheerful 
riews of the character of God, the face of na- 
ture, and the circumstances of man, should 
roceed from a writer who at the time re- 
garded God as an implacable enemy; the 
earth we live on as the mere porch to a world 
of punishment ; and human life, at least in 
his own case, as the cloudy morning of a day 
of interminable anguish — all this is to be ex- 
plained only by the fact that madness dis- 
dains all rules, and reconciles all contrarie- 
ties. His history supplies an example, not 
without its parallel, of a mind — like some 
weapon drawn from its sheath to fight a par- 
ticular battle, and then suspended on the 
walls again — called forth to accomplish an 
Important end, and then sent back again into 



obscurity. And it is no less . an evidence, 
amongst a thousand other instances, that oui 
heavenly Father "in judgment remembers 
mercy," and bestows this mitigation of the 
heaviest of all maladies, that those exposed 
to . its deadliest influence and themselves de- 
nied all access to the bright sources of 
happiness, are sometimes privileged to pour 
the streams of consolation over the path of 
others. How truly may it be said of such 
persons, " Sic vos, non vobis, mellificatis apes" 

But whilst we speak of certain peculiari- 
ties in the case of Cowper, as calculated to 
destroy all reasonable expectation of such 
poems as he has given to the public, we are 
not sure that these very peculiarities have not 
assisted to supply his poetry with some of 
its characteristic and most valuable features 
Among the qualities, for example, by which 
his compositions are distinguished, are those 
of strong sense — moderation on all the sub- 
jects most apt to throw the mind off its bal- 
ance — maturity in thought, reasoning and 
imagination — fulness without inflation — the 
" strength of the oak without its nodosities" 
— the " inspiration of the Sybil without her 
contortions" — the most profound and exten- 
sive views of human nature. But perhaps 
every one of these qualities is oftener the 
growth of age than of youth ; and is rather 
the tardy fruit of patient experience than the 
sudden shoot of untrained and undisciplined 
genius. 

In like manner, the poetry of Cowper is 
characterized by the most touching tender- 
ness, by the deepest sympathy with the suf- 
ferings of others, by a penetrating insight 
into the dark recesses of a tempted and troub- 
led heart. But where are qualities such as 
these so likely to be cultivated as in the 
shady places of a suffering mind, and in the 
school of that stern mistress who teaches us 
" from our own to melt at others' woe," and 
to administer. to others the medicines which 
have healed ourselves? A celebrated physi- 
cian is said to have inoculated himself with 
the virus of the plague, in order to practise 
with mere efficacy in the case of others, Such 
voluntary initiation in sorrow was needless 
in the case of Cowper ; — another hand had 
opened the wound which was to familiarize 
him with the deepest trials of suffering hu- 
manity. 

It is time, however, that we should pro- 
ceed to consider some of the claims of Cow 
per to the character of a poet. Large multi 
tudes have found an almost irresistible charm 
in his writings. In what peculiarities does 
this powerful influence mainly reside ? 

In order to reply to this question, we would 
first direct the attention of our readers to the 
constitution of his mind. 

And here we may enter on our work by 
observtog, that almost a 1 ! critics have regarded 



an ardent love of nature as a sine qua non in 
the constitution of a poet. And nature, 
surely, never had a more enthusiastic admirer 
than the autho • of the Task. How feelingly 
does he write on this subject ! 

" I have loved the rural walk through lanes 
Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, 
And skirted thick with intertexture firm 
Of thorny boughs ; have loved the rural walk 
O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, 
E'er since, a truant bov, I pass'd uiy bounds, 
T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames." 

When Homer describes his shepherd as 
contemplating the heavens and earth by the 
light of the moon and stars, and says, with 
his accustomed simplicity and grace, — " The 
heart of the shepherd is glad;" our author 
might seem to have sat for the portrait. Al- 
though unacquainted with nature in her sub- 
limest aspect, every point in creation appears 
to have a charm for him. To no lips would 
the strain of another poet be more appro- 
priate. 

" I care not, fortune, what you me deny ; 
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, [face ; 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening 
You cannot bar my constant feet" to trace 
The woods and lawns by living stream at eve." 

It is true, that every enthusiastic lover of 
nature is not a poet : but a man can scarcely 
rise to the dignity of that high office who has 
not a touch of this enthusiasm. Poetry is 
essentially an imitative art; and he who is 
no lover of nature loses all the finest sub- 
iects of imitation. On the contrary, this at- 
tachment, especially if it be of an ardent 
character, supplies subjects to the muse 
everywhere. Winter or summer, the wilder- 
ness and the garden, the cedar of Libanus, 
and the hyssop on the wall ; all that is dull 
and ineloquent to another has a voice for 
him, and rouses him to think, to feel, to ad- 
mire, and to speak. The following lines are 
said to have been introduced into " The 
Task," to gratify Mrs. Unwin, after the first 
draught of the poem was finished. But 
what language can exhibit a more genuine 
attachment to nature ? 

' And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 

Past lock'd in mine 

Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. 
Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, 
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up 
To serve occasion of poetic pomp, 
But genuine ; and art partner of them all." 

Nor was the delight which he derived from 
nature confined, in the case of our poet, to 
one sense. " All the sounds,-'' he writes, 
" that nature utters are delightful, at least in 
this country. I should not perhaps- find the 



roarings of lions in Africa, or of bears in 
Russia, very pleasing; but I know of no 
beast in England, whose voice I do not ac- 
count musical, save and • except only the 
braying of an ass. The notes of all oiir 
birds and fowls please me, without one ex- 
ception. I should not indeed think of keep. 
ing a goose in a cage, that I might hang him 
up in the parlor for the sake of his melody, 
but the goose upon a common, or in a farm- 
yard, is no bad performer. Seriously, how 
ever, it strikes me as a very observable in 
stance of providential kindness to man, that 
such an exact accord has been contrived be- 
tween his ear and the sounds with which, at 
least in a rural situation, it is almost every 
moment visited. The fields, the woods, the 
gardens, have each their concerts; and the 
ear of man is forever regaled by creatures 
who seem only to please themselves. Eve i 
the ears that are deaf to the Gospel are con 
tinually entertained, though without knowing 
it, by sounds for which they are solely in- 
debted to its Author."* 

It is interesting to compare with this the 
poetical expression of the same thought. 

" Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid nature . . . 

Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 

But animated nature sweeter still, 

To soothe or satisfy the human ear. 

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 

The live-long night. Nor those alone whose notes 

Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain ; 

But cawing rooks, and kites, that swim sublime 

In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; 

The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 

Another poetical quality in the mind ol 
Cowper is his ardent love of his species — a 
love which led him to contemplate, with the 
most solicitous regard, their wants, tastes, 
passions ; their diseases, and the appropriate 
remedies for them. It has been justly ob- 
served, that, if there are some who have little 
taste for the poetry which delineates only in- 
animate beings or objects, there is hardly 
any one who does not listen, with sympathy 
and delight, to that which exhibits the for- 
tunes and feelings of man. The truth is, 
we suppose, that this last order of topics is 
most easily brought home to our own busi 
ness and bosoms. Aristotle considers that 
the imitation or delineation of human action 
is one of the main objects of poetry. But if 
this be true, if the " proper study of mankind 
is man," and one of the highest offices of 
poetry be to exhibit, as upon the stage, the 
fortunes and passions of his fellow beings- 
few have attained such eminence in his art 
as Cowper. His hymns are the close tran- 

* Letter to Mr. Newton. 



010 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Bcripts of his own sou'i. His rhymed poems 
have more of a didactic character ; but they 
are for the most part exhibitions of man in 
all his attitudes of thought and action. They 
are mirrors in which every man may contem- 
plate his own mind. In^ the " Task," he 
passes every moment from the contempla- 
tion of nature to that of the being who in- 
habits this fair, though fallen, world. He 
iashes the vices, laughs at the follies, mourns 
over the guilt of his species; he spares no 
pains to conduct the guilty to the feet of 
their only true Friend, and to land the mis- 
erable amidst the green pastures and still 
waters of heavenly consolation. 

Another property in the mind of Copper, 
which has given birth to some of the noblest 
passages in his poems, is his intense love of 
freedom. The political state of this country 
was scarcely ever more degraded than at the 
period when he began to write; and every 
real patriot who could wield the pen, or lift 
the voice in the cause of legitimate and regu- 
lated freedom, had plenty to do at home. At 
the same period also the profligacy and ty- 
ranny of the privileged orders in France, and 
other of the old European dynasties, were 
such as to provoke the indignation of every 
lover of liberty. And lastly, at this time, 
that horrible traffic in human flesh, that cap- 
ital crime, disgrace, and curse of the human 
species, the Slave Trade, prevailed in all its 
horrors. How splendid are many of the 
passages scattered so prodigally through his 
poems, in which the author rebukes the crimes 
of despotism and cruelty at home or abroad, 
and claims for mankind the high privileges 
with which God, by an everlasting charter, 
had endowed them. 

What lines can breathe a deeper indigna- 
tion than those quoted with such admiration 
by Mr. Fox, in the House of Commons, on 
theBastile? 

" Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, 
Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair. 
That raonarchs have supplied, from age to age, 
With music such as suits their sovereign ears, 
The sighs and groans of miserable men ; 
There's not an English heart that would not leap 
To hear that ye were fallen at last." 

f 
And what passage in any uninspired writer is 
more noble and heart-stirring, than that on 
the decision in the case tried by the illustri- 
ous Granville Sharpe, to establish the liberty 
of all who touched the soil of England — a 
passage confessedly the foundation of the 
noblest effort of Curran, in his great speech 
on the liberty of the subject ! 

" I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 



Just estimation priz'd above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave, 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home — then why abroad J 
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
And let it circulate through ev'ry vein 
Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's pow'i 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too." 

But after all, perhaps, the peculiarity in the 
mind of Cowper, which gives the chief charm 
to his poetry, is the depth and ardor of his 
piety. 

It is impossible not to be aware of the 
severance which critics have labored to effect 
between religion and poetry, — between the 
character of the prophet and the poet : and 
that Johnson's decision is thought by some 
to be final on the subject. Cowper himself 
admits that the connection has been rare be- 
tween the two characters — as witness the 
following lines — 

" Pity religion has so seldom found 
A skilful guide into poetic ground ! [to stray, 
For flow'rs would spring where'er she deigned 
And ev'ry muse attend her in her way. 
Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, 
And many a compliment politely penn'd ; 
But, unattir'd in that becoming vest 
Religion weaves for her, and half undrest, 
Stands in the desert, shiv'ring and forlorn, 
A wintry figure like a wither'd thorn.'' 

But he does not despair of seeing some 

" Bard all fire, 
Touch'd with a coal from heaven assume the lyre 
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, 
With more than mortal music on his tongue, 
That he who died below, and reigns above. 
Inspires the song, and that his name is ' Love.' " 

Indeed no theory can have less foundation 
either in philosophy or in fact, than that po- 
etry and religion have too little in common, 
for either to gain by an attempt to unite them. 
They seem to us born for each other. And, 
so important is this topic, that, although at 
the risk of repeating what has been said else- 
where, it may be well for a moment, to dwell 
upon it. 

The theory which endeavors to secure a 
perpetual divorce between religion and po- 
etry has not the authority of the great critics 
of antiquity. Longinus maintains, in one 
place, that " he who aims at the reputation 
of a sublime writer must spare no labor to 
educate his soul to grandeur, and to impreg- 
nate it with great and generous ideas." And 
he affirms, in another, that " the faculties of 
the soul will grow stupid, the spirit be lost, 
and good sense and genius lie in ruins, when 



HIS GLNIUS AND POETRY, 



511 



the care and study of man is engaged about 
the mortal and worthless part of himself, 
and he has ceased to cultivate virtue, and 
polish up the nobler part, his soul." Quin- 
tilian has a whole chapter to prove that a 
great writer must be a good man. And the 
greatest modern critics hold the same lan- 
guage. But, perhaps, in no passage is the 
truth upon this subject more nobly expressed, 
and a difficulty connected with it more ably 
explained, than in the following verses of a 
poem now difficult of access : 

11 But, of our souls ' the high-born loftier part, 
TY ' ethereal energies that touch the heart; 
Ct nceptions ardent, laboring thought intense, 
Creative fancy's wild magnificence; 
And all the dread sublimities of song 
— These Virtue, these to thee alone belong. 
ChhTd by the breath of Vice, their radiance dies, 
And brightest burns, when lighted at the skies ; 
Like vestal lamps, to purest bosoms giv'n, 
And kindled only by a ray from heav'n."* 

Nor does this sentiment stand on the mere 
authority of critics ; but appears to be founded 
on just views of the constitution of our na- 
ture. Lighter themes can be expected to 
awaken only light and transient feelings in 
the bosom. The profounder topics of relig- 
'on sink deeper; touch all the hidden springs 
of thought and action ; and awaken emotions, 
which have all the force and permanence of 
the great principles and interests in which 
they originate. 

To us, no assertion would seem to have 
less warrant, than that taste suffers by its al- 
liance with religion. The proper objects of 
taste are beauty and sublimity ; and if (as a 
modern critic seems to us to have incontro- 
vertibly established) beauty and sublimity do 
not reside in the mere forms and colors of 
the objects we contemplate, but in the asso- 
ciations which they suggest to the mind, it 
cannot be questioned that the associations 
suggested to a man of piety, exceed both in 
beauty and sublimity those of every other 
class. God, as a Father, is the most lovely 
of all objects — God, as an avenger, is the 
most terrible; and it is to the religious man 
exclusively, that this at once most tender and 
most terrible Being is disclosed, in all the 
beauty and majesty of holiness, by every ob- 
iect which he contemplates — 

" Prsesentiorem conspicimus Deum 
Per invias rupes. fera per juga, 
Clivosque praeruptos sonantes, 
Inter aquas, neinorumque noctem." 

Or, as the same sentiment is expressed by 
Cowper, 

" His are the mountains, and the valleys his 
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 

* Grunt's (now Lord Glenelg) prize poem on " Resto- 
«Sion of Learning in the East.'' 



With a propriety that none can feel, 
But who, with filial confidence inspired, 
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
And smiling say, — ' My Father made them all !' 

It is striking to what an extent the great* 
est poets of all ages and countries have called 
in religion, under some form or other, to their 
assistance. How are the Iliad and Odyssey 
ennobled by their mythological machinery ; 
by the scales of Fate, the frown of Jove, and 
the intercession of Minerva ! How anxiously- ■ 
does Virgil labor to give a moral and relig 
ious character to his GeorgLcs and ^Eneid ' 
And how nobly do these kindred spirits, by 
a bold fiction bordering upon truth, display 
the eternal mansions of joy and of misery, 
of reward and of punishment; thus disclos- 
ing, not by the light of revelation, but by the 
blended flashes of genius and tradition, the 
strongest incentives to virtue, and the most 
terrific penalties of crime. 

The same may be affirmed of many of our 
own most distinguished poets ; of " the sage 
and serious Spenser," and the immortal au- 
thor of "the Paradise Lost" himself. Noi 
can we hesitate to trace the deep interest 
continually excited by the poetry of Cowper 
in great measure, to the same source. Though 
ofcen careless in the structure of his verse ; 
though sometimes lame, and lengthy, and 
prosaic in his manner; though frequently 
employed about unpopular topics ; he is per- 
haps the most popular, with the exception of 
one, of all the English poets: and we be- 
lieve that the main source of his general ac- 
ceptance is the fact that he never fails to in- 
troduce the Creator into the scenes of his 
own universe; that," by the soarings of his 
own mind, he lifts us from earth to Ijeaven, 
and " makes us familiar with a world unseen ;" 
that he draws largely from the mine of Scrip- 
ture, and thus exhibits the majesty and love 
of the Divine Being, in words and imagery 
which the great object of his wonder and love 
Himself provides. 

It is wholly needless for us to refer to any 
particular parts of the works of our author, 
as illustrative of his deep and sanguine spirit 
of piety. That spirit breathes through every 
line and letter. It is, if we may so speak, 
the animating soul of his verses. The mind 
of the Christian reader is refreshed, in every 
step of- his progress, by the conviction that 
the songs thus sung on earth were taught 
from Heaven ; and that, in resigning himself 
to the sweetest associate for this world, he 
is choosing the very best guide to another. 
Indeed, few have been disposed to deny to 
Cowper the highest of all poetical titles — 
that of The Poet of Christianity. In this 
field he has but one rival, the author of the 
" Paradise Lost." And happily the provinces 
which they have chosen for themselves within 
the sacred enclosure are, for the most par* 



612 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



so distinct, that it is scarcely necessary to 
bring them into comparison. The distin- 
guishing qualities of Milton are a surpassing 
elevation of thought and energy of expres- 
sion, which leave the mind scarcely able to 
breathe under the pressure of his majesty, 
courage, and sublimity. The main defect of 
his poetry, as has been justly stated by an 
anonymous critic, is " the absence of a charm 
neither to be named nor defined, which would 
render the whole as lovely as it is beautiful, 
and as captivating as it is sublime." " His 
poetry," it is added by the same critic, "will 
be ever praised by the many, and read by the 
few. The weakest capacity may be offeaded 
by its faults, but it requires a genius equal 
to his own to comprehend and enjoy all his 
merits. 

" Cowper rarely equate Milton in sublimity, 
to which his subjects but seldom led; he ex- 
cels him in easy expression, delicate pleas- 
antry, and generous satire ; and he resembles 
him in the temperate use of all his transcend- 
ent abilities. He never crushes his subject 
by falling upon it, nor permits his subject to 
crush him by falling beneath it. Invested 
with a sovereign command of diction, and en- 
■oying unlimited freedom of thought, he is 
never prodigal of words, and he never riots 
amidst the exuberance of his conceptions; 
his economy displays his wealth, and his mod- 
eration is the proof of his power ; "his richest 
phrases seem the most obvious expression of 
his ideas, and his mightiest exertions are made 
apparently without toil. This, as we have 
already observed, is one of the grandest char- 
acteristics of Milton. It would be difficult 
to name a third poet of our country who 
could claim a similar distinction. Others, 
like Cowley, overwhelm their theme with 
their eloquence, or, like Young, sink exhaust- 
ed beneath it, by aiming at magnificent, but 
unattainable compression ; a third class, like 
Pope, whenever they write well, write their 
best, and never win but at full speed, and 
with all their might; while a fourth, like 
Dryden and Churchill, are confident of their 
strength, yet so careless of their strokes, that 
when they conquer, it seems a matter of 
course, and when they fall, a matter of no 
consequence, for they can rise again as soon 
as they please. Milton and Cowper alone 
appear always to walk within the limits of 
their genius, yet up to the height of their 
great argument. We are not pretending to 
exalt them above all other British poets ; we 
nave only compared them together on one 
point, wherein they accord with each other, 
md differ from the rest. But there is one 
feature of resemblance between them of a 
nobler kind. These good and faithful ser- 
vants, who had received ten talents each, nei- 
ther buried them in the earth, nor expended 
Jiem for their own glory, nor lavished them 



in profligacy, but occupied them for their Mas. 
ter's service ; and we trust have both entered 
into his joy. Their unfading labors, (not sub- 
ject to change, from being formed according 
to the fashion of this world, but being of 
equal and eternal interest to man in all ages,) 
have disproved the idle and impious position 
which vain philosophy, hating all godliness, 
has endeavored to establish, — that religion 
can neither be adorned by poetry, nor poetry 
ennobled by religion."* 

Having thus noticed some of those grand 
peculiarities in the mind of Cowper, which 
appear to have mainly contributed to place 
him among the highest order of poets, we 
proceed to point out some subordinate quali- 
fications, without which, those already re- 
ferred to would have failed to raise him to 
his present elevation. Even the buoyant spir- 
it of a poet has certain inferior members by 
which it is materially assisted in its upward 
flight. 

In the first place, then, he was one of the 
most simple and natural of all writers. With 
the exception of the sacred volume, it would 
perhaps be impossible to name any composi- 
tions with so large a proportion of simple 
ideas and Saxon monosyllables. He began 
to be an author when Pope, with his admira- 
ble critic Johnson, had established a taste for 
all that was most ornate, pompous, and com- 
plicated in phraseology. But, with due re- 
spect for the genius and power of this class 
of writers, he may be said to have hewn out 
for himself a new path to glory. It has been 
justly said by an accomplished modern critic 
and poet, that, " between the school of Dry- 
den and Pope, with their few remembered 
successors, not one of whom ranks now above 
a fourth-rate poet; for Young, Thomson, 
Goldsmith, Gray, and Collins, though flour- 
ishing in the interval, were not of their school, 
but all, in their respective ways, originals;— 
between the school of Dryden and Pope, and 
our undisciplined, independent contempora- 
ries, Cowper stands as having closed the age 
of the former illustrious masters, and com- 
menced that of the eccentric leaders of the 
modern fashions in song. We cannot stop 
to trace the affinity which he bears to either 
of these generations, so dissimilar from each 
other; but it would be easy to show how lit- 
tle he owed to his immediate forerunners, and 
how much his immediate followers have been 
indebted to him. All the cant phrases, all the 
technicalities, of the former school he utterly 
threw away, and by his rejection of them they 
became obsolete. He boldly adopted caden- 
ces of verse unattempted before, which though 
frequently uncouth, and sometimes scarcely 

* Eclectic Review. This criticism it has been ascer 
lained is from the pen of Mr. James Montgomery ; and 
the desire inseparably to connect what, is so just and ftbla 
with the works of Cowper has been the inducement 
notwithstanding its length, to introduce it lure. 



HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 



513 



reducible to rhythm, .vere not seldom ingeni- 
ously significant, and signally energetic. He 
feared not to employ colloquial, philosophi- 
cal, judicial idioms, and forms of argument, 
and illustrations, which enlarged the vocabu- 
lary of poetical terms, less by recurring to 
obsolete ones, (which has been too prodigally 
done since,) than by hazardous, and generally 
happy innovations of more recent origin, which 
have become graceful and dignified by usage, 
though Pope and his imitators durst not have 
touched them. The eminent adventurous re- 
vivers of English poetry about thirty years 
ago, Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, 
in their blank verse, trod directly in the steps 
of Cowper, and, in their early productions at 
least, were each, in a measure, what he made 
them. Our author may be legitimately styled 
the father of this triumvirate, who are, in 
truth, the living fathers of the innumerable 
race of moderns, whom no human ingenu- 
ity could well classify into their respective 
schools."* 

The simplicity of Cowper as a thinker, ex- 
aminer, and writer, is unquestionably one of 
his greatest charms. He constantly reminds 
us of a highly-gifted and intelligent child. 
In all that he says and does, there is a total 
absence of all plot and stratagem, of all pre- 
tensions to think profoundly, or write finely ; 
though, without an effort, he does both. His 
manner is to invite you to walk abroad with 
him amidst the glories of nature ; to fix at 
random on some point in the landscape; to 
display its beauties or its peculiarities — to 
touch on some feature which has, perhaps, 
altogether escaped your own eye — to pour 
out the simplest thoughts in the simplest 
language — and to make you feel that never 
man before had so sweet, so moral, so de- 
vout, so affectionate, so gifted, so musical a 
companion. The simplicity of his style is, 
we believe, considering its strength, without 
a parallel. No author, perhaps, has done 
more to recover the language of our country 
from the grasp and tyranny of a foreign idiom, 
and to teach English people to speak in Eng- 
lish accents. In some instances, it may be 
granted, that he is somewhat more colloquial 
and homely than the dignity of his subject 
warrants. But for offences of this kind he 
makes the amplest compensation, by leading 
us to those " wells of undefiled English," at 
which he had drunk so deeply, and whence 
alone the pure streams of our national com- 
position are to be drawn. 

It is next to be noticed, as to the style of 
Cowper, that it is as nervous as it is clear and 
unpretending. It is impossible to compare 
the works of Addison, and others of the sim- 
ple class of writers, with Johnson, and those 
of the opposite class, without feeling that 
what they gain in simplicity they often lose 
* Montgomery's E9say on Cowper's Poems. 



in strength and power. But the language of 
Cowper is often to the full as vigorous and 
masculine as that of Sbakspeare. Bring a 
tyrant or a skive-driver before him for judg- 
ment ; and the a.\c of the one and the scourge 
of the other are not keener weapons than the 
words of the poet. 

It would be difficult co find in any writer a 
more striking example of nervous phrase 
ology than we have in the well-known lines 

'■ But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedged be- 
tween 
; Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheekf 
Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
Than all invective, is his bold harangue. 
While through that public organ of report 
He hails the clergy ; and defying shame. 
Announces to the world his own and theirs ! 
He teaches those to read, whom schools di« 

missed 
And colleges, untaught : sells accent, tone 
And emphasis in soore, and gives to pray'J 
Th' ada°Uo and andante it demands. 
He grinds divinity of other days 
Down into modern use ; transforms old print 
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts. 
Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware 1 
O name it not in Gath ! — It cannot be. [akl. 

That grave and learned clerks should need such 
He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll ; 
Assuming thus a rank unknown before — 
Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church !" 

In the next place, it will not be questioned, 
we think, by any reader of the preceding let- 
ters, that Cowper was a ivii. of the very high- 
est order — and this quality is by no means 
confined to his prose, but enters largely into 
everything that he writes. No author sur- 
prises us more frequently with rapid turns 
and unexpected coincidences. The mock 
sublime is one of his favorite implements; 
and he employs it with almost unrivalled 
success. There is also a delicacy of touch 
in his witticisms which is more easily felt 
than described. And his wit has this noble 
singularity, that it is never derived from 
wrong sources, or directed to wrong ends. 
It never wounds a feeling heart, or deepens 
the blush upon a modest cheek. Other wits 
are apt to dip tdieir vessels in any stream 
which presents itself; Cowper draws only 
from the purest fountains. It has been said 
of Steme, that he hides his pearls in a ditch, 
and forces his readers to dive for them ; but 
the witticisms of Cowper are as well calcu- 
lated to instruct as to delight. 

This last topic is intimately connected with 
another, whieh, in touching on the excellen- 
ces of Cowper as a poet, cannot be passed 
over, — we mean, the astonishing fertility of 
Ids imagination. It was observed to the 
writer of these pages by the late Sir James 
Mackintosh, of the friend and ornament of 
his species, William Wilberforce, that " he 
33 



514 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



was perhaps the finest of all orators of his 
own particular order — that the wealth of his 
imagination was such, that no idea seemed to 
present itself to his mind without its accom- 
panying image or ghost, which he could pro- 
duce at his pleasure, and which it was a mat- 
ter of self-denial if he did not produce." And 
the latter part of this criticism might seem to 
be made for Cowper. His mind appears 
never to wait for an image, but to be over- 
run by them. In argument or description — 
in hurling the thunders of rebuke, or whis- 
pering the messages of mercy — he does but 
wave his wand, and a host of spiritual es- 
sences descend to darken or brighten the 
scenes at his bidding ; to supply new weap- 
ons of rebuke, or new visions of love and 
joy. Some of his personifications are among 
the finest specimens in any language. What, 
for example, has more of the genuine spirit 
of poetry, than the personification of Famine, 
in the following lines ? — 

" He calls for Famine .... 

and the meagre fiend 

Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips 
And taints the golden ear." 

What is more lively or forcible than his 
description of Time ? — 

" Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound ; 
But the world's Time is Time in masquerade ! 
Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged 
With motley plumes ; and where the peacock 

shows 
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red 
With spots quadrangular of diamond form. 
Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, 
And spades, the emblems of untimely graves. 
What should be and what was an hour-glass 
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace [once v 
Well does the work of his destructive scythe." 

What, again, is superior in this way to his 
address to Winter % — 

" O Winter ! ruler of the inverted year ! 
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other 
snows [clouds, 

Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in 
A lifeless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
Bit urged by storms along its slippery way." 

But the examples of this species of per- 
sonification are without number : and we are 
not afraid to bring many of them into com- 
parison with the Discord of Homer, the Fame 
of Virgil, or the Famine of Ovid — passages 
of so powerful a cast as at once, and without 
any assistance, to establish the poetical au- 
thority of their inventors. 

It may seem strange to some, that we 
should assign a place, among the poetical 
claims of Cowper, to his strong sense. He 
appears to us to be one of the most just, 



natural, and rational of all writers; an^ 
however poetry may seem to appropriate to 
herself rather the remote and visionary re- 
gions of fiction than that of dull reality, we 
are disposed to think, that, even in her wild- 
est wanderings, she will maintain no real and 
permanent ascendency over the mind, if she 
widely deviates from nature and good sense. 
" Monstrous sights," sayb Beattie, and he 
might have added, monstrous conceptions, 
" please but for a moment, if they please at 
all ; for they derive their charm merely from 
the beholders' amazement. I have read in- 
deed of a man of rank in Sicily who chooses 
to adorn his villa with pictures and statues 
of the most unnatural deformity. But it is 
a singular instance ; and one would not be 
much more surprised to hear of a man living 
without food, or growing fat upon poison. 
To say of anything that it is 'contrary to 
nature,' denotes censure and disgust on the 
part of the speaker ; as the epithet ' natural' 
intimates an agreeable quality, and seems, 
for the most part, to imply that a thing is as 
it ought to be, suitable to our own taste, and 
congenial to our own disposition. . . 
Think how we should relish a painting in 
which there was no regard to colors, propor- 
tions, or any of the physical laws of nature ; 
wliere the eyes and ears of animals were 
placed in their shoulders; where the sky 
was green, and the grass crimson." Such 
distortions and anomalies would not be less 
offensive in poetry than in the sister art. And 
it is one of the main sources of delight in 
Cowper, that all is in its due proportion, and 
wears its right colors ; that the " eyes and 
ears" are in " their proper places ;" that his 
skies are blue, and his grass is green ; and 
that every reflection of the poet has, what he, 
himself calls the 

" Stamp and clear impression of good sense." 

The very passage in the sixth book of " The 
Task," from which this line is taken, and 
which furnishes perhaps the most perfect un- 
inspired delineation of a true Christian, sup- 
plies, at the same time, an admirable exam- 
ple of the quality we mean ; and shows, that 
even where his feelings were the most in- 
tensely interested, his passions were under 
the control of hjs reason; that, when he 
mounted the chariot of the sun, he took care 
not to approach too near the flaming lumi- 
nary. 

It would be impossible, in a sketch such 
as this, not to advert to the powers of the 
author as a satirist. And here, we think the 
most partial critic will be scarcely disposed 
to deny, that he sometimes handles his knife 
a little at random and with too much sever- 
ity. He had early in life been intimate with 
Churchill ; and, with scarcely a touch of the 
temper of that right English poet, had plain) v 



HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 



51 



caught something of his manner. There is 
this wide distinction between him and his 
master — that his irony and rebuke are never 
the weapons of party, or personality, but of 
truth, honor, and the public good. The 
strong, though homely image, applied by 
Churchill to another critic, — 

" Like a butcher, doom'd for life 
In his mouth to wear his knife," — 

is too just a picture of its author, but is infi- 
nitely far from being that of Cowper. It was 
well said of his satire, that " it was the off- 
spring of benevolence ; and that, like the Pe- 
lian spear, it furnishes the only cure for the 
wound it inflicts. When he is obliged to 
blame, he pities; when he condemns, it is 
with regret. His censures display no tri- 
umphant superiority; but rather express a 
turn of feeling such as we might suppose an- 
gels to indulge in at the prospect of human 
frailty." 

But, if his satirical powers were sometimes 
indulged to excess, it is impossible to deny 
that he was, generally and habitually, of all 
poets, the most sympathizing and tender. 
Nothing in human composition can surpass 
the tenderness of the poem on receiving his 
mothers picture, or of those exquisite lines 
addressed to a lady in France suffering under 
deep calamity, of which last we shall quote a 
few for the ornament of our page : — 

" The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown : 
No trav'Iler ever reach'd that blest abode. 
Who found not thorns and briers in his road. 
The world may dance along the flowery plain, 
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, 
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread 
With unshod feet they yet securely tread, 
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, 
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
But He. who knew what human hearts would 

prove. 
How slow to learn the dictates of his love, 
That hard by nature, and of stubborn will, 
A life of ease would make them harder still, 
In pity to the souls his grace design'd 
To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, 
And said, ' Go spend them in the vale of tears.' 
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air! 
O salutary streams that murmur there ! 
These flowing from the fount of grace above, 
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love." 

The Hymns are almost uniformly of the 
same character. Drawn from the deep re- 
cesses of a broken heart, they find a short 
and certain way to the bosom of others. 

And this leads to the notice of another pe- 
culiarity in his writings. It is said to have 
been a favorite maxim with Lord Byron, 
" that every writer is interesting to others in 
proportion as he is able and willing to seize 
vni to display to them the hidden workings 
of his own soul." The noble rritic is him- 



self a strong exemplification of the truth of 
his own rule. Not merely his heroes and his 
heroines, but his rocks, mountains, and rivers, 
are a sort of fac simile of himself. The blue 
lake reposing among the mountains is the 
b:ird in a state of repose. The thunder leap 
ing from rock to rock is the same mind under 
the strong excitement of passion. But per- 
haps of all writers Cowper is the most habit- 
ually what may be termed an experimentalist 
in poetry. He sought in " the man within," 
the secret machinery by which to touch and 
to control the world without. He felt deeply ; 
and caught the feeling as it arose, and trans- 
ferred it, warm from the heart, to his own pa- 
per. Hence one great attraction of his writ- 
ings. " As face answereth to face in water, 
so the heart of man to man." The sensations 
of other men are to a great degree our own ; 
and the poetical exhibition of these sensations 
is the presenting to us a sort of illuminated 
mirror in which we see ourselves, and are, 
according to the view, moved to sorrow or to 
joy. Preachers as well as poets will do well 
to remember this law of our nature, and will 
endeavor to analyze and to delineate their 
own feelings, if they mean to reach those of 
others. Unhappily, the noble author of this 
canon in philosophy and literature had no 
very profitable picture of this kind to display 
to his fellow men. He speaks, however, of 
" unmasking the hell that dwelt within." And 
he has taught no unimportant lesson to his 
species, if he has instructed us in the utter 
wretchedness of those who, gifted with the 
noblest powers, refuse to consec^te them to 
the glorious Giver. But, however unprofita- 
ble his own application of the rule, the rule 
itself is valuable ; and, in the case of Cowper, 
we have the application of it, both on the 
largest scale and to the best possible purpose. 
There is one other feature in the mind of 
Cowper on which, before quitting the subject 
of this examination, we must be permitted to 
say a few words. It has been the habit with 
many, while freely conceding to our poet most 
of the humbler claims to reputation for which 
we have contended, to assign him only a sec- 
ond or third place in the scale of po^s, on 
the ground that he is, according to their t\-> i- 
mate, altogether " incapable of the true sub- 
lime." Now, it must be admitted that, if the 
only true sublimity in writing be to write like 
^Milton, Cowper cannot be ranked in the same 
class as a poet. Of Milton it may be said, in 
the words of a poet as great as himself — 

" He doth bestride the world 
Like a Colossus : and we petty men 
Walk under his nuge legs." 

Nothing can be more astonishing than tht-. 
composure and dignity with which, like his 
own Satan, he climbs the " empyreal height" 
— sails between worlds and worlds — and 



M6 



COYVPER'S WORKS. 



moves among thrones and principalities, as if 
in his natural element. " The genius of ( low- 
per." as it has been justly said, " did not lead 
him to emulate the songs of the seraphim :" 
but though, in one respect, he moves in a 
tower region than his great master in what 
may be termed the " moral sublime," he is by 
no means inferior to him. Scarcely any po- 
etry awakens in the mind more of those deep 
emotions of " pity and terror," which the great 
critic of antiquity describes as the main sour- 
ces of the sublime ; and by which poetry is 
said to '■'"purge the mind of her votaries.'* In 
this view of the sublime we know of few pas- 
sages which surpass the description of " lib- 
erty of soul," in the conclusion of the 5th 
book of " The Task." 

" Then liberty, like day, 
Breaks on the soul ; and, by a flash from heav'n, 
Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 
A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, 
Till Thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of 
A loud hosanna sent from all thy works ; [song, 
Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, 
And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise. 
In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide 
Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 
The Author of her beauties ; who, retir'd 
Behind His own creation, works unseen 
By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied. 
Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
At random, without honor, hope, or peace. 
From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
His high endeavor, and his glad success, 
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
But, O Thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! 
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor ; 
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away !" 

In iike manner the Millennium of Cowper 
is at least not inferior to the Messiah of Pope. 
The corresponding passage in the latter writ- 
er is greatly inferior to that in which our 
poet says, — 

" No foe to man 

Lurks in the serpent now — the mother sees, 
And smiles to see, her infant's hand 
Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, 
To stroke his azure neck, and to receive 
The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue." 

And few passages in any poem have more of 
me true sublime than that which follows soon, 
after the last extract : — 

" One song employs all nations, and all cry 
'Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us !' 
the dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 



Shout to each other, and the mountain tops 
From distant mountains catch the flying joy : 
Till, nation after nation taught the strain, 
Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round." 

Having offered these general observations 
" on the Genius and Poetry" of Cowper, and 
having so largely drawn from his sweet and 
instructive pages, it is not thought necessary 
to supply any more specific notice of his sev- 
eral poems. It is superfluous to enter upon 
a detailed proof that his poems in rhyme, 
though occasionally brightened by passages 
of extraordinary merit, are often prosaic in 
their character, and halting and feeble in the 
versification ; that his shorter poems, whether 
of a gay or of a devotional cast, are, for pa- 
thos, wit, delicacy of conception, and felicity 
of expression, unequalled in our language ; 
that his Homer is an evidence, not of his in- 
capacity as a translator, but of the impossi- 
bility of transmuting into stiff unyielding 
English monosyllables the rich compounds 
of the Greek, without a sacrifice both of sound 
and sense ; that " The Task" outruns in power, 
variety, depth of thought, fertility of imagin- 
ation, vigor of expression, in short, in all- 
which constitutes a poet of the highest ordec 
every hope which his earlier poems had al- 
lowed his readers to indulge. The dawn 
gave little or no promise of such a day. The 
porch was in no sense commensurate to the 
temple afterwards to be erected. On the 
whole, his " Poems" will always be considered 
as one of the richest legacies which genius 
and virtue have bequeathed to mankind ; and 
will be welcomed wherever the English lan- 
guage is known, and English minds, tastes, 
and habits prevail ; wherever the approbation 
of what is good and the abhorrence of what 
is evil are felt; wherever truth is honored, 
and God and his creatures are loved. 

With these observations we bring our im- 
perfect criticisms on the Poems of Cowper to 
a conclusion. The writer of them does not 
hesitate to say that he has been amply re- 
warded for his own critical labors, by the 
privilege of often escaping from his own page 
to that of his author. And the reader of 
them will be still more largely compensated 
if, when weary of the critic, he will turn aside 
to breathe an ardent supplication to the Giver 
of all that was good and great in Cowper, 
that he himself may drink deeply of the spirit, 
without participating in the sorrows of this 
most holy, most distinguished, most suffer- 
ing, t ut now most triumphant, servant of the 
God and Saviour to whom he so nobly and 
habitually dedicated all his powers. 



PREFACE TO THE POEMS 



When an author, by appearing in print, re- 
quests an audience of the public, and is upon 
the point of speaking for himself, whoever 
presumes to step before him with a preface, 
and to say, " Nay, but hear me first," should 
have something worthy of attention to offer, 
or he will be justly deemed officious and im- 
pertinent. The judicious reader has proba- 
bly, upon other occasions, been beforehand 
with me in this reflection ; and I am not very 
willing it should now be applied to me, how- 
ever I may seem to expose myself to the dan- 
ger of it. But the thought of having my own 
name perpetuated in connection with the name 
in the title-page is so pleasing and flattering 
to the feelings of my heart, that I am content 
to risk something for the gratification. 

This Preface is not designed to commend 
the Poems to which it is prefixed. My testi- 
mony would be insufficient for those who are 
not qualified to judge properly for themselves, 
and unnecessary to those who are. Besides, 
the reasons which render it improper and un- 
seemly for a man to celebrate his own per- 
formances, or those of his nearest relatives, 
will have some influence in suppressing much 
of what he might otherwise wish to say in 
favor of a friend, when that friend is indted 
an alter idem, and excites almost the same 
emotions of sensibility and affection as he 
feels for himself. 

It is very probable these Poems may come 
into the hands of some persons, in whom the 
sight of the author's name will awaken a re- 
collection of incidents and scenes, which 
through length of time they had almost for- 
gotten. They will be reminded of one who 
was once the companion of their chosen hours, 
and who set out with them in early life in the 
paths which lead to literary honors, to influ- 
ence and affluence, with equal prospects of 
success. But he was suddenly and power- 
fully withdrawn from those pursuits, and he 
left them without regret ; yet not till he had 
sufficient opportunity of counting the cost, 
and of knowing the value of what he gave 
ap. If happiness could have been found in 
classical attainments, in an elegant taste, in 
the exertions of wit, fancy, and genius, and 
in the esteem and converse of such persons, 
is in these respects were most congenial with 
himself, he would have been happy. But he 



was not — he wondered (as thousands in a 
similar situation still do) that he should con 
tinue dissatisfied, with all the means appa« 
rently conducive to satisfaction within hia 
reach — But in due time the cause of his dis- 
appointment was discovered to him — he had 
lived without God in the world. In a memo- 
rable hour, the wisdom which is from above 
visited his . heart. Then he felt himself a 
wanderer, and then he found a guide. Upon 
this change of views, a change of plan and 
conduct followed of course. When he saw 
the busy and the gay world in its true ight. he 
left it with as little reluctance as a prisoner, 
when called to liberty, leaves his dungeon. 
Not that he became a Cynic or an Ascetic — • 
a heart filled with love to God will assuredly 
breathe benevolence to men. But the turn 
of his temper inclining him to rural life, he 
indulged it, and, the providence of God evi- 
dently preparing his way and marking out his 
retreat, he retired into the country. By these 
steps, the good hand of God, unknown to me, 
was providing for me one of the principal 
blessings of my life ; a friend and a counsel- 
lor, in whose company for almost seven years, 
though we were seldom seven successive wak- 
ing hours separated, I always found new pleas- 
ure — a friend who was not only a comfort to 
myself, but a blessing to the affectionate poor 
people among whom I then lived. 

Some time after inclination had thus re- 
moved him from the hurry and bustle of life, 
he was still more secluded by a long indis- 
position, and my pleasure was succeeded by 
a proportionable degree of anxiety and con- 
cern. But a hopQ, that the God' whom he 
served would support him under his affliction, 
and at length vouchsafe him a happy deliver- 
ance, never forsook me. The desirable crisis, 
I trust, is now nearly approaching. The dawn, 
the presage of returning day, is already ar- 
rived. He is again enabled to resume his 
pen, and some of the first fruits of his recov- 
ery are* here presented to the public. In his 
principal subjects, the same acumen, which 
distinguished hirn in the early period of life, 
is happily employed in illustrating and enforc- 
ing the truths of which he received such deep 
and unalterable impressions in his mature! 
years. His satire, if it may be called so, ia 
benevolent, (like the operations of the skilful 



and humane surgeon, who wounds only to 
heal,) dictated by a just regard for the honor 
of God, an indignant grief excited by the 
profligacy of the age, and a tender compas- 
sion for the souls of men. 

His favorite topics are least insisted on in 
the piece entitled Table Talk ; which there- 
fore, with some regard to the prevailing taste, 
and that those, who are governed by it, may 
not be discouraged at the very threshold from 
proceeding farther, is placed first. In most 
of the large poems which follow, his leading 
design is more explicitly avowed and pursued. 
He aims to communicate his own perceptions 
of the truth, beauty, and influence of the re- 
ligion of the Bible — a religion, which, how- 
ever discredited by the misconduct of many, 
who have not renounced the Christian name, 
proves itself, when rightly understood, and 
cordially embraced, to be the grand desidera- 
tum, which alone can relieve the mind of man 
from painful and unavoidable anxieties, in- 
spire it with stable peace and solid hope, and 
furnish those motives and prospects which, in 
the present state of things, are absolutely ne- 
cessary to produce a conduct worthy of a ra- 
tional creature, distinguished by a vastness 
of capacity which no assemblage of earthly 
good can satisfy, and by a principle and pre- 
intimation of immortality. 

At a time when hypothesis and conjecture 
m philosophy are so justly exploded, and lit- 
tle is considered as deserving the name of 
knowledge, which will not stand the test of 
experiment, the very use of the term experi- 
mental* in religious concernments is by too 
many unhappily rejected with disgust. But 
we well know, that they, who affect to despise 
the inward feelings which religious persons 
speak of, and to treat them as enthusiasm and 
folly, have inward feelings of their own, which, 
though they wou.d, they cannot, suppress. 
We have been too .ong in the secret our- 



selves, to account the proud, the ambitious, 
or the voluptuous, happy. We must lose 
the remembrance of what we once were, be- 
fore we can believe that a man is satisfied 
with himself, merely because he endeavors to 
appear so. A smile upon the face is often, 
but a mask worn occasionally and in com- 
pany, to prevent, if possible, a suspicion of 
what at the same time is passing in the heart. 
We know that there are people who seldom 
smile wiien they are alone, who therefore are 
glad to hide themselves in a throng from the 
violence of their own reflections : and who, 
while by their looks and their language they 
wish to persuade us they are happy, would 
be glad to change their condition with a dog. 
But in 'defiance of all their efforts tl*ey con- 
tinue to think, forbode, and tremble. This w T e 
know, for it has been our own state, and there- 
fore we know how to commiserate it in 
others. — From this state the Bible relieved 
us — when we were led to read it with atten- 
tion, we found ourselves described. We 
learned the causes of our inquietude — we 
were directed to a method of relief — we 
tried, and we were not disappointed. 

Deus nobis haec otia fecit. 

We are now certain that the gospel of 
Christ is the power of God unto salvation to 
every one that believeth. It has reconciled 
us to God, and to ourselves, to our duty and 
our situation. It is the balm and cordial of 
the present life, and a sovereign antidote 
against the fear of death. 

Sed hactenus hsec. Some smaller pieces 
upon less important subjects close the vol- 
ume. Not one of them, I believe, was writ, 
ten with a view to publication, but I was un- 
willing they should be omitted. 

John Newton. 

Charles Square, Hoxton> 
Fehruary 18, 1782. 



TABLE TALK 



Si te forte meae gravis uret sarcina chartae, 
Abjicito. HOR. LIB. i., kp. L~ 



THE ARGUMENT. 

true and false glory — Kings made fpr man — Attributes 
of royalty in England — Quevedo's satire on kings- 
Kings objects of pity — Inquiry concerning the cause of 
Englishmen's scorn of arbitrary rule— Character of the 
Englishman and the Frenchman— Charms of freedom 
— Freedom sometimes needs the restraint of discipline 
— Reference to the riots in London — Tribute to Lord 
Chatham— Political state of England— The vices that 
debase her portend her downfall — Political events the 
instruments of Providence — The -poet disclaims pro- 
phetic inspiration— The choice of a mean subject de- 
notes a weak mind — Reference to Homer, Virgil, and 
Milton— Progress of poesy— The poet laments that re- 
ligion is not more frequently united with poetry. 

A. You told me, I remember, glory, built 
On selfish principles is shame and guilt : 
The deeds that men admire as half divine, 
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. 
Strange doctrine this ! that without scruple tears 
The laurel that the very lightning spares ; 
Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, 
And eats into his bloody sword like rust. 

B. I grant that, men continuing' what they are, 
Fierce, avaricious. proud : there must be war, 
And never meant the rule should be applied 

To him that fights with Justice on his side. 

Let laurels drench'd in pure Parnassian dews 
Reward his memory, dear to every muse, 
Who, with a courage of unshaken root, 
In honor's field advancing his firm foot, 
Plants it upon the line that Justice draws, 
And will prevail or perish in her cause. 
'Tis to the virtues of such men man owes 
His portion in the good that Heaven bestows. 
And when recording History displays 
Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days 
Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died. 
Where duty placed them, at their country's side ; 
The man that is not moved with what he reads, 
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds, 
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave. 
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave. 

But let eternal infamy pursue 
The wretch to nought but his ambition true, 
Who. for the sake of filling with one blast 
The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste. 
Think yourself stationed on a towering rock. 
To see a people scattered like a flock, 
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels, 
With all the savage thirst a tiger feels ; 
Then view him self-proclaim'd in a gazette 
Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet. 
The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced. 
Those ensigns of dominion, how disgraced ! 



The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour 
| And Death's own scythe, would better speak hil 
power ; 

Then grace the bony phantom in their stead 
'■ With the king's shoulder-knot and gay cockade . 

Clothe the twin brethren in each other's dress, 
| The same their occupation and success. 

A. 'Tis your belief the world wasmade forman ; 
'■ Kings do but reason on the self-same plan ; 

Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, 
| Who think, or seem to think, man made for them 

B. Seldom alas ! the power of logic reigns 
! With much sufficiency in royal brains ; 

' Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone, 

I Wanting its proper base to stand upon. 

i Man made for kings ! those optics are but dim 

i That tell you so — say. rather, they for him. 

! That were indeed a king-ennobling thought, 
Could they, or would they, reason as they ought 
The diadem with mighty projects lined, 
To catch renown by ruining mankind, 
Is worth, with all its gold and glittering sto.e, 
Just what the toy will sell for. and no "mcie. 
Oh ! bright occasions of dispensing good, 
How seldom used, how little understood ! 
To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward ; 
Keep Vice restrain'd behind a double guard ; 
To quell the faction that affronts the throne 
By silent magnanimity alone; 
To nurse with tender care the thriving arts ; 
Watch every beam Philosophy imparts ; 
To give religion her unbridled scope, 
Nor judge by statute a believer's hope ; 
With close fidelity and love unfeign'd 
To keep the matrimonial bond unstain'd ; 
Covetous only of a virtuous praise ; 

j His life a lesson to the land he sways ; 

j To touch the sword with conscientious aw«, 
Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw - 
To sheath it in the peace-restoring close 
With joy beyond what victory bestows — 
Blest country, where these kingly glories shine 
Blest England, if this happiness be thine I 

A. Guard what you say : thi patriotic tribe 
Will sneer and charge you w;:h a bribe. — B. 

bribe 1 
The worth of his three kingdoms I defy, 
To lure me to the baseness oi a lie ; 
And. of all lies, (be that one poet's ooast,) 
The lie that flatters I abhor the most. 
Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign, 
But he that loves him has no need to feign. 

A. Your smooth eulogium, to one crown ad- 
Seems to imply a censure on the rest fdress'd 



520 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



B. Q.uevedo, as he tells his sober tale, 
Ask'd when in hell, to see the royal jail ; 
Approv'd their method in all other things ; 
But where, good sir, do you confine your kings 1 
There — said his guide — the group is in full view. 
Indeed ! — replied the don — there are but few. 
His black interpreter the charge disdain'd — 
Few, fellow 1 — there are all that ever reign'd. 
Wit, undistinguishing. is apt to strike 
The guilty and not guilty both alike : 
I grant the sarcasm is too severe, 
And we can readily refute it here ; 
While Alfred's name ; the father of his age. 
And the Sixth Edward's grace the historic page. 

A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all: 
By their own conduct they must stand or fall. 

B. True. While they five, the courtly laureate, j 
pays 

His quitrent ode. his peppercorn of piaise. 
And many a dunce, whose lingers itch to write, 
Adds, as he can, his tributary mite : 
A subject's faults a subject may proclaim, 
A monarch's errors are forbidden game ! 
Thus, free from censur§, overawed by fear, 
And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear, 
The fleeting forms of majesty engage 
Respect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage : 
Then leave their crimes for history to scan, 
And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man 1 

I pity kings whom worship waits upon, 
Obsequious from the cradle to the throne ; 
Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows, 
And binds a wreath about their baby brows; 
Whom education stiffens into state, 
And death awakens fiom that dream too late. 
Oh ! if servility with supple knees. 
Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please ; 
If smooth dissimulation, skill'd to grace 
A devil's purpose with an angel's face; 
If smiling peeresses and simpering peers, 
Encompassing his throne a few short years ; 
If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed, 
That wants no driving and disdains the lead; 
If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks. 
Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks, 
Shouldering and standing as if stuck to stone. 
While condescending majesty looks on — 
If monarchy consist in such base things, 
Sighing, I say again, I pity kings ! 

To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood. 
E'en when he labors for his country's good ; 
To see a band call'd patriot for no cause, 
But that they catch at popular applause, 
Careless of all the anxiety he feels, 
Hook disappointment on the public wheels ; 
With all their flippant fluency of tongue. 
.Most confident, when palpably most wrong — 
If this be kingly then farewell for me 
All kingship and may I be poor and free ! 

To be the Table Talk of clubs up stairs, 
To which the unwash'd artificer repairs, 
To indulge his genius after long fatigue, 
By diving into cabinet intrigue ; 
(For what kings deem a toil, as well they may. 
To him is relaxation, and mere play:) [vail, 

To win no praise when well- wrought plans pre- 
But to be rudely censur'd when they fail ; 
To doubt the love his favorites may pretend, 
And in reality to find no friend ; 
If he indulge a cultivated taste, 
His galleries with the works of art well graced, 
To hear it call'd extravagance and waste ; 



If these attendants, and if such as these, 
Must follow royalty, then welcome ease ; 
However humble and confined the sphere, 
Happy the state that has not these to fear ! 

A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative 
have dwelt 

On situations that they never felt, 

Start up sagacious cover'd with the dust 

Of dreaming study and pedantic rust, 

And prate and preach about what others prove 

As if the world and they were hand and glove. 

Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares ; 

They have their weight to carry, subjects theirs 

Poets, of all men, ever least regret 

Increasing taxes and the nation's debt. 

Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse 

The mighty plan, oracular, in verse, 

No bard, howe'er majestic, old or new, 

Should claim my fix'd attention more than you. 

B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essay 
To turn the course of Helicon that way : 

Nor would the Nine consenl the sacred tide 
Should purl amidst the traffic of Cheapside, 
Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuse 
The leathern ears of stockjobbers and Jews. 

A. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of 
rhyme 

To themes more pertinent, if less sublime. 
When ministers and ministerial arts ; 
Patriots, who love good places at their hearts ; 
When admirals, extoll'd for standing still, 
Or doing nothing with a deal of skill ; 
Generals ; who will not conquer when they may 
Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good 

pay ; 

When Freedom, wounded almost to despair, 

Though discontent alone can find out where — 

When themes like these employ the poet's tongue 

I hear as mute as if a syren sung. 

Or tell me, if you can, what power maintains 

A Briton's scorn of arbitrary chains % 

That were a theme might animate the dead, 

And move the lips of poets cast in lead. 

B. The cause, though worth the search, ma^ 
yet elude 

Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. 
They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim, 
Who seek it in his climate and his frame. 
Liberal in all things else, yet Nature here 
With stern severity deals out the year. 
Winter invades the spring, and often pours 
A chilling flood on summer's drooping flowers ; 
Unwelcome vapors quench autumnal beams, 
Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams: 
The peasants urge their harvest, ply the fork 
With double toil, and shiver at their work; 
Thus with a rigor, for his good design'd, 
She rears her favorite man of all mankind. 
His form robust and of elastic tone, 
Proportion'd well, half muscle and half bone, 
Supplies with warm activity and force 
A mind well lodged, and masculine of course 
Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires 
And keeps alive his fierce but noble fires. 
Patient of constitutional control, 
He bears it with meek manliness of soul ; 
But, if authority grow wanton, woe 
To him that treads upon his free-born toe ; 
One step beyond the boundary of the laws 
Fires him at once in Freedom's glorious cause 
Thus proud Prerogative, nat much rever'd, 
Is seldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard : 



TABLE TALK 



52i 



A.nd in his cage, like parrot fine and gay, 
Is kept to strut, look big, and talk away. 

Born in a climate softer far than ours, 
Not form'd like us. with such Herculean powers, 
The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, 
Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, 
Is always happy, reign whoever may, 
And laughs the sense of misery far away : 
He drinks his simple beverage with a gust ; 
And : feasting on an onion and a crust, 
We never feel the alacrity and joy 
With which he shouts and carols. Vive le Roi ! 
Filled with as much true merriment and glee 
As if he heard his king say — Slave, be free. 

Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows, 
Less on exterior things than most suppose. 
Vigilant over all that he has made, 
Kind Providence attends with gracious aid ; 
Bids equity throughout his works prevail, 
And weighs the nations in an even scale ; 
He can encourage slavery to a smile, 
And fill with discontent a British isle. 

A. Freeman and slave then, if the case be such, 
Stand on a level ; and you prove too much : 

If all men indiscriminately share 

His fostering power, and tutelary care. 

As well be yoked by Despotism's hand. 

As dwell at large in Britain's charter d land, [show, 

B. No. Freedom has a thousand charms to 
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. 
The mind attains beneath her happy reign 

The growth that Nature meant she should attain ; 

The varied fields of science, ever new, 

Opening and wider opening on her view. 

She ventures onward with a prosperous force, 

While no base fear impedes her in her course : 

Religion, richest favor of the skies, 

Stands most reveal'd before the freeman's eyes ; 

No shades of superstition blot the day, 

Liberty chases all that gloom away. 

The soul, emancipated, unoppress'd, 

Free to prove all things and hold fast the best, 

Learns much ; and to a thousand listening minds 

Communicates with joy the good she finds ; 

Courage in arms, and ever prompt to show 

His manly forehead to the fiercest foe ; 

Glorious in war, but for the sake of peace, 

His spirits rising as his toils increase. 

Guards well what arts and industry have won, 

And Freedom claims him for her firstborn son. 

Slaves fi<iht for what were better cast away — 

The chain that binds them and a tyrant's sway, 

But they that fight for freedom undertake 

The noblest cause mankind can have at stake : 

Religion, virtue, truth, whate'er we call 

A blessing — freedom is the pledge of all. 

Liberty ! the prisoner's pleasing dream, 

The poet's muse, his passion, and his theme; 

Genius is thine, and thou art Fancy's nurse ; 

Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse ; 

Heroic song from thy free touch acquires 

Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires. 

Place me where Winter breathes his keenest air. 

And I will sing, if Liberty be there ; 

And I will sing at Liberty's dear feet, 

In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat. 

A. Sing where you please ; in such a cause I 
An English poet's privilege to rant ; [grant 

But is not Freedom — at least is not ours 
Too apt to play the wanton with her powers, 
Grow freakish and, o'erleaping every mound, 
fcpread anarchy aid terror all around 1 



B. Agreed. But would you sell or day voui 
horse 
For bounding and curveting in his course ? 
Or if, when ridden with a careless rein, 
He break away, and seek the distant plain 1 
No. His high mettle, under good control, [goal 
Gives him Olympic speed, and shoots him to thfl 

Let Discipline employ her wholesome arts ; 
Let magistrates alert perform their parts, 
Not skulk or put on a prudential mask, 
As if their duty were a desperate task ; 
Let active laws apply the needful curb. 
To guard the peace that riot would disturb ; 
And Liberty, preserved from wild excess, 
Shall raise no feuds for armies to suppress. 
When Tumult lately burst his prison door, 
And set plebeian thousands in a roar ; 
When he usurp'd authority's just place, 
And dared to look his master in the face ; 
When the rude rabble's Watchword was — Destroy, 
And blazing London seem'd a second Troy ; 
Liberty blush'd and hung her drooping head, 
Beheld their progress with the deepest dread ; 
Blush'd that effects like these she should produce, 
Worse than the deeds of galley-slaves broke loose. 
She loses in such storms her very name, 
And fierce licentiousness should bear the blame. 

Incomparable gem ! thy worth untold ; 
Cheap, though blood-bought and thrown away 

when sold ; 
May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend 
Betray thee, while professing to defend ! 
Prize it. ye ministers ; ye monarchs, spare ; 
Ye patriots, guard it with a miser's care. 

A. Patriots, alas ! the few that have been found. 
Where most they flourish, upon English ground, 
The country's need have scantily supplied, 
And the last left the scene when Chatham died, 

B. Not so — the virtue still adorns our age. 
Though the chief actor died upon the stage. 
In him Demosthenes was heard again; 
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain ; 
She clothed him with authority and awe, 
Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. 
His speech his form, his action, full of grace, 
And all his country beaming in his face, 

He stood, as some inimitable hand 

W T ould strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 

No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose 

Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 

And every venal stickler for the yoke 

Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. 

Such men are raised to station and command 
When Providence means mercy to a land. 
He speaks and they appear; to him they owe 
Skill to direct, and strength to strike the blow ; 
To manage with address, to seize with power 
The crisis of a dark decisive hour. 
So Gideon earned a victory not his own ; 
Subserviency his praise, and that alone. 

Poor England ! thou art a devoted deer, 
Beset with every ill but that of fear. 
The nations hunt ; all mark thee for a prey ; [bay. 
They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st a. 
Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex'd, 
Once Chatham saved thee ; bul who saves thee 
Alas ! the tide of pleasure sweeps along [next 1 
All that should be the boast of British song. 
'Tis not the wreath that once adorn'd thy brow, 
The prize of happier times, will serve thee now. 
Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race, 
Patterns of every virtue, every grace. 



d22 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Confess'd a God ; they kneel'd before they fought, 
And praised him in the victories he wrought. 
Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth 
Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth ; 
Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, 
ts but the fire without the sacrifice. 
The stream that feeds the wellspring of the heart 
Not more invigorates life's noblest part. 
Than virtue quickens with a warmth divine 
The powers that sin has brought to a decline. 

A. The inestimable estimate of Brown 
Rose like a paper-kite and chann'd the town; 
But measures, plann'd and executed well, 
Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell. 

He trod the very selfsame ground you tread, 
A.nd victory refuted all he said. 

B. And yet his judgment was not framed amiss ; 
Its error, if it err'd. was merely this — 

He thought the dying hour already come. 
A.nd a complete recovery struck him dumb. 
But that effeminacy, folly, lust, 
Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must ; 
And that a nation shamefully debased 
Will be despised and trampled on' at last, 
Unless sweet penitence her powers renew, 
Is truth, if history itself be true. 
There is a time, and justice marks the date, 
For long forbearing clemency to wait ; 
That hour elapsed, the incurable revolt 
Is punish'd. and down comes the thunderbolt. 
If Mercy then put by the threatening blow. 
Must she perform the same kind office now 1 
May she ! and, if offended Heaven be still 
Accessible, and prayer prevail, she will. 
'Tis not, however, insolence and noise, 
The tempest of tumultuary joys, 
Nor is it yet despondence and dismay 
Will win her visits or engage her stay ; 
Prayer only, and the penitential tear, 
Can call her smiling down, and fix her here. 

But when a country (one that I could name) 
In prostitution sinks the sense of shame ; 
When infamous venality, grown bold. 
Writes on his bosom, to be let or sold ; 
When perjury, that Heaven-defying vice, 
Sells oaths by tale, and at the lowest price, 
Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made, 
To turn a penny in the way of trade ; 
When avarice starves (and never hides his face) 
Two or three millions of the human race, 
And not a tongue inquires how, where, or when, 
Though conscience will have twinges now and 
When profanation of the sacred cause [then : 
In all its parts, times, ministry, and laws, 
Bespeaks a land, once Christian, fallen and lost, 
In all that wars against that title most ; 
What follows next let cities of great name, 
And regions long since desolate proclaim. 
Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome 
Speak to the present times and times to come ; 
They cry aloud in every careless ear. 
Stop, while ye may ; suspend your mad career ; 
learn, from our example and our fate, 
Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late ! 

Not only Vice disposes and prepares 
The mind that slumbers sweetly in her snares, 
To stoop to tyranny's usurp'd command, 
And bend her polish'd neck beneath his hand 
(A dire effect, by one of Nature's laws 
Unchangeably connected with its cause) ; 
But Providence himself will intervene, 
to throw his dark displeasure o'er the scene. 



All are his instruments ; each form of war, 
What burns at home, or threatens from afar, 
Nature in arms, her elements at strife, 
The storms that overset the joys of life, 
Are but his rods to scourge a guilty land, 
And waste it at the bidding of his hand. 
He gives the word, and mutiny soon roars 
In all her gates, and shakes her distant shores j 
The standards of all nations are unfurl'd ; 
She has one foe, and that one foe the world. 
And if he doom that people with a frown, 
And mark them with a seal of wrath press'd down, 
Obduracy takes place ; callous and tough, 
The reprobated race grows judgment proof: 
Earth shakes beneath them, and Heaven roars 

above ; 
But nothing scares them from the course they love. 
To the lascivious pipe and wanton song, 
That charm down fear, they frolic it along, 
With mad rapidity and unconcern, 
Down to the gulf from which is no return. 
They trust in navies, and their navies fail — 
God's curse can cast away ten thousand sail ! 
They trust in armies, and their courage dies ; „ 
In wisdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies; 
But all they trust in withers, as it must, 
When He commands in whom they place no trust. 
Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast 
A long despised, but now victorious host; 
Tyranny sends the chain that must abridge 
The noble sweep of all their privilege ; 
Gives liberty the last, the mortal, shock ; 
Slips the slave's collar on, and snaps the lock 

A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach, 
Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach % 

B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire 
The Muse imparts and can command the lyre, 
Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal. 
Whate'er the theme, that others never feel. 

If human woes her soft attention claim, 

A tender sympathy pervades the frame, 

She pours a sensibility divine 

Along the nerve of every feeling line. 

But if a deed not tamely to be borne 

Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, 

The strings are swept with such a power, so loud, 

The storm of music shakes the astonish'd crowd. 

So, when remote futurity is brought 

Before the keen inquiry of her thought, 

A terrible sagacity informs 

The poet's heart ; he looks to distant storms ; 

He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers ! 

And, arm'd with strength surpassing human 

powers, 
Seizes events as yet unknown to man, 
And darts his soul into the dawning plan. 
Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name 
Of prophet and of poet was the same ; 
Hence British poets too the priesthood shared, 
And every hallowed druid was a bard. 
But no prophetic fires to me belong ; 
I play with syllables and sport in song. 

A. At Westminster, where little poets strive 
To set a distich upon six and five, 
Where Discipline helps opening buds of sense 
And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, 
I was a poet too : but modern taste 
Is so refined, and delicate, and chaste, 
That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, 
Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. 
Thus all success depending on an ear, 
And thinking I might purchase it too dear, 



TABLE TALK 



523 



»f sentiment were sacrificed to sound, 
And truth cut short to make a period round, 
I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse 
Than caper in the morris-ilance of verse. 

B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit. 
And some wits flag through fear of losing it. 
Give me the line that ploughs its stately course, 
Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by- 
force ; 
That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, 
Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. 
•When labor and when dullness club in hand, 
Like the two figures at St. Dunstan's stand, 
Beating alternately, in measured time, 
The clockwork tintinnabulum of rhyme, 
Exact and regular the sounds will be ; 
But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. 

From him who rears a poem lank and long, 
To him who strains his all into a song ; 
Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air, 
All birks and braes, though he was never there ; 
Or, having whelp'd a prologue with great pains, 
Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains ; 
A prologue interdash'd with many a stroke — 
An art contriv'd to advertise a joke, 
So that the jest is clearly to be seen, 
Not in the words — but in the gap between ; 
Manner is all in all. whate'er is writ, 
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit. 

To dally much with subjects mean and low 
Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so. 
Neglected talents rust into decay, 
And every effort ends in pushpin play , 
The man that means success should soar above 
A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove ; 
Else, summoning the muse to such a theme, 
The fruit of all her labor is whipp'd cream. 
As if an eagle flew aloft, and then — 
Stoop'd from its highest pitch to pounce a wren. 
As if the poet, purposing to wed, 
Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. 

Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd. 
And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard ; 
To carry nature lengths unknown before. 
To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more. 
Thus genius rose and set at order'd times, 
And shot a day-spring into distant climes, 
Ennobling every region that he chose ; 
He ssunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ; 
And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd, 
Emerged all splendor in our isle at last. 
Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, 
Then show far off their shining plumes again. 

A. Is genius only found in epic lays 1 
Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise. 
Make their heroic powers your own at once, 
Or candidly confess yourself a dunce. 

B. These were the chief; each interval of 
night 

Was graced with many an undulating light. 
In less illustrious bards his beauty shone 
A meteor, or a star; in these, the sun. 

The nightingale may claim the topmost bough 
While the poor grasshopper must chirp below. 
Like him unnoticed, I. and such as I, 
Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly; 
Perch'd on the meagre produce of the land, 
An ell or two of prospect we command ; 
But never peep beyond the thorny bound, 
Or oaken fence, that hems the paddock round. 

In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart 
K. vA faded, poetry was not an art ; 



Language, above all teaching, or if taught, 

Only by gratitude and glowing thought, 

Elegant as simplicity, and warm 

As ecstacy. unmanacled by form, 

Not prompted, as in our degenerate days, 

By low ambition and the thirst of praise, 

Was natural as is the flowing stream, 

And yet magnificent — a God the theme ! 

That theme on earth exhausted, though above 

'Tis found as everlasting as his love. 

Man lavish 'd all his thoughts on human things— 

The feats of heroes and the wrath of kings ; 

But still, while virtue kindled his delight, 

The song was moral and so far was right. 

'Twas thus till luxury seduced the mind 

To joys less innocent, as less refined ; 

Then Genius danced a bacchanal ; he crown'd 

The brimming goblet, seized the thyrsus, boun* 1 

His brows with ivy, rush'd into the field 

Of wild imagination, dnd there reel'd, 

The victim of his own lascivious fires. 

And. dizzy with delight, profaned the sacred 

wires : 
Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Roue 
This bedlam part ; and others nearer home. 
When Cromwell fought for power, and while ha 

reign'd 
The proud protector of the power he gain'd. 
Religion, harsh, intolerant, austere, 
Parent of manners like herself severe, 
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face, 
Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace , 
The dark and sullen humor of the time 
Judged every effort of the muse a crime ; 
Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast, 
Was lumber in an age so void of taste. 
But when the second Charles assumed the sway 
And arts revived beneath a softer day, 
Then, like a bow long forced into a curve, 
The mind, released from too cOnstrain'd a nerve 
Flew to its first position with a spring. 
That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring. 
His court the dissolute and hateful school 
Of wantonness, where vice was taught by rule, 
Swarm'd with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid 
With brutal lust as ever Circe made. 
From these a long succession, in the rage 
Of rank obscenity, debauch'd their age : 
Nor ceased till, ever anxious to redress 
The abuses of her sacred charge, the press, 
The Muse instructed a well-nurtured train 
Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain, 
And claim the palm for purity of song, 
That lewdness had usurp'd and worn so long. 
Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense, 
That neither gave nor would endure offence, 
Whipp'd out of sight, with satire just and keen 
The pupp;y pack that had defiled the scene. 
In front of these came Addison. In him 
Humor in holiday and slightly trim, 
Subli.nity and Attic taste combined, . 
To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. 
Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, 
In verse well disciplined, complete, compact, 
Gave virtue and morality a grace, 
That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, 
Levied a tax of wonder and applause, 
E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws. 
But he ("his musical finesse was such, 
So nice nis ear, so delicate his touch) 
Made poetry a mere mechanic art; 
And every warbler has his tune by heart 



524 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Nature imparting her satiric gift, 

Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, 

With droll sobriety they raised a smile 

At folly's cost, themselves unmoved the while 

That constellation set, the world in vain 

Must hope to look upon their like again. 

A. Are we then left 1 — B. Not wholly in the 
dark; 
Wit now and then, struck smartly, shows a spark, 
Sufficient to redeem the modern race 
From total night and absolute disgrace. 
While servile trick and imitative knack 
Confine the million in the beaten track. 
Perhaps some courser who disdains the road, 
Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. 

Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one; 
Short his career indeed, but ably run ; 
Churchill, himself unconscious of his powers, 
In penury consumed his idle hours ; 
And, like a scatter'd seed at random sown, 
Was left to spring by vigor of his own. 
Lifted at length, by dignity of thought 
And dint of genius, to an affluent lot, 
He laid his head in luxurys soft lap, 
And took, too often, there his easy nap. 
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth, 
'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth. 
Surly and slovenly, and bold and coarse, 
Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force, 
Spendthrift alike of money and of wit, 
Always at speed, and never drawing bit, 
He struck the lyre in such a careless mood, 
And so disdain'd the rules he understood, 
The laurel seem'd to wait on his command ; 
He snatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand. 
Nature, exerting an unwearied power, 
Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower : 
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads 
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads ; 
She fills profuse ten thousand little throats 
With music modulating all their notes ; 
And charms the woodland scenes and wilds un- 
known, 
With artless airs and concerts of her own : 
But seldom (as if fearful of expense) 
Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — 
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, 
Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought ; 
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky 
Brings colors, dipp'd in heaven, that never die ; 
A soul exalted above earth, a mind 
Skill'd in the characters that form mankind ; 
And, as the sun, in rising beauty dress'd, 
Looks to the westward from the dappled east, 
And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, 
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close ; 
An eye like his to catch the distapt goal ; 
Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, 
Like his to shed illuminating rays 
On every scene and subject it surveys : 



Thus graced, the man asserts a poet's name, 
And the world cheerfully admits the claim. 
Pity Religion has so seldom found 
A skilful guide into poetic ground ! [stray 

The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to 
And every muse attend her in her way. 
Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, 
And many a compliment politely penn'd ; 
But unattired in that becoming vest 
Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd, 
Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, 
A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn. 
The shelves are full, all other themes are sped ; 
Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread, 
Satire has long since done his best; and curst 
And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst ; 
Fancy has sported all her powers away 
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play ; 
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, 
Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. 
'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, [lyre, 
Touch 'd with a coal from heaven, assume the 
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, 
With more than mortal music on his tongue. 
That He, who died below, and reigns above, 
Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. 

For. after all, if merely to beguile, 
By flowing numbers and a flowery style, 
The tedium that the lazy rich endure, 
Which now and then sweet poetry may cure ; 
Or, if to see the name of idol self, [shelf, 

Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the 
To float a bubble on the breath of fame, 
Prompt his endeavor and engage his aim, 
Debased to servile purposes of pride, 
How are the powers of genius misapplied ! 
The gift, whose office is the Giver's praise, 
To trace him in his word, his works, his ways ! 
Then spread the rich discovery, and invite 
Mankind to share in the divine delight : 
Distorted from its use and just design, 
To make the pitiful possessor shine, 
To purchase at the fool-frequented fair 
Of vanity a wreath for self to wear, 
Is profanation of the basest kind — 
Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind. 

A. Hail. Sternhold, then ! and, Hopkins, hail! 
— B. Amen. 
If flattery, folly, lust, employ the pen ; 
If acrimony, slander, and abuse, 
Give it a charge to blacken and traduce ; [ease, 
Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's 
With all that fancy can invent to please, 
Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall, 
One madrigal of theirs is worth them all. 

A. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe. 
To dash the pen through all that you proscribe. 

B. No matter — we could shift when they wen 
not; 

And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 



Si quid! loquar audiendum. Hor. lib. iv. Od. 2. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Origin of error— Man endowed with fiaedom of will- 
Motives for action— Attractions of music— The chase— 
Those amusements not suited to the Clergy — Case of 
Occiduus— Force of example— Due observance of the 
Sabbath — Cards and dancing — The drunkard and the 
coxcomb— Folly and innocence — Hurtful pleasures — 
Virtuous pleasures — Effects of the inordinate indul- 
gence of pleasure — Dangerous tendency of many works 
of imagination— Apostrophe to Lord Chesterfield— Our 
earliest years the most important — Fashionable edu- 
cation — The grand tour — Accomplishments have taken 
the place of virtue — Qualities requisite in a critic of the 
Bible — Power of the press — Solicitude of enthusiasm 
to make proselytes— Fondness of authors for their lit- 
erary progeny — The blunderer impatient of contradic- 
tion — Moral faults and errors of the understanding re- 
ciprocally produce one another — The cup of pleasure 
to be tasted with caution— Force of habit — The wan- 
derer from the right path directed to the Cross. 

Sing, muse, (if such a theme, so dark, so long, 
May find a muse to grace it with a song), 
By what unseen and unsuspected arts 
The serpent Error twines round human hearts ; 
Tell where she lurks, beneath what flowery 

shades, 
That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades, 
The poisonous, black, insinuating worm 
Su.^essfully conceals her loathsome form. 
Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine, 



Counsel and caution from 



like 



Truths, that the theorist could never reach, 
And observation taught me. I would teach. 

Not all, whose eloquence the fancy fills, 
Musical as the chime of tinkling rills, 
Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend, 
Can trace her mazy windings to their end ; 
Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure, 
Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure. 
The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear, 
Falls soporific on the listless ear ; 
Like quicksilver, the rhetoric they display 
Shines as it runs, but, grasp'd at, slips away. 

Placed for his trial on this bustling stage, 
Prom thoughtless youth to ruminating age, 
Free in his will to choose or to refuse. 
Man may improve the crisis, or abuse ; 
Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan, 
Say, to what bar amenable were man] 
With nought in charge he could betray no trust ; 
And, if he fell, would fall because he must : 
If love reward him, or if vengeance strike, 
His recompense in both unjust alike. 
Divine authority within his breast 
Brings every thought word action, to the test; 
Warns him or prompts approves him or restrains, 
As reason, or as passion, takes the reins. 
Heaven from above and conscience from within, 
Cries in his startled ear — Abstain from sin ! 



The world around solicits his desiie, 
And kindles in his soul a treacherous lire , 
While, all his purposes and steps to guard, 
Peace follows virtue as its sure reward ; 
And pleasure brings as surely in her train 
Remorse and sorrow, and vindictive pain. 

Man, thus endued with an elective voice, 
Must be supplied with objects of his choice, 
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight, 
Or present or in prospect meet his sight : 
Those open on the spot their honeyed store ; 
These call him loudly to pursuit of more. 
His unexhausted mine the sordid vice 
Avarice shows, and virtue is the price. 
Here various motives his ambition raise — 
Power, pomp, and splendor, and the thirst o* 

praise ; 
There beauty wooes him with expanded arms ; 
E'en bacchanalian madness has its charms. 

Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined 
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind, 
Seek to supplant his inexperienced youth, 
Or lead him devious from the path of truth ; 
Hourly allurements on his passions press, 
Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess 

Hark ! how it floats upon the dewy air ! 
O what a dying, dying close was there ! 
'Tis harmony, from yon sequester'd bower. 
Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour. 
Long ere the charioteer of day had run 
His morning course the enchantment was begun ; 
And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, 
Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain 

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent, 
That virtue points to^ Can a life thus spent 
Lead to the bliss she promises the wise, 
Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the 

skies 1 
Ye devotees to your adored employ, 
Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy, 
Love makes the music of the blest above, 
Heaven's harmony is universal love ; [bined, 
And earthly sounds though sweet and well com- 
And lenient as soft opiates to the mind, 
Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind. 
Grey dawn appears ; the sportsman and his train 
Speckle the bosom of the distant plain ; 
'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighboring lairs ; 
Save that his scent is less acute than theirs. 
For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, 
True beagle as the stanchest hound he keeps. 
Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene, 
He takes offence, and wonders what you mean, 
The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays — 
'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days. 
Again impetuous to the field he flies ; 
Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dj^s; 



526 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home, 
Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom. 

Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, 
Lights of the world and stars of human race ; 
But, if eccentric ye forsake your sphere, 
Prodigies ominous and view'd with fear : 
The comet'j baneful influence is a dream ; 
Yours real, and pernicious in the extreme. 
What then ! are appetites and lusts laid down 
With the same ease that man puts on his gown 1 
Will avarice and concupiscence give place, 
Charm'd by the sounds — Your Reverence, or 

your Grace ] 
No. But his own engagement binds him fast ; 
Or, if it does not brands him to the last 
What atheists call him — a designing knave, 
A mere church juggler hypocrite and slave. 
Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful jest. 
A cassock'd huntsman and a fiddling priest ! 
He from Italian songsters takes his cue : 
Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too. 
He takes the field. The master of the pack 
Cries — Well done, saint ! and claps him on the 
Is this the path of sanctity ] Is this [back. 

To stand a waymark on the road to bliss 1 
Himself a wanderer from the narrow way, 
His silly sheep what wonder if they stray \ 
Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet. 
Send your dishonor'd gown to Monmoutn-street ! 
The sacred function in your hands is made — 
Sad sacrilege — no function, but a trade ! 

Occiduus is a pastor of renown, [down, 

When be has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath 
With wire and catgut he conclude? the day, 
Quavering and semiquavering care away. 
The full concerto swells upon your ear ; [swear 
All elbows shake. Look in, and you would 
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod 
Had summon'd them to serve his golden god. 
So well that thought the employment seems to 

suit, 
Psaltery and sackbut, dulcimer and flute. 
O fie ! 'tis evangelical and pure : 
Observe each face, how sober and demure ! 
Ecstacy sets her stamp on every mien ; 
Chins fallen, and not an eyeball to be seen. 
Still I insist though music heretofore 
Has charm'd me much (not e'en Occiduus more), 
Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet 
For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet. 

Will not the sickliest sheep of every flock 
Resort to this example as a rock ; 
There stand and justify the foul abuse 
3f sabbath hours with plausible excuse ; 
If apostolic gravity be free 
To play the i'ool on Sundays, why not we 1 
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards 
As inoffensive, what offence in cards 1 
Strike up the fiddles let us all be gay ! 
Laymen have leave to dance if parsons play. 

O Italy ! — Thy sabbaths will be soon 
Our sabbaths, closed with mummery and buffoon. 
Preaching and pranks will share the motley 

scene, 
Ours parcelled out, as thine have ever been, 
Grpd's worship and the mountebanks between. 
What says the prophet 1 Let that day be blest 
With holiness and consecraied rest. 
Pastime and business, both it should exclude, 
And bar the door the moment they intrude ; 
Nobly distinguished above all the six 
By deeds in which the world must ntver mix. 



Here him again. He calls it a delight, 
A day of luxury observed aright, [g 1168 * 

When the glad soul is made Heaven's welcome 
Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast. 
But triflers are engaged and cannot come ; 
Their answer to the call is — Not at home. 

O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain, 
The painted tablets dealt and dealt again ! 
Cards with what rapture, and the pohsh'd die, 
The yawning chasm of indolence supply ! 
Then to the dance, and make the sober moon 
Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon. 
Blame, cynic, if you can. quadrille or ball, 
The snug close party or the splendid hall, 
Where Night, down stooping from her ebcn 

throne, 
Views constellations brighter than her own. 
'Tis innocent and harmless, and refined, 
The balm of care. Elysium of the mind. 
Innocent ! Oh. if venerable Time 
Slain at the foot of Pleasure be no crime. 
Then with his silver beard and magic wand, 
Let Comus rise archbishop of the land ; 
Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe, 
Grand metropolitan of all the tribe. 

Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast, 
The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste. 
Rufillus exquisitely form'd by rule, 
Not of the moral but the dancing school, 
Wonders .at Clodio's follies in a tone 
As tragical as others at his own. 
He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score, 
Then kill a constable, and drink five more; 
But he can draw a pattern, make a tart, 
And has the ladies' etiquette by heart. 
Go fool; and. arm in arm with Clodio plead 
Your cause before a bar you little dread ; 
But know, the law that bids the drunkard die 
Is far too just to pass the trifler by. 
Both baby-featured, and of infant size, 
View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyea 
Folly and innocence are so alike, 
The difference, though essential, fails to strike. 
Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, 
A simpering countenance, and a trifling air; 
But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect, 
Delights us by engaging our respect. 
Man. Nature's guest by invitation swaet. 
Receives from her both appetite and treat ; 
But if he play the glutton and exceed, 
His benefactress blushes at the deed. 
For Nature nice, as liberal to dispense, 
Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense. 
Daniel ate pulse by choice — example rare ! 
Heaven bless'd the youth, and made him fresU 

and fair. 
Gorgonius sits abdominous and wan, 
Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan: 
He snuffs far off the anticipated joy ; 
Turtle and venison all his thoughts employ ; 
Prepares for meals as jockeys take a sweat, 
Oh, nauseous! — an emetic for a whet! 
Will Providence o'erlook the wasted good? 
Temperance were no virtue if he could. 

That pleasures therefore, or what such we call 
Are hurtful is a truth confess'd by all. 
And some, that seem to threaten virtue less 
Still hurtful in the abuse, or by the excess. 

Is man then only for his torment placed 
The centre of delights he may not taste 1 
Like fabled Tantalus condemn'd to hear 
The precious stream still purling in his ear, 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 



621 



Lip-deep in what he longs for and yet curst 
With prohibition and perpetual thirst 1 
No. wrangler — destitute of shame and sense, 
The precept that enjoins him abstinence, 
Forbids him none but the licentious joy. 
Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy. 
Remorse, the fatal egg by Pleasure laid 
In every bosom where her nest is made, 
Hatch'd by the beams of truth denies him rest, 
And proves a raging scorpion in his breast. 
No pleasure 1 Are domestic comforts dead 1 
Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled ! 
Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame, 
Good sense, good health, good conscience, and 

good fame 1 
All these belong to virtue, and all prove 
That virtue has a title to your love. 
Have you no touch of pity, that the poor 
Stand starved at your inhospitable door 1 
Or if yourself, too scantily supplied. 
Need help, let honest industry provide. 
Earn, if you want; if you abound impart: 
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart. 
No pleasure 1 Has some sickly eastern waste 
Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast 1 
Can British Paradise no scenes afford 
To please her sated and indifferent lord 1 
Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments ran 
Quite to the lees 1 And has religion none 1 
Brutes capable would tell you 'tis a he. 
A nd judge you from the kennel and the stye. 
Delights like these, ye sensual and profane, 
Ye are bid begg'd, besought to entertain; 
Call'd to these crystal streams, do } r e turn off 
Obscene to swill and swallow at a trough 1 
Envy the beast, then, on whom Heaven bestows 
Your pleasures, with no curses at the close. 

Pleasure admitted in undue degree 
Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free. 
'Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice 
Unnerves the moral powers, and mars their use ; 
Ambition, avarice, and the lust of fame, 
And woman lovely woman, does the same. 
The heart surrender'd to the ruling power 
Of some ungovern'd passion every hour, 
Finds by degrees the truths that once bore sway, 
And all their deep impressions wear away ; 
So coin grows smooth, in traffic current pass'd, 
Till Caesar's image is effaced at last. 

The breach, though small at first soon opening 
wide, 
In rushes folly with a full-moon tide, 
Then welcome errors, of whatever size, 
To justify it by a thousand lies. 
As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, 
And hides the ruin that it feeds upon ; 
So sophistry cleaves close to and protects 
Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects. 
Mortals, whose pleasures are their only care, 
First wish to be imposed on, and then are. 
And lest the fulsome artifice should fail, 
Themselves will hide its coarseness with a veil. 
Not more industrious are the just and true 
To give to Virtue what is Virtue's due — 
The praise of wisdom, comeliness, and worth, 
And call her charms to public notice forth — 
Than Vice's mean and disingenuous race 
To hide the shocking features of her face. 
Her form with dress and lotion they repair ; 
Then kiss their idol, and pronounce her fair. 

The sacred implement I now employ 
Might prove a mischief or at best a toy ; 



A trifle, if it move but to amuse ; 
But. if to wrong the judgment and abuse, 
Worse than a poniard in the basest hand, 
It stabs at once the morals of a land. 

Ye writers of what none with safety reads, 
Footing it in the dance that Fancy leads ; 
Ye novelists who mar what ye would mend, 
Snivelling and drivelling folly without end; 
Whose corresponding misses fill the ream 
With sentimental frippery and dream, 
Caught in a delicate soft silken net 
By some lewd earl, or rake-hell baronet : 
Ye pimps, who under virtue's fair pretence, 
Steal to the closet of young innocence, 
And teach her, inexperienced yet and green, 
To scribble as you scribbled at fifteen ; 
Who, kindling a combustion of desire, 
With some cold moral think to quench the fire ; 
Though all your engineering proves in vain 
The dribbling stream ne'er puts it out again : 
Oh that a verse had power, and could command 
Far, far away, these flesh-flies of the land, 
Who fasten without mercy on the fair, 
And suck, and leave a craving maggot there ' 
Howe'er disguised the inflammatory tale, 
And cover'd with a fine-spun specious veil ; 
Such writers, and such readers, owe the gust 
J And relish of their pleasure all to lust. 

But the muse, eagle-pinion'd. has in view 
A quarry more important still than you ; 
Down, down the wind she swims, and sails away 
Now stoop- upon it and now grasps the prey. 

Petronius ! all the muses weep for thee ; 
But every tear shall scald thy memory : 
The graces too, while Virtue at their shrine 
Lay bleeding under that soft hand of thine, 
Felt each a mortal stab in her own breast, 
Abhorr'd the sacrifice, and cursed the priest 
Thou polish'd and high-finish'd foe to truth, 
Graybeard corrupter of our listening youth, 
To purge and skim away the filth of vice, 
That so refined it might the more entice, 
Then pour it on the morals of thy son, 
To taint his heart was worthy of thine own ! 
Now, while the poison all high life pervades 
Write, if thou canst, one letter from the shades 
One, and one only, charged with deep regret, 
That thy worst part, thy principles, live yet ; 
One sad epistle thence may cure mankind 
Of the plague spread by bundles left behind. 

'Tis granted and no plainer truth appears. 
Our most important are our earliest years ; 
The mind impressible and soft, with ease 
Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees, 
And through life's labyrinth holds fast the clue 
That. Education gives her, false or true. 
Plants raised with tenderness are seldom strong 
Man's coltish disposition asks the thong ; 
And without discipline the favorite child, 
Like a neglected forester, runs wild. 
But we, as if good qualities would grow 
Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow : 
We give some Latin and a saiatch of Greek; 
Teach him to fence and figure twice a week ; 
And having done, we think the best we can, 
Praise his proficiency and dub him man. , 

From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home 
And thence with all convenient speed to Rome, 
With reverend tutor clad in habit lay. 
To tease for cash, and quarrel with all day; 
With memorandum book for every town, 
And every post, and where the chaise broke down 



628 



COWPER'S vVORKS 



His stock, a few French phrases got by heart, 
With much to learn, but nothing to impart; 
The youth, obedient to his sire's commands, 
Sets off a wanderer into foreign lands. 
Surprised at ail they meet, the gosling pair, 
With awkward gait stretch'd neck, and silly stare, 
Discover huge cathedrals built with stone, 
And steeples towering high, much like our own ; 
But show peculiar light by many a grin 
At popish practices observed within. 

Ere long some bowing, smirking, smart abbe 
Remarks two loiterers that have lost their way ; 
And, being always primed with politesse 
For men of their appearance and address, 
With much compassion undertakes the task 
To tell them more than they have^ wit to ask ; 
Points to inscriptions wheresoe'erthey tread, 
Such as, when legible, were never read, 
But being canker'd now and half worn out, 
Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt; 
Some headless hero, or some Csesar shows — 
Defective only in his Roman nose ; 
Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, 
Models of Herculanum pots and pans ; 
And sells them medals, which, if neither rare 
Nor ancient, will be so, preserved with care. 

Strange the recital ! from whatever cause 
His great improvement and new lights he draws, 
The squire, once bashful is shamefaced no more, 
But teems with powers he never felt before ; 
Whether increased momentum, and the force 
With which from clime to clime he sped his course, 
(As axles sometimes kindle as they go,) 
Chafed him, and brought dull nature to a glow ; 
Or whether clearer skies and softer air, 
That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair, 
Freshening his lazy spirits as he ran, 
Unfolded genially, and spread the man ; 
Returning, he proclaims, by many a grace, 
By shrugs and strange contortions of his face, 
How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam. 
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home. 

Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, 
And wisdom falls before exterior grace : 
We slight the precious kernel of the stone, 
And toil to polish its rough coat alone. 
A just deportment manners graced with ease, 
Elegant phrase, and figure form'd to please, 
Are qualities that seem to comprehend 
Whatever parents guardians, schools, intend ; 
Hence an unfurnish'd and a listless mind. . 
Though busy, trifling; empty, though refined; 
Hence all that interferes, and dares to clash 
With indolence and luxury, is trash ; 
While learning once the man's exclusive pride, 
Seems verging fast towards the female side. 
Learning itself, received into a mind 
By nature weak, or viciously inclined, 
Serves but to lead philosophers astray, 
Where children would with ease discern the way. 
And of all arts sagacious dupes invent. 
To cheat themselves and gain the world's assent, 
Tiie worst is — Scripture warp'd from its intent. 

The carriage bowls along, and all are pleased 
If Tom be sober and the wheels well greased ; 
Bufr if the ro;*ue be gone a cup too far, 
Left out his linchpin or forgot his tar, 
It suffers interruption and delay, 
And meets with hindrance in the smoothest 

way. 
When some hypothesis absurd and vain 
lias fill'd with all its fumes a critic's brain, 



The text that sorts not with his darling whim, 

Though plain to others, is obscure to him. 

The will made subject to a lawless force, 

All is irregular, and out of course ; 

And Judgment drunk, and bribed to lose bis way 

Winks hard, and talks of darkness at noonday. 

A critic on the sacred book should be 
Candid and learn'd, dispassionate and free; 
Free from the wayward bias bigots feel, 
From fancy's influence, and intemperate zeal , 
But above all, (or let the wretch refrain, 
Nor touch the page he cannot but profane,) 
Free from the domineering power of lust ; 
A lewd interpreter is never just. 

How shall I speak thee, or thy power address, 
Thou god of our idolatry* the Press 1 
By thee religion, liberty and laws. 
Exert their influence and advance their cause ; 
By thee worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befeU 
Diffused, make Earth the vestibule of Hell; 
Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise, 
Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies ; 
Like Eden's dread probationary tree, 
Knowledge of go d and evil is from thee ! 

No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest ' 
Till half mankind were like himself possess'd. 
Philosophers, who darken and put out 
Eternal truth by everlasting doubt ; 
Church quacks, W th passions under no command, 
Who fill the world with doctrines contraband, 
Discoverers of they know not what, confined 
Within no bounds — the blind that lead the blind ; 
To streams of popular opinion drawn, 
Deposit in those shallows all their spawn. 
The wriggling fry soon fill the creeks around, 
Poisoning the waters where their swarms abound. 
Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood, [food. 
Minnows and gudgeons gorge the unwholesome 
The propagated myriads spread so fast. 
E'en Leuwenhoeck himself would stand aghast. 
Employ'd to calculate the enormous sum, 
And own his crab-computing powers o'ercome. 
Is this hyperbole ! The world well known, 
Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one. 

Fresh confidence the speculatist takes 
From every hair-brain'd proselyte he makes ; 
And therefore prints : himself but half deceived, 
Till others have the soothing tale believe .1. 
Hence comment after comment, spun as fine 
As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line. 
Hence the same word that bids our lusts obey 
Is misapplied to sanctify their sway. 
If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend, 
Hebrew or Synac phall be forced to bend ; 
If languages and copies all cry, No — 
Somebody proved it centuries ago. 
Like trout pursued, the critic in despair 
Darts to the mud, and finds his safety there : 
Women whom custom has forbid to fly 
The scholar's pitch, (the scholar best knows why.) 
With all the simple and unletter'd poor, 
Admire his learning, and almost adore. 
Whoever errs, the priest can ne'er be wrong, 
With such fine words familiar to his tongue. 

Ye ladies ! (for, indifferent in your cause, 
I should deserve to forfeit all applause) 
Whatever shocks or gives the least offence 
To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense, 
(Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide,) 
Nor has, nor can have Scripture on its side. 

None but an author knows an author's care*, 
Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERRO~ . 



te* 



Committed once into the public arms, 

The baby seems to smile with added charms. 

Like something precious ventured far from shore. 

'Tis valued for the danger's sake the more. 

He views it with complacency supreme, 

Solicits kind attention to his dream ; 

And daily, more enamord of the cheat, 

Kneels, and asks Heaven to bless the dear deceit. 

So one, whose story serves at least to show 

Men loved their own productions long ago, 

Wooed an unfeeling statue for his wife, 

Nor rested till the gods had given it life. 

If some mere driveller suck the sugar"d fib 

One that still needs his leading string and bib, 

And praise his genius, he is soon repaid 

In praise applied to the same part — his head; 

For 'tis a rule that holds forever true. 

Grant me discernment, and I grant it you. 

Patient of contradiction as a child, 
Affable, humble, diffident and mild ; 
Such was Sir Isaac, and such Boyle ar d Locke ; 
Your blunderer is as sturdy as a rock. 
The creature is so sure to kick and bite, 
A muleteer's the man to set him right. 
First Appetite enlists him, Truth's sworn foe, 
Then obstinate Self-will confirms him so. 
Tell him he wanders ; that his error leads 
To fatal ills ; that, though the path he treads 
Be flowery, and he see no cause of fear, 
Death and the pains of hell attend him there : 
In vain ; the slave of arrogance and pride, 
He has no hearing on the prudent side. 
His still refuted quirks he still repeats; 
New laised objections with new quibbles meets; 
Till, sinking in the quicksand he defends. 
"" e dies disputing, and the contest ends — 

t not the mischiefs ; they, still left behind, 

Ke thistle-seeds, are sown by every wind. 

Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill ; 
•end the straight rule to their own crooked will ; 
And, with a clear and shining lamp supplied, 
First put it out, then take it for a guide. 
Halting on crutches of unequal size. 
One leg by truth supported, one by lies, 
They sidle to the goal with awkward pace, 
Secure of nothing — but to lose the race. 

Faults in the life breed errors in the brain, 
And these reciprocally those again. 
The mind and conduct mutually imprint 
kr& stamp their image in each other's mint; 
Fach, i ire and dam of an infernal race. 
Jegf-1 ing and conceiving all tnat's base, 

Pf >ne sends his arrow to the mark in view, 
Whose hand is feeble, or h's aim untrue. 



For though, er ret the shaft is on the wing, 
Or when it fir forsakes the elastic string, 
It err but lit''., from the intended line, 
It falls at last far wide of his design ; 
So he who seeks a mansion in the sky, 
Must watch his purpose with a steadfast eye ; 
That prize belongs to none but the sincere, 
The '.ast obliquity is fatal here. 

W;th caution taste the sweet Circean cup; 
He that sips often, at last drinks it up. 
Habits are soon assumed ; but when we strive 
To strip them off. 'tis being flay'd alive. 
Call'd to the temple of impure delight, 
He that abstains and he alone, does right. 
If a wish wander that way. call it home; 
He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam. 
But if you pass the threshold you are caur^xt; 
Die then, if power Almighty save you not. 
There hardening by degrees, till double steel'd, 
Take leave of nature's God. and God reveal'd; 
Then laugh at all you trembled at before ; 
And. joining the freethinkers' brutal roar, 
Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense- 
That Scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense. 
If clemency revolted by abuse 
Be damnable, then damn'd without excuse. 

Some dream that they can silence, when they 
will, 
The storm of passion, and say. Peace, be still 
But • Thus far and no farther," when addr d 
To the wild wave, or wilder human breast, 
Implies authority that never can, 
That never ought to be the lot of man. 

But, muse, forbear ; long flights forebode a fall; 
Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all. 

Hear the just law — the judgment of the skies 
He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies ; 
And he that will be cheated to the last, 
Delusions strong as hell shall bind him fast. 
But if the wanderer his mistake discern, 
Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, 
Bewilder'd once, must he bewail his loss 
Forever and forever 1 No — the cross ! 
There and there only (though the deist rave, 
And atheist, if Earth bear so base a slave); 
There and there only is the power to save. 
There no delusive hope invites despair; 
No mockery meets you, no deception there, 
The "spells and charms that blinded you before, 
All vanish there and fascinate no more. 

I am no preacher, let this hint suffice- - 
The cross once seen is death to every vir.e; 
Else He that hung there suffei'd all his pain, 
Bled, groan'd. and agonized, and died, *n vain 
9 4 



TRUTH. 



Pensantur trutina. Hop., lib. ii. Ep. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

I*he pursuit of error leads to destruction— Giaco leads 
the right way— Its direction despised— The self-suffi- 
cient Pharisee compared with the peacock— The pheas- 
ant compared with the Christian— Heaven abhors af- 
fected sanctity— The hermit and his penances— The 
self-torturing Bramin— Pride the ruling principle of 
both— Picture of a sanctimonious prude— Picture of a 
saint— Freedom of a Christian- Importance of motives, 
illustrated by the conduct of two servants— The trav- 
eller overtaken by a storm likened to the sinner dread- 
ing the vengeance of me Almighty— Dangerous sune 
of those who are jusi ic. their own conceit— The LEti 
moments of the infidel— Content of the ignorant but 
believing cottager— The rich, the wise, and the great, 
neglect the means of winning heaven— Poverty the best 
soil for religion— What man really is, and what in his 
own esteem — Unbelief often terminates in suicide — 
Scripture the only cure of woe— Pride the passion most 
hostile to truth— Danger of slighting the mery offered 
by the Gospel— Plea for the virtuous heathen— Com- 
mands given by God on Sinai— The judgment-day — 
Plea of the believer. 

Man, on the dubious waves of error toss'd, 
His ship half founder'd, and hfs compass lost, 
Sees, far as human optics may command, 
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land ; 
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies ; 
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies ! 
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes, 
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams; 
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell ! 
He reads his sentence at the names of hell. 

Hard lot of man — to toil for the reward 
Of virtue, and yet lose it ! Wherefore hard 1 — 
He that would win the race must guide his horse 
Obedient to the customs of the course ; 
Else, though unequall'd to the goal he Hies, 
A meaner than himself shall gain the prize. 
Grace leads the right way ; if you choose the 

wrong, 
Take it and perish ; but restrain your tongue ; 
Charge not, with light suilicient and left free, 
Your wilful suicide on God's decree. 

Oh how unlike the complex works of man, 
Heav'n's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan ! 
No meretricious graces to beguile, 
No clustering ornaments to clog the pile ; 
From ostentation, as from weakness, free, 
It stands like the cerulian arch we see, 
Majestic in its own simplicity. 
Inscribed above the portal from afar 
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, 
Legible only by the light they give, 
Stand the soul-quickening words — believe, >nd 
l ve. [most, 

Too many, shock'd at what should charm them 
Despise the plain direction, and are lost, [dain) 
Heaven on such terms ! (they cry with proud dis- 
Incredihle, impt ssible, and vain ! — 



Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey; 
And ?corn, for its own sake, the gracious way 
These are the sober, in whose cooler brains 
Some thought of immortality remains ; 
The rest too busy or too gay to wait 
On the sad theme, their everlasting state, 
Sport for a day, and perieh in a night; 
The foam upon the waters not so light. 

Who j udged the Pharisee ! What odious cause 
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws 1 
Had he seduc'd a virgin, wre ./d a friend, 
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end 1 
Was blasphemy his sin 1 Or did he stray 
Prom the strict duties of the sacred day/? 
Sit long and late at the carousing board ? 
j (Such were the sins with which he charged his 
Lord.) 
No — the man's morals were exact. What then 1 
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ; 
His virtues were his pride ; and that one vice 
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price ; 
He wore them as fine tr£ ppings for a show, 
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau. 

The self- applauding bird, the peacock, see — 
Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he ! 
Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold 
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold : 
He treads as if. some solemn music vear, 
His measured step was govern'd by nis ear; 
And seems to say — Ye meaner fowl give place ; 
I am all splendor, dignity, and grace ! 

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes, 
Though he. too has a glory in his plumes. 
He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mien 
To the close copse or far sequester'd green, 
And shines without desiring to be seen. 
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain, 
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and dis- 
dain; 
Not more affronted by avowed neglect, 
Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect. 
What is all righteousness that men devise % 
What — but a sordid bargain for the skies 1 
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own, 
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne 

His dwelling a recess in some rude rock ; 
Book, beads and maple dish, his meagre stock ; 
In shirt of hair and weeds of canvas dress'd, 
Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd ; 
Adust with stripes told out for every crime, 
And sore tormented, long before his time ; 
His prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid, 
His praise postponed, and never to be paid ; 
See the sage hermit, by mankind admired, 
With all that bigotry adopts inspired, 
Wearing out life in his reugious whim, 
Till his religious whimsy wears out him. 



His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'd, 
Vou think him humble — God accounts him 

proud. 
High in demand, though lowly in pretence, 
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense — 
My penitential stripes my streaming blood, 
Have purchased heaven, and proved my title 
good. 

Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply 
To your weak sight her telescopic eye. 
The bramin kind Its on his own bare head 
The sacred tire self-torturing his trade! 
His voluntary pains severe and long 
vVould give a barbarous air to British song; 
No grand inquisitor could worse invent 
Than he contrives to suffer well content. 

Which is the saintlier worthy of the two I 
Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you. 
Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name 1 
I say the bramin has the fairer claim. 
If sufferings scripture nowhere recommends, 
Devised by self to answer selfish ends 
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree 
Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he. 
The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, 
And prejudice have left a passage clear) 
Pride has attained a most luxuriant growth, 
And poison'd every virtue in them both, [lean ; 
Pride may be pamper d while the flesh grows 
Humility may clothe an English dean; 
That grace was Cowper's — his confess'd by all — 
Though placed in golden Durham's second stall. 
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board, 
His palace, and his lacqueys and " My Lord," 
More nourish pride that condescending vice, 
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice ; 
It thrives in misery, and abundant grows : 
In misery fools upon themselves impose. 

But why before us protestants produce 
An Indian mystic, or a French recluse 1 
Their sin is plain ; but what have we to fear. 
Reform'd and well-instructed 1 You shall hear. 

Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features 
She might be young some forty years ago [show 
Her elbows pinioned close upon her hips, 
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips 
Her eyebrows arched, her eyes both gone astray 
To watch yon amorous couple in* their play. 
With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies 
The rude inclemency of wintry skies. 
And sails wit'a lappet head and mincing airs 
Duly at clink of bell to morning prayers. 
To thrift and parsimony much inclined, 
She yet'allows herself that boy behind ; 
The shivering urchin, bending as he goes 
With slipshod heels and dewdrop at his nose, 
His predecessor's coat advanced to wear. 
Which future pages yet are doom'd to share, 
Carries her Bible tuck'd beneath his arm, 
And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm. 

She half an angel in her own account 
Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount. 
Though not a grace appears on strictest search, 
But that she fasts, and item, goes to church. 
Conscious of age she recollects her youth, 
And tells, not always with an eye to truth, [came, 
♦Vho spann'd her waist, and who. where'er he 
Scrawl'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name ; 
Who stole her slipper fill'd it with tokay, 
Afcd drank the little bumper every day. 
Of temper as envenom'd as an asp, 
Ccnso "ious, and her every word a wasp > 



In faithful memory she records the crimes 

Or real, or fictitious, of the times ; 

Laugfrs at the reputations she has torn, 

And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. 

Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride, 
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified : 
Take madam the reward of all your prayers, 
Where hermits and where bra minsmeetwith theirs, 
Your portion is with them. — Nay, never frown, 
But. if you please, some fathoms lower down. 

Artist, attend — your brushes and your paint — 
Produce them take a chair — now draw a saint. 
Oh sorrowful and sad ! the streaming tears 
Channel her cheeks — a Niobe appears! 
Is this a saint ? Throw tints and all away — 
True piety is cheerful as the day. 
Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan 
For others' woes but smiles upe'n her own. 

What purpose has the King of saints in view 1 
Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew *? 
To call up plenty from the teeming earth. 
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth 1 
Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved 
From servile fear, or be the more enslaved 1 
To loose the links that gall'd mankind before, 
Or bind them taster on, and add still more 1 
The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove, 
Or. if a chain the golden one of love : 
No fear attends to quench his glowing fires, 
What fear he feels his gratitude, inspires. 
Shall he. for such deliverance freely wrought, 
Recompense ill 1 He trembles at the thought. 
His Master's interest and his own combined 
Prompt every movement of his heart and mind 
Thought word, and deed his liberty evince, 
His freedom is the freedom of a prince. 

Man's obligations infinite, of course 
His life should prove that he perceives their force ; 
His utmost he can render is but small — 
The principle and motive all in all. 
You nave two servants — Tom, an arch, sly rogue 
From top to toe the Geta now in vogue, 
Genteel in figure, easy in address, 
Moves without noise and swift as an express, 
Reports a message with a pleasing grace, 
Expert in all the duties of his place; 
Say on what hinge does his obedience move 1 
Has he a world of gratitude and love 1 
No, not a spark — 'tis all mere sharper's play ; 
He likes your aouse your housemaid, and youi 
Reduce his wages, or get rid of her. [p a J> 

Tom quits you. with — Your most obedient, sir. 

The dinner served. Charles takes his usual 
Watches your eye, anticipates command ; ["stand, - 
Sijiis it' perhaps your appetite should fail; 
And if lie but suspects a frown, turns pale; 
Consults all day yoar interest and your ease, 
Richly rewarded if he can but please ; 
And proud to make his firm attachment known, 
To save your life would nobly risk his own. 

Now which stands highest hi your serious 
thought 1 
Charles, without doubt say you — and so he ought; 
One act. that from a thankful heart proceeds, 
Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds. 

Thus Heaven approves as honest and sincere 
The work of generous love and filial fear; 
But with averted eyes the omniscient Judge 
Scorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge. 

Where dwell these matchless saints 1 old Curio 
E'en at your side, sir and before your eyes, [cries. 
The favor'd few — the enthusiasts you despise. 



632 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



And, pleased at heart because on holy ground, 
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, 
Reproach a people with his single fall, 
And cast his filthy raiment at them all. 
Attend ! an apt similitude shall show « 

Whence springs the conduct that offends you so. 
See where it smokes along the sounding plain, 
Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain, 
Peal upon peal redoubling all around, 
Shakes it again and faster to the ground; 
Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, • 
Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. 
Ere yet it came the traveller urged his steed, 
And hurried, but with unsuccessfulspeed ; 
Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his 

case. 
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. 
Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude. 
Long hid by interposing hill or wood, 
Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, 
By some kind hospitable heart possess'd, 
Offer him warmth, security, and rest; 
Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease, 
He hears the tempest howling in the trees ; 
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ. 
While danger past is turn'd to present joy. 
So fares it with the sinner, when he feels 
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels: 
His conscience like a glassy lake before, 
Lash'd into foaming waves, begins to roar; 
The law, grown clamorous, though silent long, 
Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong — ■ 
Asserts the right of his offended Lord, 
And death, or restitution, is the word : 
The last impossible-, he fears the first, 
And. having well deserved, expects the worst. 
Then welcome refuge and a peaceful home ; 
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come ! 
Crush me. ye rocks ; ye falling mountains, hide, 
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide ! — 
The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes 
I dare not — And you need not, God replies ; 
The remedy you want I freely give ; 
The book shall teach you — read, believe and live ! 
'Tis .done — the raging storm is heard no more, 
Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore : 
And Justice, guardian of the dread command, 
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand. 
A soul redeem'd demands a life of praise ; 
Hence the complexion of his future days, 
Hence a demeanor holy and unspeck'd, 
And the world's hatred, as its sure effect. 

Some lead a life unblameable and just, 
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust : 
They never sin — or if (as all offend) 
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend, 
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small, 
A slight gratuity atones for all. 
For though the pope has lost his interest here, 
And pardons are not sold as once they were, 
No papist more desirous to compound, 
Than some grave sinners upon English ground. 
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek — 
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak; 
The future sball obliterate the past, 
And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last. 

Come then — a -still, small whisper in your ear — 
He has no hope who never had a fear ; 
And he that never doubted of his state. 
Be may perhaps — perhaps he may — too late. 

The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; 
Learning is one, and wit, however rare. 



The Frenchman, first in literary fame, [same) 
(Mention him, if you please. Voltaire 1 — Th« 
With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied, [died ■ 
Lived long, wrote much, laugh d heartily, and 
The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew 
Bon-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew ; 
An infidel in health, but what when sick % 
Oh — then a text would touch him at the quick i 
View him at Paris in his last career, 
Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere ; 
Exalted on his pedestal of pride, 
And fumed with frankincense on every side, 
He begs their flattery with his latest breath, 
And, smother'd in't at last, is praised to death ' 
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, 
Pillow and bobbins all her little store ; 
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay 
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day, 
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night 
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light ; 
i She. for her humble sphere by nature fit, 
I Has little understanding, and no wit, 
j Receives no praise ; but though her lot be such, 
j (Toilsome and indigent.) she renders much; 
| Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true— 
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ; 
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes, 
Her title to a treasure in the skies. 
Oh, happy peasant ! Oh. unhappy bard ! 
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ; 
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come, 
She never heard of half a mile from home : 
He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers, 
She, safe in the simplicity of hers. 

Not many wise, rich noble, or profound 
In science win one inch of heavenly ground. 
And is it not a mortifying thought 
The poor should gain it, and the rich should not 1 
No — the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget 
One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret ; 
Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer. 
Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix theit 
Not that the Former of us all in this, [there. 
Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice ; 
The supposition is replete with sin, 
And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. 
Not so — the silver trumpet's heavenly call 
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all: 
Kings are invited and would kings obey, 
No slaves on earth more welcome were than they; 
But royalty, nobility, and state, 
Are such a dead preponderating weight, 
That endless bliss, (how strange soe'er it seem,) 
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 
'Tis open, and ye cannot enter — why 1 
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply — 
And he says much that many may dispute 
And cavil at with ease, but none refute. 
Oh, bless'd effect of penury and want, 
The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant 
No soil like poverty for growth divine, 
As leanest land supplies the richest wine. 
Earth gives too little, giving only bread, 
To nourish pride, or turn tile weakest head : 
To them the sounding jargon of the schools 
Seems what it is — a cap and bells for fools : 
The light they walk by. kindled from above, 
Shows them the shortest way to life and love : 
They, strangers to the controversial field, 
Where deists, always foil'd, yet scorn to yield, 
And never check'd by what impedes the wise, 
Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize. 



TRUTH 



533 



Envy, ye great.* the dull unletter'd small : 
Ve have much cause for envy — but not all. 
We boast some rich ones whom the Gospel sways, 
And one who wears a coronet and prays ; 
Like gleanings oi" an olive tree they* show 
Here and there one upon the topmost bough. 

How readily, upon the Gospel plan. 
That question has its answer — What is man 1 
Sinful and weak in every sense a wretch ; 
An instrument whose chords upon the stretch, 
A.nd strain'd to the last screw that he can bear, 
Field only discord in his Maker's ear : 
Once the blest residence oi' truth divine, 
Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine, 
Where, in his own oracular abode, 
Dwelt visibly the light-creating God ; 
But made long since, like Babylon of old, 
A den oi" mischiefs never to be told : 
And she. once mistress of the realms around, 
Now scattered wide and nowhere to be found, 
As soon shall rise and re-ascend the throne, 
By native power and energy her own, 
As nature, at her own peculiar cost, 
Restore to man the glories he has lost. 
Go — bid the winter cease to chill the year, 
Replace the wandering comet in his sphere, 
Then boast (but wait for that unhoped for hour) 
The self-restoring arm of human power. 
But what is man in his own proud esteem 1 
Hear him — himself the poet and the theme : 
A monarch clothed with majesty and awe, 
His mind his Iftngdom. and his will his law ; 
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes, 
Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies, 
Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod, 
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God ! 

So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and 
form, 
The song magnificent — the theme a worm ! 
Himself so much the source of his delight, 
His Maker has no beauty in his sight. 
See where he sits, contemplative and fix'd, 
Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd, 
His passions tamed and all at his control. 
How perfect the composure of his soul ! 
Complacency has breathed a gentle gale 
O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail: 
His books well trimm'd. and in the gayest style. 
Like regimental coxcombs, rank and file. 
Adorn his intellects as well as shelves, ' 
And teach him notions splendid as themselves : 
The Bible only stands neglected there, 
Though that of all most worthy of his care ; 
And. like an infant troublesome awake, 
Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake. 

What shall the man deserve of human kind, 
Whose happy skill and industry combined 
Shall prove (what argument could never yet) 
The Bible an imposture and a cheat 1 
The praises or' the libertine profess'd, 
The worst of men arid curses of the best. 
Where should the living, weeping o'er his wo^s; 
The dying, trembling at the awful close ; 
Where the betray 'd forsaken, and oppress'd ; 
The thousands whom the world forbids to rest; 
Where should they find, (those comforts at an 

end, 
The Scripture yields.) or hope to find, a friend 1 
Sorrow might muse herself to madness then, 
And«> seeking exile from the sight of men, 
Bury herseK in solitude profound, 
Srrow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground. 



Thus often Unbelief grown sick of life, 

Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife. 

The jury meet, the coroner is short, 

And lunacy the verdict of the, court. 

Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known, 

Such lunacy is ignorance, alone ; 

They knew not what some bishops may not 

know. 
That Scripture is the only cure of woe. 
That field of promise how it flings abroad 
Its odor o'er the Christian's thorny road ! . 
The soul, reposing on assured relief, 
Feels herself happy amidst all her grief, 
Forgets her labor as she toils along, 
Weeps tears of joy : and bursts into a song. 

But trie same word, that, like the polish d 
share, 
Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care, 
Kills too the flowery weeds, where'er they grow, 
That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow. 
Oh that unwelcome voice of heavenly love, 
Sad messenger of mercy from above ! 
How does it grate upon his thankless ear, 
Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear ! 
His will and judgment at continual strife, ' 
That civil war embitters all his life ; 
In vain he points his powers against the skies, 
In vain he closes or averts his eyes, 
Truth will intrude— she bids him yet beware ; 
And shakes the sceptic in the scorner's chair. 
Though various foes against the Truth combine. 
Pride above all opposes her design ; 
Pride, of a growth superior to the rest, 
The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest, 
Swells at the thought, and, kindling into rage. 
Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage. 

And is the soul indeed so lost 1 — she cries, 
Fallen from her glory, and too weak to rise 1 
Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone, 
Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own 1 
Grant her indebted to what zealots call 
Grace undeserved, yet surely not for all ! 
Some beams of rectitude she yet displays, 
Some love of virtue, and some power to praise; 
Can lift herself above corporeal things, 
And. soaring on her own unborrowu wings, 
Possess herself of all that's good or true, 
Assert the skies, and vindicate her due. 
Past indiscretion is a venial crime ; 
And if the youth, unmellowed yet by time, 
Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude. 
Fruits of a blighted size austere and crude, 
Maturer years shall happier stores produco 
And meliorate the well-concocted juice. 
Then conscious of her meritorious zeal 
To Justice she may make her bold appeal; 
And leave, to Mercy, with a tranquil mind, 
The worthless and unfruitful of mankind. 
Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied, 
Retorts the affront against the crown of pride. 

Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd, 
And the fool with it who insults his Lord. 
The atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought 
Is not for you — the righteous need it not. 
Seest thou yon harlot, wooing all she meets, 
The worn-out nuisance of the public streets, 
Herself from morn to night, from night to morn, 
Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn! 
The gracious shower, unlimited and free, 
Shall fall on her. when Heaven denies it thee. 
Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drift - 
That man is dead in sin, and life a gilV 



r>64: 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Is # virtue, then, unless of Christian growth, 
Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both 1 
Ten thousand sages lost in endless woe, 
For ignorance of what they' could not know 1 — 
That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue, 
Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong! 
Truly, not I — the partial light men have, 
My creed persuades me, well employ 'd, may save ; 
While he that scorns the noon-day beam, per- 
verse, 
Shall rind the blessing, unimproved, a curse. 
Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mind 
Lett sensuality and dross behind 
Possess, for me, their undisputed lot, 
And take, unenvied, the reward they sought. 
But still in virtue of a Saviour's plea, ' 
Not blind by choice, but destined not lo see. 
Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame 
Celestial, though they knew not whence it came, 
Derived from the same source of light and grace, 
That guides the Christian in his swifter race ; 
Their judge was conscience, and her rule their 

law: 
That rule, pursued with reverence and with awe, 
Led them, however faltering, faint and slow, 
From what they knew to what they wish'd to 

know. 
But let not him that shares a brighter day 
Traduce the splendor of a noontide ray, 
Prefer the twilight of a darker time, 
And deem his base stupidity no crime ; 
The wretch, who slights the bounty of the skies, 
And sinks, while favor'd with the means to rise, 
Shall find them rated at their full amount, 
The good he scorn'd all carried to account. 

Marshalling all his terrors as he came, 
Thunder, and earthquake, and devouring flame, 
From Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law — 
Life for obedience — death for every flaw. 



When the great Sovereign would his will expi isg 
He gives a perfect rule, what can he less 1 
And guards it with a sanction as severe 
As vengeance can inflict or sinners fear: 
j Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim, 
I And man might safely trifle with his name: 
I He bids them glow with unremitting love 
■ To all on earth, and to himself above ; [tongue 
I Condemns the injurious deed the slanderoui 
! The thought that meditates a brother's wrong : 
! Brings not alone the more conspicuous part, 
I His conduct, to the test but tries his heart. 
I Hark! universal nature shook and groan'd, 
! 'Twas the last trumpet — see the Judge enthron'd : 
! Rouse all your courage at your utmost need, 
I Now summon every virtue stand and plead. 
| What ! silent 1 Is your boasting heard no more 1 
; That self-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before, 
Had shed immortal glories on your brow, 
That all your virtues cannot purchase now. 
All joy to the believer ! He can speak — 
Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek, [foot 
Since the dear hour that brought me to thy 
And cut up all my follies by the root, 
I never trusted in an arm but thine, 
Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine : 
My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled, 
j Were but the feeble efforts of a child ! 
j Howe'er performed, it was their brightest part, 
: That they proceeded from a grateful heart : 
Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood, 
Forgive their evil and accept their good : 
I cast them at thy feet — my only plea 
Is what it was, dependence upon thee : 
; While struggling in the vale of tears below, 
j That never fail'd nor shall it fail me now. 
i Angelic gratulations rend the skies, 
i Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise, 
| Humility is crow n'd, and Faith receives the prize 



EXPOSTULATION. 



Tantane, tarn .patiens, nullo certamine tolli 
Dona sines '? Virg. 



THE ARGUMENT. 
Expostulation with the Muse weeping for England— Her 
apparently prosperous condition— State of Israel when 
the prophet wept over it— The Babylonian Captivity— 
When nations decline, the evil commences in the 
Church— State of the Jews in the time of our Saviour- 
Evidences of their having been the most favored of na- 
tions — Causes of their downfall — Lesson taught by it — 
Warning to Britain— The hand of Providence to be 
traced in adverse events— England's trangressions— 
Her vain-glory — Her conduct towards India — Abuse of 
the sacrament— Obduracy against repentance— Futility 
of fasts— Character of the Clergy— The poet adverts 
to the state of the ancient Britons — Beneficial influence 
of the Roman power— England under papal suprem- 
acy — Favors since bestowed on her by Providence — 
Reasons for gratitude to God and for seeking to se- 
cure his favor — With that she may lefy a world in 
arms— The poet anticipates little effect Irom his warning. 

Wn y weeps the muse for England 7 What appears 
[n England's case to move the muse to tears 1 



From side to side of her delightful isle 
Is she not clothed with a perpetual smile 1 
Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer 
A new-found luxury, not seen in her 1 
Where under heaven is pleasure more pursued 
Or where does cold reflection less intrude 7 
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn, 
Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn ; 
Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies 
The iervor and the force of Indian skies : 
Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce wait! 
To pour his golden tide through all her gates ; 
Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice 
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice, 
Forbid in vain to push his daring way 
To darker climes, or climes of bnghter day ; 
Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll, 
From the World's girdle to the frozen pole j 




; 



EXPOSTULATION. 



53d 



The chariots bounding in uer wheel- worn streets, 
Her vaults below, where every vintage meets ; 
Her theatres, her revels, and her sports ; 
The scenes to which not youth alone resorts, 
But age in spite of weakness and of pain, 
Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again ; 
All speak her happy ; let the muse look round 
From East to Weit. no sorrow can be found ; 
Or only what, in cottages confined. 
Sighs unregarded to the passing wind. 
Then wherefore weep for England ] What ap- 
pears 
In England's case to move the muse to tears 1 

The prophet wept for Israel; wish'd his eyes 
Were fountains fed with infinite supplies ; 
For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong; 
There were the scorner's and the slanderer's 

tongue ; 
Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools, 
As interest biass'd knaves, or fashion fools ; 
Adultery, neighing at his neighbor's door ; 
Oppression laboring hard to grind the poor ; 
The partial balance and deceitful weight ; 
The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate ; 
Hypocrisy, formality in prayer, 
And the dull service of the lip were there. 
Ber women, insolent and self-caress'd, 
By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd, 
Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart 
To modest cheeks and borrow'd one from art; 
Were just such trifles, without worth or use, 
As silly pride and idleness produce ; 
Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd. and flounced around. 
With feet too delicate to touch the ground [eye. 
They streteh'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton 
And sigh'd for every fool that flutter'd by. 

He «aw his people slaves to every lust, 
Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust; 
He heard the wheels of an avenging God 
Groan heavily along the distant road ; 
Saw Babylon set wide her two-leaved brass 
To let the military deluge pass ; 
Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd. 
Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd ; 
Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry, 
Stamp'd with his foot, and smote upon his thigh ; 
But wept, and stamp'd, and smote his thigh in 

vain, 
Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain. 
And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit 
Ears long accustom'd to the pleasing lute : 
They scorn 7 d his inspiration and his theme, 
Pronounc'd him frantic, and his fears a dream ; 
With sell-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours. 
Till the foe found them, and down fell the 
towers. 

Long time Assyria bound them in her chain, 
Till penitence had purged the public stain, 
And Cyrus with relenting pity moved, 
Return'd them happy to the land they loved ; 
There, proof against prosperity, awhile 
They stood the test of her ensnaring smile, 
And had the grace in scenes of peace to show 
The virtue they had learn'd in scenes of woe. 
But man is frail and can but ill sustain 
A long immunity from grief and pain ; 
And, after all the joys thah Plenty leads, 
With tiptoe step Vice silently succeeds [rod, 

When he that ruled them with a shepherd's 
In form a man. in dignity a God, 
Came, not expected in that humble guise, 
To sift and search them with unerring eyes, 



He found, conceal'd beneath a fair outside, 
The filth of rottenness and worm of pride ; 
Their piety a system of deceit, 
Scripture employ'd to sanctify the cheat ; 
The Pharisee the dupe of his own art, 
Self-idolized, and yet a knave at heart. 

When nations are to perish in their ^ins, 
'Tis in the church the leprosy begins ; 
The priest, whose office is with zeal sincere, 
To watch the fountain, and preserve it clear, 
Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink, 
W T hile others poison what the flock must drink ; 
Or waking at the call of lust alone, 
Infuses lies and errors of his own : 
His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure ; 
And. tainted by the very means of cure, 
Catch from each, other a contagious -spot, 
The foul forerunner of a general rot. 
Then truth is hush'd. that Heresy may preach ; 
And all is trash that reason cannot reach ; 
Then God's own image on the soul impress'd 
Becomes a mockery, and a standing jest ; 
And faith, the root whence only can arise 
The graces of a life that wins the skies, 
Loses at once all value and esteem, 
Pronounced by graybeards a pernicious dream ; 
Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth, 
Prepared to fight for shadows of no worth ; 
While truths, on which eternal things depend, 
Find not or hardly find, a single friend : 
As soldiers watch the signal of command, 
They learn to bow. to kneel, to sit, to stand ; 
Happy to fill religion's vacant place ; 
With hollow form and gesture, and grimace. 

Such when the Teacher of his church waJ 
there. 
People and priest the sons of Israel were ; 
Stiff in the letter, lax in the design 
And import of their oracles divine ; 
Their learning legendary, false, absurd, 
And yet exalted above God's own word ; 
They drew a curse from an intended good, 
Puff'd up with gifts they never understood. 
He judg'd them with as terrible a frown, 
As if not love but wrath, had brought him down 
Yet he was gentle as soft summer airs, 
Had grace for others' sins, but none for theirs ; 
Through all he spoke a noble plainness ran — 
Rhetoric is artifice the work of man ; 
And tricks and turns that fancy may devise, 
Are far too mean for Him that rules the skies. 
The astonish'd vulgar trembled while he tore 
The mask from faces never seen before ; 
He stripp'd the impostors in the noonday sun, 
Show'd that they follow'd all they seem'd tz 

shun ; 
Their prayers made public, their excesses kept 
As private as the chambers where they slept ; 
The temple and its holy rites profaned 
By mu;r. neries He that dwelt in it disdain 'd; 
Uplifted hands, that at convenient times 
Could act extortion and the worst of crimes, 
Wash'd with a neatness scrupulously nice, 
And free from every taint but that of vice. 
Judgment however tardy, mends her pace 
When obstinacy once has conquered grace. 
They saw distemper heal'd. and life restor'd, 
In answer to the fiat of his word \ 
Confessed the wonder, and with daring tongue 
Blasphemed the authority from which it sprung 
They knew, by sure prognostics seen on high, 
The future tone and temper of the sky ; 



536 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



But, grave dissemblers ! could not understand 
That sin let loose speaks punishment at hand. 

Ask now of history's authentic page, 
And call up evidence from every age ; 
Display with busy and laborious hand 
The blessings of the most indebted land ; 
What nation will you find whose annals prove 
So rich ah interest in Almighty love 1 
Where dwell they now. where dwelt in ancient 

day 
A people planted, water'd, bl'est as they'? 
Let Egypt's plagues and Canaan's woes proclaim 
The favors pour'd upon the Jewish name ; 
Their freedom purchased for them at the cost 
Of all their hard oppressors valued most : 
Their title to a country not their own 
Made sure by prodigies till then unknown ; 
For them the states they left made waste and void ; 
For them the states to which they went destroy'd ; 
A cloud to measure out their march by day, 
By night a fire to cheer the gloomy way ; 
That moving signal summoning, when best, 
Their host to move, and, when it stay'd, to rest. 
For them the rocks dissolved into a flood, 
The dews condensed into angelic food, 
Their very garments sacred, old yet new, 
And Time forbid to touch them as he flew ; 
Streams, swell'd above the bank, enjoin'd to stand 
While they pass'd through to their appointed 

land ; 
Their leader arm'd with meekness, zeal, and love, 
And graced with clear credentials from above; 
Themselves secured beneath the Almighty wing ; 
Their God their captain,* lawgiver, and king ; 
Crown'd with a thousand victories, and at last 
Lords of the conquer'd soil, there rooted fast, 
In peace possessing what they won by war, 
Their name far publish'd, and revered as far ; 
Where will you find a race like theirs, endow'd 
With all that man e'er wish'd. or Heaven be- 

stow'd 1 
They, and they only, amongst all mankind, 
Received the transcript of the Eternal Mind : 
Were trusted with his own engraven laws, 
And constituted guardians of his cause ; 
Theirs were the prophets, theirs the priestly call, 
And theirs by birth the Saviour of us all. 
In vain the nations that had seen them rise 
With fierce and envious, yet admiring eyes, 
Had sought to crush them, guarded as they were 
By power divine and skill that could not err. 
Had they maintain'd allegiance firm and sure, 
And kept the faith immaculate and pure, 
Then the proud eagles of all-conquering Rome 
Had found one city not to be o'ercome ; 
And the twelve standards of the tribes unfurl'd 
Had bid defiance to the warring world. 
But grace abused brings forth the foulest deeds, 
As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds. 
Cured of the golden calves, their fathers' sin, 
They set up self that idol god within ; 
View'd a Deliverer with disdain and hate, 
Who left them still a tributary state ; 
Seized fast his hand, held out to set them free 
From a worse yoke, and nail'd it to the tree : 
There was the consummation and the crown, 
The flower of Israel's infamy full blown ; 
Thence date their sad declension, and their fall, 
Their woes, not yet repeal'd, thence date them 
Thus fell the best instructed in her day, [all. 
knd the most favor'd land, look where we may. 
* Vide Josh. v. 14. 



Philosophy indeed on Grecian eyes [skies : 

Had pour'd the day, and clear'd the Roman 
In other climes perhaps creative art, 
With power surpassing theirs, performed ner part ; 
Might give more life to marble, or might fill 
The glowing tablets with a juster skill, 
Might shine in fable, and grace idle themes 
With all the embroidery of poetic dreams ; 
'Twas theirs alone to dive into the plan 
That truth and mercy had reveal'd to man ; 
And, while the world beside, that plan unknowi 
Deified useless wood or.senseless stone, 
They breathed in faith their well-directed prayers 
And the true God. the God of truth, was theirs 

Their glory faded, and their race dispersed, 
The last of nations now, though once the first, 
They warn and teach the proudest, would the) 

learn — 
Keep wisdom, or meet vengeance in your turn : 
If we escaped. not, if Heaven spared not us, 
Peel'd, scatter'd and exterminated thus; 
If vice received her retribution due, 
When we were visited, what hope for you 1 
When God arises with an awful frown, 
To punish lust, or pluck presumption down . 
When gifts perverted or not duly prized, 
Pleasure o'ervalued. and his grace despised, 
Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand, 
To pour down wrath upon a thankless land 
He will be found impartially severe, 
Too just to wink, or speak the guilty clear. / 

Oh Israel, of all nations most undone ! 
Thy diadem displaced, thy sceptre gone ; 
Thy temple, once thy glory, fallen and rased. 
And thou a worshipper e'en where thou mayst ; 
Thy services, once holy without spot, 
Mere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgot 
Thy Levites, once a consecrated host, 
No longer Levites, and their lineage lost, 
And thou thyself o'er every country sown, 
With none on earth that thou canst call thine 
Cry aloud, thou that sittest in the dust, [own ; 
Cry to the proud, the cruel, a'nd unjust ; 
Knock at the gates of nations, rouse their fears ; 
Say wrath is coming, and the storm appears; 
But raise the shrillest cry in British ears. 

What ails thee restless as the waves that roai 
And fling their foam against thy chalky, shore 1 
Mistress, at least while Providence shall please, 
And trident-bearing queen of the wide seas — 
Why, having kept good faith, and often shown 
Friendship and truth to others find'st thou non<> 
Thou that hast set the persecuted free, 
None interposes now to succor thee. 
Countries indebted to thy power, that shine . 
With light derived from thee, would smother thine 
Thy very children watch for thy disgrace, 
A lawless brood, and curse thee to thy face. 
Thy rulers load thy credit year by year, 
With sums Peruvian mines could never clear ; 
As if, like arches built with skilful hand 
The more 'twere press'd, the firmer it would stand 

The cry in all thy ships is still the same, 
Speed us away to battle and to fume. 
Thy mariners explore the wild expanse, 
Impatient to descry the flags of France : 
But though they fighi, as thine have evet fought 
Return ashamed without the wieaths they sought 
Thy senate is a scene of civil jar, 
Chaos of contrarieties at war ; 
Where sharp and solid, phlegmatic and light 
Discordant atoms meet, ferment and fight ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 



537 



Where obstinacy takes his sturdy stand, 
To disconcert what policy lias plann'd; 
Where policy is busied all night long 
In setting right what taction has set wrong ; 
Where Mails of oratory thresh the tloor. [more. 
That yields them chaff and dust, and nothing 
Thy rack'd inhabitants repine, complain, 
Tax'd till the brow of labor sweats in vain ; 
War lays a burden on the reeling state. 
And peace does nothing to relieve the weight ; 
Successive loads succeeding broils impose, 
And sighing millions prophesy the close. 

Is adverse Providence, when ponder'd well, 
So dimly writ or difficult to spell. 
Thou canst not read with readiness and ease 
Providence adverse in events like these ! 
Know then that heavenly wisdom on this ball 
Creates, gives birth to. guides consummates all ; 
That, while laborious anil quiek-thoughted man 
Snuffs up the praise of what he seems to plan, 
He first conceives then perfects his design, 
As a mere instrument in hands divine : 
Blind to the working of that secret power, 
That balances the wimrs of every hour, 
The busy trifler dreams himself alone. 
Frames many a purpose, and God works his own. 
States thrive or wither as moons wax and wane 
E'en as his will and his decrees ordain ; 
While honor, virtue, piety bear sway, 
They flourish; and. as these -decline, decay: 
In just resentment of his injured laws 
He pours contempt on them and on their cause ; 
Strikes the rough thread of error right athwart 
The web of every scheme they have at heart; 
Bids rottenness invade ami brino; to dust 
T'he pillars of support in which they trust. 
And do his errand of disgrace and shame 
On the chief strength and glory of the frame. 
None ever yet impeded what he wrought, 
None bars him out from his most secret thought; 
Darkness itself before his eye is light, 
And hell's close mischief naked in his sight. 

Stand now and judge thyself — Hast thou in- 
curr'd 
His anger who can waste thee with a word, 
Who poises and proportions sea and land. 
Weighing thvm in the hollow of his hand, 
And in whose awful sight all nations seem 
As grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream ] 
Hast thou (a sacrilege his soul abhors) 
Claim'd all the <dory of thy prosperous wars ? 
Proud of thy Beets and armies stolen the gem 
Of his just praise to lavish it on them? 
Hast thou not learn'd what thou art often told, 
A truth still sacred, and believed of old, 
That no success attends on spears and swords 
Unblest, and that the battle is the Lord's ? 
That courage is his creature; ami dismay 
The post, that at his bidding speeds away. 
Ghastly in feature, ami his stammering tongue 
With doleful minor and sad presage hung. 
To quell the valor of the stoutest heart 
And teach the combatant a woman's part? 
That he bids thousands fly when none pursue, 
Save: p.s he will by many or by few, 
And claims forever, as his royal right, 
The event and sure decis-in of the fight 1 

Hast thou, though suckled at fair freedom's 
breast. 
Exported slavery to the tonquer'd East? 
Pull'd down the tyrants India served with dread, 
in J raised thyself, a greiter, in their stead ? 



Gone thither, arm'd and hungry, return'd fall, 

Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul, 

A despot big with power, obtain'd by wealth, 

And that obtain'd by rapine and by stealth ? 

With Asiatic vices stored thy mind, 

But left their virtues and thine own behind ? [fee, 

And having truck'd thy soul, brought hotiu the 

To tempt the poor to sell himself to thee? 

Hast thou by statute shoved from its design, 
The Saviour's feast, his own blest, bread and wine, 
And made the symbols of atoning grace 
An office-key, a picklock to a place. 
That infidels may prove their title good 
By an oath dipp'd in sacramental blood ? 
A blot that will be still a blot, in spite 
Of all that grave apologists may write; 
And though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain, 
He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain. 
And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, 
Till perjuries are common as bad pence, 
While thousands, careless of the damning sin, 
Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look within ? 

Hast thou, when Heaven has clothed thee with 
disgrace. 
And. long-provoked, repaid thee to thy face, 
(For thou hast known eclipses, and endured 
Dimness ami anguish all thy beams obscured, 
When sin has shed dishonor on thy brow ; 
And never ol a sabler hue than now.) [sear'd, 
Hast thou, with heart perverse and conscience 
Despising all rebuke, still persevered, 
And having chosen evil, scorn'd the voice 
That cried Repent ! — and gloried in thy choice 1 
Thy fastings when calamity at last 
Suggests the expedient of a yearly fast, [power 
What mean they ? Canst thou dream there is a 
In lighter diet at a later hour) 
To charm to sleep the threatening of the skies, 
And hide past, folly from all-seeing eyes ? 
Tin- fast that wins deliverance, and suspends 
The stroke that a vindictive God intends, 
Is to renounce hypocrisy ; to draw 
Thy lite upon the pattern of the law; 
To w ir with pleasure 1 idolized before; 
To vanquish lust, and wear its yoke no more. 
All fasting else, whate'er be the pretence, 
Is wooing mercy by renew'd offence. 

Hast thou within thee sin, that in old time 
Brought (ire from heaven the sex-abusing crime, 
Whose horrid perpetration stamps disgrace, 
Baboons are free from, upon human race ? 
Think on the fruitful and well-water'd spot 
That fed the flocks ami herds of wealthy Lot, 
Where Paradise seem'd still vouchsafed on earth. 
Burning and.scorch'd into perpetual dearth, 
Or, in his words who damn'd the base desire, 
Suffering the vengeance of eternal fire : 
Then nature, injured, scandalized, defiled, 
Unveil'd her blushing cheek, looked on, and 

smiled ; 
Beheld with joy the lovely scene defae'd, [waste. 
And praised the wrath that laid her beauties 

Far be the thought from any verse of mine, 
Ami farther still the form'd and fix'd design, 
To thrust the charge o( deeds that I detest 
Against an innocent unconscious breast; 
The man that dares traduce, because he can 
With safety to himself, is not a man: 
An individual is a sacred mark, 
Not to be pierced in play, or in the dark; 
But public, censure speaks a public foe, 
Unless a zeal for virtue jjuide the blow 



538 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Th*e priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere, 
Fiom mean self-interest, and ambition clear, 
Their hope in heaven, servility their scorn. 
Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn. 
Their wisdom pure, and given them from above, 
Their usefulness ensured by zeal and love. 
As meek as the man Moses, and withal 
As bold as in Agrippa's presence Paul, 
Should fly the world's contaminating touch, 
Holy and unpolluted : — are thine such 1 
Except a few with Eli's spirit blest, 
Hophni and Phineas may describe the rest. 

Where shall a teacher look, in days like these. 
For ears and hearts that he can hope to please 1 
Look to the poor, the simple and the plain 
Will hear perhaps thy salutary strain : 
Humility is gentle, apt to learn, 
Speak but the word, will listen and return. 
Alas, not so ! the poorest of the flock 
Are proud, and set their faces as a rock ; 
Denied that earthly opulence they choose, 
God's better gift they scoff at and refuse. 
The rich, the produce of a nobler stem, 
Are more intelligent, at least — try them. 
Oh vain inquiry ! they without remorse 
Are altogether gone a devious course ; [stray ; 
Where beckoning pleasure leads them, wildly 
Have burst the bands, and cast the yoke away. 

Now borne upon the wings of truth sublime, 
Review thy dim original and prime. 
This island, spot of unreclaim'd rude earth, 
The cradle that received thee at thy birth. 
Was rock'd by many a rough Norwegian blast, 
And Danish howlings scared thee as they pass'd ; 
For thou wast born amid the din of arms, 
And suck'd a breast that panted with alarms. 
While yet thou wast a grovelling, puling chit. 
Thy bones not fashion'd. and thy joints not knit. 
The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow, 
Though twice a Caesar could not bend thee now. 
His victory was that of orient light, 
When the sun's shafts disperse the gloom of night. 
Thy language at this distant moment shows 
How much the country to the conqueror owes ; 
Expressive, energetic, and refined, 
It sparkles with the gems he left behind ; 
He brought thy land a blessing when he came, 
He found thee savage, and he left thee tame ; 
Taught thee to clothe thy pink'd and painted hide. 
And grac'd thy figure with a soldiers pride ; 
He sow'd the seeds of order where he went,' 
Improv'd thee far beyond his own intent 
And, while he ruled thee by his sword alone, 
Made thee at last a warrior like his own. 
Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, 
Needs only to be seen to be admired ; 
But thine, as dark as witcheries of the night, 
Was form'd to harden hearts and shock the sight ; 
Thy druids struck the well-hung harps they bore 
With fingers deeply dyed in human gore ; 
And while the victim slowly bled to death, 
Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath. 
Who brought the lamp that with awaking 
beams 
Dispell'd thy gloom and broke away thy dreams, 
Tradition, now decrepit and worn out, 
Babbler of ancient fables leaves a doubt: 
But still light reach'd thee; and those gods of 

thine. 
Woden and Thor. each tottering in his shrine, 
Fell broken and defaced at their own door, 



^s Dagon in Philistia long before. 



But Rome with sorceries and magic wand 
Soon raised a cloud that darken'd every lana -, 
And thine was smother'd in the stench and fog 
Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog. [crowns 
Then priests with bulls and briefs and shaven 
And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns, 
Legates and delegates with powers from hell. 
Though heavenly in pretension fleeced thee well ; 
And to this hour, to keep it .fresh in mind, 
Some*twigs of that old scourge are left behind.* 
Thy soldiery, the pope's well managed pack, 
Were train'd beneath his lash, and knew th« 

smack, 
And, when he laid them on the scent of blood, 
Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood. 
Lavish of life, to win an empty tomb, 
That proved a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome, 
They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies, 
His worthless absolution all the prize. 
Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yore 
That ever dragg'd a chain or tugg'd an oar; 
Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjust. 
Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust, ' 
Disdain'd thy counsels, only in distress 
Found thee a goodly spunge for power to press 
Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee, 
Provoked and harass'd, in return plagued thee; 
Call'd thee away from peaceable employ, 
Domestic happiness and rural joy, 
To waste thy life in arms or lay it down 
In causeless feuds and bickerings of their own. 
Thy parliaments adored on bended knees. 
The sovereignty they were convened to please ; 
Whate'er was ask'xl too timid to resist. 
Complied with, and were graciously dismiss'd ; 
And if some Sparfan soul a doubt express'd, 
And blushing at the tameness of the rest, 
Dared to suppose the subject had a choice, 
He was a traitor by the general voice. 
Oh slave ! with powers thou didst not dare exert 
Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert; 
It shakes the sides of splenetic disdain, 
Thou self-entitled ruler of the main, 
To trace thee to the date when yon fair sea, 
That clips thy shores, had no such charms fol 

thee; 
When other nations flew from coasf to coast, 
And thou hadst neither fleet nor flag to boast. 
Kneel now and lay thy forehead in the dust; 
Blush if thou canst; not petrified thou must: 
Act but an honest and a faithful part ; [art ; 

Compare what then thou wast with what thou 
And God's disposing providence confess'd, 
Obduracy itself must yield the rest. — 
Then thou art bound to serve him, and to prove, 
Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love. 

Has he not hid thee and thy favor'd land, 
For aires, safe beneath his sheltering hand, 
Given thee his blessing on the clearest proof. 
Bid nations leagued against thee stand aloof, 
And charged hostility and hate to roar 
Where else they would, but not upon thy shore 1 
His power secured thee, when presumptuoui 

Spain 
Baptized her fleet invincible in vain ; 
Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and reaign : d 
To every paner that racks an anxious mind, 
Ask'd of the waves, that broke upon his coast, 
What tidings 1 and the surge replied — All lost! 
And when the Stuart, leaning on the Scot. 
Then too much fear'd, and now too much forgot 
* Which may be found at Doctors' Commons. 



EXPOSTULATION. 



533 



Pierced to the very centre of the realm, 
And hoped to seize his abdicated helm, 
'Twas hut to prove how quickly, with a frown, 
He that had raised thee could have pluck'd thee 
Peculiar is the grace by thee possess'd, [down. 
Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest; 
Thy thunders travel ovei earth and seas, 
And all at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease. 
'Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm, 
Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm, 
While his own heaven surveys the troubled scene, 
And feels no change, unshaken and serene. 
Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine. 
Pours out a flood of splendor upon thine ; 
Thou hast as bright an interest in her rays 
As ever Roman had in Rome's best days. 
True freedom is where no restraint is known 
That Scripture, justice, and good sense disown; 
, Where only vice and injury are tied, 
And all from shore to shore is free beside. 
Such freedom is — and Windsor's hoary towers 
Stood trembling at the boldness of thy powers, 
That won a nymph on that immortal plain, 
Like her the fabled Phoebus wooed in vain : 
He found the laurel only — happier you 
The unfading laurel, and the virgin too !* 

Now think, if pleasure have a thought to 
spare ; 
If God himself be not beneath her care ; 
If business, constant as the wheels of time, 
Can pause an hour to read a serious rhyme; 
If the new mail thy merchants now receive, 
Or expectation of the next, give leave ; 
Oh think, if chargeable with deep arrears 
For such indulgence gilding all thy years. 
How much, though long neglected, shining yet, 
The beams of heavenly truth have swell'd the 
When persecuting zeal made royal sport [debt. 
With tortured innocence in Mary's court. 
And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake, 
Enjoyed the show, and danced about the stake, 
The sacred book, its value understood. 
Received the seal of martyrdom in blood. 
Those holy men. so full of truth and grace, 
Seem to reflection of a different race, 
Meek, modest, venerable wise, sincere, 
In such a cause they could not dare to fear ; 
They could not purchase earth with such a prize, 
Or spare a life too short to reach the skies. 
From them to thee conveyed along the tide. 
Their streaming hearts pour'd freely when they 

died; 
Those truths, which neither use nor years impair, 
Invite thee, woo thee, to the bliss they share. 
What dotage will not vanity maintain ! 
What web too weak to catch a modern brain 1 
The moles and bats in full assembly find. 
On special search, the keen-eyed eagle blind. 
And did they dream, and art thou wiser now 1 
Prove it — if better. I submit and bow. 
Wisdom and goodness are twin-born one heart 
Must hokf both sisters* never seen apart. 
So then — as darkness overspread the deep, 
Ere nature rose from her eternal sleep, 
And this delightful earth and that fair sky. 
Leap'd cut of nothing •call'd by the Most High; 
By such a change thy darkness is made light, 
Thy chaos order, and thy weakness might ; 



* Alluding^ to the grant of Magna Charta, which was 
extorted from King John by the barons at Runnymede 
near Windsor. 



And He, whose power mere nullity obeys, 
Who found thee nothing, form'd thee for hii 

praise. 
To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil, 
Doing and suffering, his unquestioned will; 
'Tis to believe what men inspired of old, 
Faithful, and faithfully informed, unfold; 
Candid and just, with no false aim in view, 
To take for truth what cannot but be true ; 
To learn in God's own school the Christian part 
And bind the task assigned thee to thine heart : 
Happy the man there seeking and there found ; 
Happy the nation where such men abound ! 

How shall a verse impress thee 1 by wha 
name 
Shall I adjure thee not to court thy shame 1 
By theirs whose bright example, unimpeached, 
Directs thae to that eminence they reached, 
Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires 1 
Or his, who touch'd their hearts with hallow'd 

fires \ 
Their names, alas ! in vain reproach an age, 
Whom all the vanities they scorn'd engage ; 
And his, that seraphs tremble at, is hung 
Disgracefully on every trifler's tongue, 
Or serves the champion in forensic war 
To flourish and parade with at the bar. 
Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea, 
If interest move thee, to persuade e'en thee ; 
By every charm that smiles upon her face, 
By joys possess'd and joys still held in chase, 
If dear society be worth a thought, 
And if the feast of freedom cloy thee not, * 
Reflect that these, and all that seems thine own 
Held by the tenure of his will alone, 
Like angels in the service of their Lord, 
Remain with thee, or leave thee at his word ; 
That gratitude, and temperance in our use 
Of What he gives, unsparing and profuse, 
Secure the favor, and enhance the joy, 
That thankless waste and wild abuse destroy. 
But above all reflect, how cheap soe'er 
Those rights, that millions envy thee, appear, 
And though resolved to risk them, and swim 

down ' 
The tide of pleasure, heedless of his frown, 
That blessings truly sacred, and when given 
Mark'd with the signature and stamp of Heaven, 
The word of prophecy, those truths divine, 
Which make that heaven if thou desire it, thine, 
(Awful alternative ! believed, beloved, 
Thy glory and thy shame if unimproved,) 
Are never long vouchsafed, if push'd aside 
With cold disgust or philosophic pride ; 
And that judicially withdrawn, disgrace, 
Error, and darkness, occupy their place, 

A world is up in arms, and thou, a spot 
Not quickly found, if negligently sought, 
Thy soul as ample as thy bounds are small, 
Endur'st the brunt, and dar'st defy them all; 
And wilt thou join to this bold enterprise 
A bolder still, a contest with the skies ? 
Remember, if He guard thee and secure, 
Whoe'er assails thee, thy success is sure ; 
But if He leave thee, though the skill and pow'r 
Of nations, sworn to spoil thee and devour, 
Were all collected in thy single arm, 
And thou couldst laugh away the fear of harm, 
That strength would fail, opposed against th« 
And feeble onset of a pigmy rush. [push 

Say not (and if the thought of such defence 
Should spring within thy bosom, drive it thencel 



540 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



What nation amongst all my foes is free 
From crimes as base as any charged on me 1 
Their measure fill'd, they too shall pay the debt, 
Which God, though long ibrborne, will not for- 
get. 
But know that wrath divine, when most severe, 
Makes justice still the guide of his career, 
And will not punish, in one mingled crowd, 
Them without light, and thee without a cloud. 
Muse, hang this harp upon yon aged beech, 
Still murmuring with the solemn truths I teach ; 
And, while at intervals a cold blast sings 
Through the diy leaves, and pants upon the 
strings, 



My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament 
A nation scourged, yet tardy to repent. 
I know the warning song is sung in vain ; 
That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain; 
But if a sweeter voice, and one design'd 
A blessing to my country and mankind, 
Reclaim the wandering thousands, and bring 

home 
A flock so scatter'd and so wont to roam, 
Then place it once again between my knees ; 
The sound of truth will then be sure to please , 
And truth alone, where'er my life be cast, 
In scenes of plenty, or the pining waste, 
Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last. 



HOPE 



doceas iter, et sacra ostia pandas. 



| P ; 

Vn 



irg. ^En. 6. 



I 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Human Life — The charms of Nature remain the same 
though they appear different in youth and age — Frivol- 
ity of fashionable life — Value of life — The works of 
the Creator evidences of his attributes — Nature the 
handmaid to the purposes of grace — Character of 
Hope — Man naturally stubborn and intractable — His 
conduct in different stations— Death's honors — Each 
man's belief right in his own eyes— Simile of Ethel- 
red's hospitality— Mankind quarrel with the Giver of 
eternal life, on account of the terms on which it is of- 
fered—Opinions on this subject— Spread of the Gos- 
pel—The Greenland Missions— Contrast of the uncon- 
verted and converted heathen— Character of Leucono- 
mus— The man of pleasure the blindest of bigots— Any 
hope preferred to that required by the Scripture— Hu- 
man nature opposed to Truth— Apostrophe to Truth- 
Picture of one conscience-smitten— The paidoned sin- 
ner — Conclusion. 

Ask what is human life— the sage replies, 
With disappointment lowering in his eyes, 
A painful passage o'er a restless flood, 
A vain pursuit of fugitive false good, 
A scene of fancied bliss and heartfelt care, 
Closing at last in darkness and despair. 
The poor, inured to drudgery and distress, 
Act without aim, think little and feel less, 
And nowhere, but in feign'd Arcadian scenes, 
Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means. 
Riches are pass'd away from hand to hand, 
As fortune, vice, or- folly may command ; 
As in a dance the pair that take the lead 
Turn downward, and the lowest pair succeed, 
So shifting and so various is the plan 
By which Heaven rules the mix'd affairs of man ; 
Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd, 
The rich grow poor, the poor become ' purse- 
proud ; 
Business is labor, and man's weakness such, 
Pleasure is labor too, and tires as much ; 
The very sense of it foregoes its use, 
By repetition pall'd, by age obtuse. 
Youth lost in dissipation, we deplore, [store ; 
Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs re- 
Our years, a fruitless race without a prize, 
Too many, yet to few to make us wise. 



Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff, 
Lothario cries, What philosophic stuff — 
O querulous and weak ! — whose useless brain 
Once thought of nothing, and now thinks in 

vain ; 
Whose eye reverted weeps o'er all the past, 
Whose prospect shows thee a disheartening 

waste ; 
Would age in thee resign his wint'ry reign, 
ArnJ youth invigorate that frame again, 
Renew'd desire would grace with other speech 
Joys always prized, when placed within our reach , 

For lift thy palsied head, shake off the gloom 
That overhangs the borders of thy tomb, 
See nature gay, as when she first began 
With smiles alluring her admirer man ; 
She spreads the morning over eastern hills, 
Earth glitters with the drops the night distils ; 
The sun. obedient, at her call appears 
To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears ; 
Banks clothed with flowers, groves fill'd with 
sprightly sounds, [grounds, 

The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising 
Streams, edged with osiers, fattening every field 
Where'er they flow, now seen and now conceal'd ; 
From the blue rim, where skies and mountains 
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet [meet, 
Ten thousand charms, that only fools despise, 
Or pride can look at with indifferent eyes, 
All speak one language, all with one sweet voice 
Cry to her universal realm, Rejoice ! 
Man feels the spur of passions and desires, 
And she gives largely moire than he requires; 
Not that, his hours devoted all to care, 
Hollow-eyed abstinence, and lean despair, [sight 
The wretch may pine, while to his smell, taste. 
She holds a paradise of. rich delight; 
But gently to rebuke his awkward fear, 
To prove that what she gives she gives sincere, 
To banish hesitation, and proclaim 
His happiness her dear, her only, aim. 
'Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream, [seem 
That Heaven's intentions are not what thej 



HOPE, 



64 



That only shadows are dispensed below, 
And eai th has no reality but woe. 

Thus things terrestrial wear a different hue, 
As youth or age persuades; and neither true. 
So, Flora's wreath through color'd crystal seen, 
The rose or lily appears blue or green, 
But still the imputed tints are those alone 
The medium represents, and not their own. 

To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undress'd, 
To read the news, or fiddle, as seems best. 
Till half the world comes rattling at his door, 
To fill the dull vacuity till four: 
And. just when evening turns the blue vault gray, 
To spend two hours in dressing for the day; 
To make the sun a bauble without use, 
Save for the fruits his heavenly beams produce ; 
Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought, 
Who bids him shine, or if he shine or not; 
Through mere necessity to close his eyes 
Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise ; 
Is such a life, so tediously the same, 
So void of all utility or aim, 
That poor Jonquil, with almost every breath. 
Sighs for his exit, vulgarly called death : 
For he. with all his follies, has a mind 
Not yet so blank, or fashionably blind.. 
But now and then perhaps a feeble ray 
Of distant wisdom shoots across his way ; 
By which he reads that life without a plan, 
As useless as the moment it began, 
Serves merely as a soil for discontent 
To thrive in; an incumbrance ere half spent. 
Oh ! weariness beyond what asses feel, 
That tread the circuit of the cistern wheel; 
A dull rotation, never at a stay, 
Yesterday's face twin image of to-day; 
While conversation, an exhausted stock, 
Grows drowsy as the clicking of a clock. 
No need, he cries, of gravity stuff 'd out 
With academic dignity devout, 
To read wise lectures,* vanity the text : 
Proclaim the remedy, ye learned next ; 
For truth self-evident, with pomp impress'd, 
Is vanity surpassing all the rest. 

That remedy, not hid in deeps profound, 
Yet seldom sought where only to be found, 
While passion turns aside from its due scope 
The inquirer's aim, that remedy is Hope. 
Life is his gift, from whom whate'er life needs, 
With every good and perfect gift, proceeds ; 
Bestow'd on man, like all that we partake, 
Royally, freely, for his bounty's sake; 
Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour, 
And yet the seed of an immortal flower ; 
Desicrn'd in honor of his endless love, 
To fill with fragrance his abode above ; 
JV>i trifle howsoever short it seem. 
And, howsoever shadowy, no dream ; 
Its value, what no thought can ascertain, 
Nor all an angel's eloquence explain. 
Mc deal with life as children with their play, 
Who first misuse, then cast their toys away ; 
Live to no sober purpose, and contend 
That their Creator had no serious end. 
When God and man stand opposite in view, 
Man's disappointment must, of course, ensue. 
The just Creator condescends to write, 
[n beams of inextinguishable light, 
His names of wisdom goodness power, and love, 
On all that blooms below, or shines above ; 
To catch the wandering notice of mankind, 
And teach the world, if not perversely blind, 



His gracious attributes, and prove the share 
His offspring hold in his paternal care. 
If, led from earthly things to things divine. 
His creature thwart not his august design, 
Then praise is heard instead of reasoning pride. 
And captious cavil and complaint subside 
Nature, employ'd in her allotted place, 
Is handmaid to the purposes of grace ; 
By good vouchsafed makes known superior good, 
And bliss not seen by blessings understood: 
That bliss, reveal'd in scripture, with a glow 
Bright as the covenant-ensuring bow, 
Fires all his feelings with a noble scorn 
Of sensual evil, and thus Hope is born. 

Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all 
That men have deem'd substantial since th 

fall, 
Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe 
From emptiness itself a real use ; 
And while she takes, as at a father's hand, 
What health and sober appetite demand, 
From fading good derives, with chemic art, 
That lasting happiness, a thankful heart. 
Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from earth, 
Pants for the'place of her ethereal birth, 
On steady wings sails through the immense abyss 
Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss. 
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here, 
With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear 
Hope, as an anchor, firm and sure, holds fast 
The Christian vessel, and defies the blast. 
Hope ! nothing else can nourish and secure 
His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure. 
Hope ! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy 
Whom now despairing agonies destroy, 
Speak, for he can, and none so well as he, 
What treasures centre, what delights, in thee. 
Had he the gems, the spices, and the land, 
That boasts the treasure, all at his command ; 
The fragrant grove, the inestimable mine, 
Were light, when weigh'd against one smile of 
thine. 

Though clasp'd and cradled in his nurse's armi 
He shines with all a cherub's artless charms,- 
Man is the genuine offspring of revolt, 
Stubborn and sturdy, a wild ass's colt ; 
His passions, like the watery stores that sleep 
Beneath the smiling surface of the deep, 
Wait but the lashes of a wintry storm, 
To frown and roar, and shake his feeble form. 
From infancy through childhood's giddy maze, 
Froward at school, and fretful in his plays, 
The puny tyrant burns to subjugate 
The free republic of the whip-gig state. 
If one his equal in athletic frame, 
Or, more provoking still, of nobler name, 
Dare step across his arbitrary views, 
An Iliad, only not in verse, ensues : 
The little Greeks look trembling at the scales, 
Till the best tongue or heaviest hand prevails. 

Now see him launch'd into the world at large ; 
If priest, supinely droning o'er his charge, 
Their fleece his pillow, and his weekly drawl, 
Though short, too long, the price he pays for all 
If lawyer, loud whatever cause he plead, 
But proudest of the worst, if that succeed. 
Perhaps a grave physical, gathering fees, 
Punctually paid for lengthening out disease ; 
No Cotton, whose humanity sheds rays, 
That make superior skill his second praise. 
If arms engage him. he devotes to sport 
His date of life so likely to be short ; 



542 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



A soldier may be anything if brave, 

So may a tradesman, if not quite a knave. 

Such stuff the world is made of; and mankind, 

To passion, interest, pleasure, whim, resign'd, 

Insist on, as if each were his own pope, 

Forgiveness, and the privilege of hope ; 

But conscience, in some i wrul silent hour, 

When captivating lusts have lost their power, 

Perhaps when sickness, or some fearful dream, 

Reminds him of religion, hated theme ! 

Starts from the down, on which she lately slept, 

And tells of laws despised, at least not kept ; 

Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise, 

A pale procession of past sinful joys, 

All witnesses of blessings foully scorn'd, 

And life abused, and not to be suborn'd. 

Mark these, she says ; these, summon'd from afar, 

Begin their march to meet thee at the bar ; 

There find a Judge inexorably just. 

And perish there as all presumption must. 

Peace be to those (such peace as earth can 
give) 
Who live in pleasure, dead e'en while they live ; 
Born capable indeed of heavenly truth ; 
But down to latest age, from earliest youth, 
Their mind a wilderness through want of care, 
The plough of wisdom never entering there. 
Peace (if insensibility may claim 
A right to the meek honors of her name) 
To men of pedigree, their noble race, 
Emulous always of the nearest place 
To any throne, except the throne of grace. 
Let cottagers and unenlighten'd swains 
Revere the laws they dream that Heaven ordains ; 
Resort on Sundays to the house of prayer, 
And ask, and fancy they find, blessings there. 
Themselves, perhaps, when weary they retreat 
To enjoy cool nature in a country seat, 
To exchange the centre of a thousand trades, 
For clumps, and lawns, and temples, and cas- 
cades, 
May now and then their velvet cushions take, 
And seem to pray for good example sake ; 
Judging, in charity no douht, the town • 
Pious enough, and having need of none. 
Kind souls ! to teach their tenantry to prize 
What they themselves, without remorse, despise : 
Nor hope have they, nor fear, of aught to come, 
As well for them had prophecy been dumb ; 
They could have held the conduct they pursue, 
Had Paul of Tarsus lived and died a Jew ; 
And truth proposed to reasoners wise as they, 
Is a pearl cast — completely cast away. 

They die. — Death lends them, pleased, and as 
in sport, 
All the grim honors of his ghastly court. 
Fir other paintings grace the chamber now, 
$\ here late we saw the mimic landscape glow : 
V\ e busy heralds hang the sable scene 
With mournful 'scutcheons, and dim lamps be- 
tween ; 
Proclaim their titles to the crowd around, 
But they that wore them move not at the sound ; 
The coronet, placed idly at their head, 
A.dds nothing now to the degraded dead. 
And e'en the star, that glitters on the bier, 
Can only say — Nobility lies here. 
Peace to all such — 'twere pity to offend, 
By useless censure, whom we cannot mend ; 
Life whhout hope can close but in despair, 
*Pwas there we found them, and must leave them 
there 



As when two pilgrims in a forest stray, 
Both may be lost, yet each in his own way ; 
So fares it with the multitudes beguiled 
In vain opinion's waste and dangerous wild ; 
Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among, 
Some eastward, and some westward, ara ail 
But here, alas ! the fatal difference lies, [wrong 
Each man's belief is right in his own eyes; 
And he that blames what they have blindly chose 
Incurs resentment for the love he shows. 

Say, botanist within whose province fall 
The cedar and the hyssop on the wall, 
Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bowe-9 
What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and 

flowers 1 
Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combined, 
Distinguish every cultivated -kind ; 
The want of both denotes a meaner breed, 
And Chloe from her garland picks the weed. 
Thus hopes of every sort whatever sect 
Esteem them, sow them rear them, and protect, 
If wild in nature, and not duly found, 
Gethsemane ! in thy dear hallow'd ground, 
That cannot bear the blaze of Scripture light, 
Nor cheer the spirit, nor refresh the sight, 
Nor animate the soul to Christian deeds, [weeds. 
(Oh cast them from thee !) are weeds, arrant 

Ethelred's house, the centre of six ways 
Diverging each from each, like equal rays, 
Himself as bountiful as April rains, 
Lord paramount of the surrounding plains, 
Would give relief of bed and board to none, 
But guests that sought it in the appointed One 
And they might enter at his open door, 
E'en till his spacious hall would hold no more. 
He sent a servant forth by every road, 
To sound his horn and publish it abroad, 
That all might mark — knight, menial, high and 

low — 
An ordnance it concern'd them much to know. 
If, after all. some headstrong hardy lout 
Would disobey, though sure to be shut out, 
Could he with reason murmur at his case, 
Himself sole author of his own disgrace ! 
No ! the decree was just and without flaw ; 
And he that made had right to make the law ; 
His sovereign power and pleasure unrestrain'd. 
The wrong was his who wrongfully complain'd. 

Yet half mankind maintain a churlish strife 
With him the Donor of eternal life, 
Because the deed, by which his love confirms 
The largess he bestows, prescribes the terms. 
Compliance with his will your lot ensures, 
Accept it only, and the boon is yours. 
And sure it is as kind to smile and give, 
As with a frown to say, Do this, and live. 
Love is not pedlar's trumpery, bought and sold ; 
He will give freely, or he will withhold ; 
His soul abhors a mercenary thought, 
And him as deeply who abhors it not ; 
He stipulates indeed, but merely this, 
That man will freely take an unbought bliss, 
Will trust him for a faithful generous part, 
Nor set a price upon a willing heart. 
Of all the ways that seem to promise fair, 
To place you where his saints his presence share 
This only can ; for this plain cause, express'd 
In terms as plain — himself has shut the rest. 
But oh the strife, the bickering, and debate, 
The tidings of unpurchased heaven create ! 
The flirted fan, the bridle, and the toss, 
All speakers, yet al ^nguage at a loss 



HOPE. 



543 



From stucco'd walls smart arguments rebound ; 
And beaus, adepts in everything profound, 
Die of disdain, or whistle off the sound. 
Such is the clamor of rooks, daws, and kites, 
The explosion of the Ievell'd tube excites, [glade, 
Where mouldering abbey walls o'erhang the 
And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade, 
The screaming nations, hovering in mid air, 
Loudly recent the stranger's freedom there, 
And seem to warn him never to repeat 
His bold intrusion on their dark retreat. 

Adisu : Vinosa cries, ere yet he sips 
The purple bumper trembling at his lips, 
Adieu to all morality ! if grace 
Make works a vain ingredient in the case. 
The Christian hope is — Waiter, draw the cork — 
If I mistake not — Blockhead ! with a fork ! — 
Without good works, whatever some may boast. 
Mere folly and delusion — Sir, your toast. 
My firm persuasion is. at least sometimes, 
That Heaven will weigh man's virtues and his 

crimes 
With nice attention in a righteous scale, 
And save or damn as these or those prevail. 
I plant my foot upon this ground of trust, 
And silence every fear with — God is just. 
But if perchance, on some dull drizzling day, 
A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say. 
[f thus the important cause is to be tried, 
Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side; 
I soon recover from these needless frights. 
And — God is merciful — sets all to rights. 
Thus between justice, as my prime support, 
And mercy, fled to as the last resort, 
I glide and steal along with heaven in view, 
And, — pardon me, the bottle stands with you. 

I never will believe, the Colonel cries, 
The sanguinary schemes that some devise, 
Who make the good Creator, on their plan, 
A being of less equity than man. 
If appetite, or what divines call lust, 
Which men comply with, e'en because they must, 
Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure 1 
Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure. 
If sentence of eternal pain belong 
To every sudden slip and transient wrong. 
Then Heaven enjoins the fallible and frail 
A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail. 
My creed, (whatever some creed-makers mean 
By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene.) 
My creed is. he is safe that does his best, 
And death's a doom sufficient for the rest. 

Right, says an ensign ; and for aught I see, 
Your faith and mine substantially agree ; 
The best of every man's performance here 
Is to discharge the duties of his sphere. 
A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair, 
Honesty shines with great advantage there. 
Fasting and prayer sit well upon a priest, 
A decent caution and reserve at least. 
A soldier's best is courage in the field, 
With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd ; 
Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay ; 
A hand as liberal as the light of day. 
The soldier thus endow'd. who never shrinks, 
Nor closets up his thoughts, whate'er he thinks, 
Who scorns to do an injury by stealth, 
Must go to heaven — and I must drink his health. 
Sir Smug, he cries, (for lowest at the board, 
T ust made fifth chaplain of his patron lord, 
fhs shoulders witnessing by many a shrug 
lew much his feelings suffer id, sat Sir Smug,) 



Your office is to winnow false from true ; [you 1 
Come, prophet, drink, and tell us, What think 

Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass, 
Which they that woo preferment, rarely pass, 
Fallible man the church-bred youth replies, 
Is still found fallible, however wise ; 
And differing judgments serve but to declare, 
That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where. 
Of all it ever was my lot to read, 
Of critics now alive or long since dead, 
The book of all. the world that charm'd me mnrt 
Was, — well-a-day. the title-page was lost ; 
The writer well remarks, a heart that knows 
To take with gratitude what Heaven bestows, 
With prudence always ready at our call, 
To guide our use of it, is all in all. 
Doubtless it is. To which, of my own store, 
I superadd a few essentials more ; 
But these, excuse the liberty I take, 
I waive just now, for conversation's sake. 
Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim, [name. 
And add Right Reverend to Smug's honor'd 

And yet our lot is given us in a land 
Where busy arts are never at a stand ; 
Where science points her telescopic eye, 
Familiar with the wonders of the sky ; 
.Where bold inquiry, diving out of sight, 
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light ■ 
Where nought eludes the persevering quest. 
That fashion, taste, or luxury suggest. 

But above all, in her own fight array'd, 
See Mercy's grand apocalypse display'd ! 
The sacred book no longer suffers wrong, 
Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue; 
But speaks with plainness art could never mend. 
What simplest minds dan soonest comprehend. 
God gives the word, the preachers throng around^ 
Live from his lips, and spread the glorious sound ; 
That sound bespeaks salvation on her way ; 
The trumpet of a life-restoring day ; 
'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines 
And in the gulfs of her Cornubian mines. 
And still it spreads. See Germany send fort) 
Her sons* to pour it on the farthest north : 
Fired with a zeal peculiar, they defy 
The rage and rigor of a polar sky, 
And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose 
On icy plains, and in eternal snows. 

O blest within the inclosure of your rocks, 
Not herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks ■ • 
Nor fertilizing streams your fields divide, 
That show, reversed, the villas on their side ; 
No groves have ye ; no cheerful sound of bird, 
Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard ; 
Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell 
Of those that walk at evening where ye dwell ; 
But Winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown, 
Sits absolute on his unshaken throne ; 
Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste, 
And bids the mountains he has built stand fast : 
Beckons the legions of his storms away 
From happier scenes to make your land a prey 
Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won, 
And scorns to share it with the distant sun. 
— Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle ! 
And peace the genuine offspring of her smile ; 
The pride of letter'd ignorance that binds 
In chains of error our accomplish'd minds, 
That decks, with all the splendor of the true, 
A false religion, is unknown to you. 

* The Moravian missionaries in Greenland.— Sea 
Kxsniz. 



644 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight 
The sweet vicissitudes of day and night ; 
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer 
Field, fruit, and flower, and every creature here ; 
But brighter beams than his who fires the skies 
Have risen at length on your admiring eyes, 
That shoot into your darkest caves the day, 
From which our nicer optics turn away. 

Here see the encouragement grace gives to vice, 
The dire effect of mercy without price ! [art, 

What were they 1 what some fools are made by 
They were by nature, athoists, head and heart. 
The gross idolatry blind heathens teach 
Was too refined for them, beyond their reach. 
Not e'en the glorious sun, though men revere 
The monarch most that seldom will appear, 
And though his beams, that quicken where they 

shine, 
May claim some right to be esteem'd divine, 
Not e'en tne sun, desirable as rare, 
Could bend one knee, engage one votary there ; 
They were, what base credulity believes [thieves. 
True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, 
The full gorged savage, at his nauseous feast 
Spent half the darkness, and snored out the rest, 
Was one, whom justice, on an equal plan, 
Denouncing death upon the sins of man, 
Might almost have indulged with an escape, 
Chargeable only, with a human shape. 

What are they now 1 — Morality may spare 
Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there ; 
The wretch, who once sang wildly, danced, and 

laugh'd, 
And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught, 
Has wept a silent flood, reversed his ways, 
Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, 
Feeds sparingly, communicates his store, 
Abhors the craft he boasted of before, 
And he that stole has learn'd to steal no more. 
Well spake the prophet, Let the desert sing, 
Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring, 
And where unsightly and rank thistles grew, 
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew. 

Go now, and with important tone demand 
On what foundation virtue is to stand, 
If self-exalting claims be turn'd adrift, 
And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift ; 
The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes 
Glistening at once with pity and surprise, 
Amazed that shadows should obscure the sight 
Of one whose birth was in a land of light, 
Shall answer. Hope, sweet Hope, has set me free, 
And made all pleasures else mere dross to me. 

These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied 
The common care that waits on all beside, 
Wild as if nature there, void of all good, 
Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood, 
(Yet charge not heavenly skill with having 

plann'd 
A plaything world, unworthy of his hand ;) 
Can see his love, though secret evil lurks 
In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works ; 
Deem life a blessing with its numerous woes, 
Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. 
Hard task indeed o'er arctic seas to roam ! 
Is hope exotic 1 grows it not at home 1 
Yes, but an object, bright as orient morn, 
May press the eye too closely to be borne ; 
A distant virtue we can all confess, 
It hurts our pride, and moves our envy, less. 

Leuconomus (beneath well-sounding Greek 

slur a name a poet must not speak) 



Stood pilloried on infamy's high stage, 
And bore the pelting scorn of half an age ; 
The very butt of slander, and the blot 
For every dart that malice ever shot. 
The man that mention'd him at once dismiss'd 
AH mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd , 
His crimes were such as Sodom never knew, 
And perjury stood up to swear all true ; 
His aim was mischief and his zeal pretence, 
His speech rebellion against common sense ; 
A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule ; 
And when by that of reason, a mere fool ; 
The world's best comfort was. his doom was pass'd 
Die when he might, he must be damm'd at last. 

Now, Truth, perform thine office ; waft aside 
The curtain drawn by prejudice and pride, 
Reveal (the man is dead) to wondering eyes 
This more than monster in his proper guise. 
He lov'd the world that hated him ; the tear 
That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere ; 
Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife, 
His only answer was a blameless life ; 
And he that forged, and he that threw the dart. 
Had each a brother's interest in his heart. 
Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbribed, 
Were copied close in him, and well transcribed, 
He followed Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame. 
His apostolic charity the same. 
Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas, 
Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease ; 
Like him he labor'd, and like him content 
To bear it, suffered shame where'er he went. 
Blush/calumny ! and write upon his tomb, 
If honest eulogy can spare thee room. 
Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, [skies ; 
Which, aim'd at him, have pierced the offended 
And say, Blot out my sin, confess'd. deplored, 
Against thine image, in thy saint, O Lord ! 

No blinder bigot, I maintain it still,. [will. 
Than he who must have pleasure, come whal 
He laughs, whatever weapon Truth may draw, 
And deems her sharp artillery mere straw ; 
Scripture indeed is plain ; but God and he 
On scripture ground are sure to disagree ; 
Some wiser rule must teach him how to live, 
Than this his Maker has seen fit to give ; 
Supple and flexible as Indian cane, 
To take the bend his Appetites ordain ; 
Contrived to suit frail nature's crazy case, 
And reconcile his lusts with saving grace. 
By this, with nice precision of design, 
He draws upon life's map a zig-zag line, 
That shows how far 'tis safe to follow sin, 
And where his danger and God's wrath begin. 
By this he forms, as pleased he sports along, 
His well-poised estimate of right and wrong ; 
And finds the modish manners of the day, 
Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play. 

Build by whatever plan caprice decrees, 
With what materials, on what ground you please . 
Your hope shall stand unblamed. perhaps ad- 
mired, 
If not that hope the scripture has required. 
The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild 

dreams, 
With whicr. hypocrisy forever teems, 
(Though other follies strike the public eye, 
And raise a laugh) pass unmolested by ; 
But if, unblameable in word and thought, 
A man arise, a man whom God has taught, 
With all Elijah's dignity of tone, 
And all the love of the beloved John 



HOPE. 



545 



To storm the citadels they build in air, [spare ; 
And smite the untemper'd wall 'tis death to 
To sweep away all refuges of lies, 
And place, instead of quirks themselves devise, 
Lama sabacthani before their eyes, 
To prove that without Christ all gain is loss, 
All hope despair, that stands not on his cross ; 
Except the few his God may have impressd. 
A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest. [least, 

Throughout mankind, the Christian kind at 
There dwells a consciousness in every breast, 
That folly ends where genuine hope begins. 
And he that finds his heaven must lose his sins. 
Nature opposes with her utmost force. 
This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce : 
And, while Religion seems to be her view, 
Hates with a deep sincerity the true : 
For this of all that ever influenced man. 
Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began, 
This only spares no lust, admits no plea, 
But makes him. if at all, completely free ; 
Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car. 
Of an eternal, universal war ; 
Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles, 
Scorns with the same indifference frowns and 

smiles ; 
Drives through the realms of sin. where riot reels. 
And grinds his crown beneath her burning 

wheels ! 
Hence all that is in man, pride, passion, art, 
Powers of the mind, and feelings of the heart, 
Insensible of truth's almighty charms, 
Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms ! 
While Bigotry, with well dissembled fears. 
His eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears. 
Mighty to parry and push by God's word 
With senseless noise, his argument the sword, 
Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace, 
And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face. 

Parent of Hope, immortal Truth ! make known 
Thy deathless wreaths and triumphs all thine 

own : 
The silent progress of thy power is such, 
Thy means so feeble, and despised so much, 
That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought, 
And none can teach them but whom thou hast 

taught. 
Oh see me sworn to serve thee, and command 
A painter's skill into a poet's hand ! 
That, while I trembling trace a work divine. 
Fancy may stand aloof from the design. 
And hght and shade, and every stroke, be thine. 

If ever thou hast felt another's pain. 
If ever when he sighed hast sighed again, 
If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear 
That pity had engender'd, drop one here. 
This man was happy — had the world's good word, 
And with it every joy it can afford ; 
Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife, 
Which most should sweeten his untroubled life ; 
Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race. 
Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace, 
And whether at the toilette of the fair 
He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there, 
Or, if in masculine debate he shared, 
Ensured him mute attention and regard. 
Alas, how changed ! Expressive of his mind, 
His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined ; 
Those awful syllables, hell, death, and sin, [in ; 
Though whisper'd, plainly tell what works with- 
That conscience there performs her proper part, 
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart ! 



Forsaking and forsaken of all friends, 
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends ; 
Hard task ! for one who lately knew no care, 
And harder still as learnt beneath despair ! 
His hours no longer pass unmarked away, 
A dark importance saddens every day ; 
He hears the notice of the clock perplex'd 
And cries Perhaps eternity strikes next ! 
Sweet music is no longer music here, 
And laughter sounds like madness in his ear: 
His grief the world of all her power disarms; 
Wine has no taste and beauty has no charms : 
God's holy word, once trivial in his view, 
Now by the voice of his experience true, 
Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone 
Must spring that hope he pants to make his 

own. 
Now let the bright reverse be known abroad ; 
Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God. 
As when a felon, whom his country's laws 
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause, 
Expects, in darkness and heart-chilling fears, 
The shameful close of all his misspent years; 
If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, 
A tempest usher in the dreaded morn. 
Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play, 
The thunder seems to summon him away ; 
The warder at the door his key applies, 
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies: 
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost, 
When Hope, long lingering, at last yields the 

ghost. 
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear, 
He drops at once his fetters and his fear; 
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks, 
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. 
Joy, far superior joy. that much outweighs 
The comfort of a few poor added days, 
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul 
Of him, whom Hope has with a touch made 

whole. 
'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings 
Of the glad legions of the King of kings ; 
'Tis more — 'tis God diffused through every part, 
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart. 
O welcome now the sun's once hated light, 
His noonday beams were never half so bright. 
Not kindred minds alone are call'd to employ 
Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy; 
Unconscious nature, all that he surveys. 
Rocks, groves, and streams must join him in his 

praise. 
These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, 
The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth; 
These move the censure and illiberal grin 
Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin: 
But these shall last when night has quench'd the 

pole, 
And heav'n is all departed as a scroll. 
And wh a n, as justice has long since decreed, 
This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed,, 
Then these thy glorious works, and they who 

share 
That hope which can alone exclude despair, 
Shall live exempt from weakness and decay, 
The brightest wonders of an endless day. 

Happy the bard (if that fair name belong 
To him that blends no fable with his song) 
Whose lines uniting, by an honest art, 
The faithful monitor's and poet's part, 
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, 
And, while they captivate inform the mind : 
35 



546 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Still happier, if he till a thankful soil. 

And fruit reward his honorable toil : 

But happier far, who comfort those that wait 

To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate : 

Their language simple, as their manners meek, 

No shining ornaments have they to seek ; 



Nor labor they, nor time, nor talents, waste, 
In sorting flowers to suit a fickle taste ; 
But, while they speak the wisdom of the skie^ 
Which art can only darken and disguise, 
The abundant harvest, recompense divine, 
Repays their work — the gleaning only mine 



CHARITY. 



Qua nihil raajus meliuave terris 
Fata donavere, bonique divi; 
Nee dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum 
Tempora priscum. 

Hor. lib. iv. Ode 2. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Invocation to Charity— Social ties— Tribute to the hu- 
manity of Captain Cook — His character contrasted with 
that of Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico — Degradation 
of Spain — Purpose of commerce — Gifts of art — The 
slave-trade and slavery — Slavery unnatural and un- 
christian — The duty of abating tne woes of that state, 
and of enlightening the mind of the slave, enforced — 
Apostrophe to Liberty— Charity of Howard— Pursuits 
of philosophy — P».eason learns nothing aright without 
the lamp of Revelation — True charity the offspring of 
divine truth — Supposed case of a blind nation and an 
optician — Portrait of Charity— Beauty of the Apostle's 
definition of it — Alms as the means of lulling con- 
science — Pride and ostentation motives of charity — 
Character of satire— JVue charity inculcated — Chris- 
tian charity should be universal — Happy effects that 
would result from universal charity. 

Fairest and foremost of the train that wait 
On man's most dignified and happiest state, 
Whether we name thee Charity or Love, 
Chief grace below, and all in all above, 
Prosper (I press thee with a powerful plea) 
A task I venture on, impell'd by thee : 
Oh never seen but in thy blest effects. 
Or felt but in the soul that heaven selects ; 
Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known 
To other hearts, must have thee in his own. 
Come, prompt me with benevolent desires, 
Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires. 
And, though disgraced and slighted, to redeem 
A poet's name, by making thee the theme. 

God. working ever on a social plan, 
By various ties attaches man to man : 
He made at first, though free and unconfined, 
One man the common father of the kind ; 
That every tribe, though placed as he sees best, 
Where seas or deserts part them from the rest, 
Differing in language, manners, or in face, 
Might feet themselves allied to all the race. 
When Cook — lamented, and with tears as just 
As ever mingled with heroic dust — 
Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown, 
And in his country's glory sought his own, 
Wherever he found man to nature true, 
The rights of man were sacred in his view : 
He soothed with gifts and greeted with a smile. 
The simple native of the new-found isle ; 
He spurn'd the wretch that slighted or withstood 
Vhe tender argument of kindred blood ; 



Nor would endure that any should control 
His freeborn brethren of the southern pole. 
But. though some nobler minds a law respect, 
That none shall with impunity neglect, 
In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet, 
To thwart its influence, and its end defeat. 
While Cook is loved for savage lives he saved, 
See Cortez odious for a world enslaved ! [then, 
Where wast thou then, sweet Charity 1 where. 
Thou tutelary friend of helpless men 1 
Wast thou in monkish cells and nunneries found, 
Or building hospitals on English ground % 
No. — Mammon makes the world his legatee 
Through fear, not love ; and Heaven abhora 

the fee. 
Wherever found (and all men need thy care,) 
Nor age nor infancy could find thee there. 
The hand that slew till it could slay no more 
W T as glued to the sword-hilt with Indian gore. 
Their prince, as justly seated on his throne 
As vain imperial Philip on his own, 
Trick'd out of all his royalty by art. 
That stripp'd him bare, and broke his honest 
heart. 
j Died, by the sentence of a shaven priest, 
I For scorning what they taught him to detest. 
j How dark the veil that intercepts the blaze 
Of Heaven's mysterious purposes and ways ! 
God stood not. though he seem'd to stand, aloof • 
And at this hour the conqueror feels the proof; 
The wreath he won drew down an instant curse 
The fretting; plague is in the public purse, 
The canker'd spoil corrodes the pining state, 
Starved by that indolence their mines create. 

Oh could, their ancient Incas rise again, 
How would they take up Israel's taunting strain 
Art thou too fallen. Iberia 1 Do we see 
The robber and the murderer weak as we 1 
Thou, that hast wasted earth, and dared despise 
Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies, 
Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laid 
Low in the pits thine avarice has made. 
We come with joy from our eternal re,st 
To see the oppressor in his turn oppress'd. 
Art thou the ffod the thunder of whose hand 
Roll'd over all our desolated land, 
Shook principalities and kingdoms down. 
And made the mountains tremble at his frown 1 



CHARITY. 



54 



The sword shall light upon thy boasted powers, 
And waste them, as thy sword has wasted ours. 
'Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils, 
And vengeance executes what justice wills. 

Again — the band of commerce was designed 
To associate all the branches of mankind ; 
And if a boundless plenty be the robe, 
Trade is the golden girdle of the globe. 
Wise to promote whatever end he means, 
God opens fruitful Nature's various scenes : 
Each climate needs what other climes produce. 
And offers something to the general use ; 
No land but listens to the common call, 
And in return receives supply from all. 
This genial intercourse, and mutual aid, 
Cheers what were else a universal shade, 
Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den, 
And softens human rock-work into men. 
Ingenious Art with her expressive face, 
Steps forth to fashion and refine the race ; 
Not only fills necessity's demand, 
But overcharges her capacious hand : 
Capricious taste itself can crave no more 
Than she supplies t'rom her abounding store : 
She strikes out all that luxury can ask. 
And gains new vigor at her endless task. 
Hers is the spacious arch the shapely spire, 
The painter's pencil and the poet's lyre ; 
From her the canvas borrows light and shade, 
Ind verse more lasting, hues that never fade. 
She guides the finger o'er the dancing keys. 
Gives difficulty all the grace of ease 
And pours a torrent of sweet notes around 
Fast as the thirsting ear can drink the sound. 

These are the gifts of art ; and art thrives most 
Where Commerce has enrich'd the busy coast ; 
He catches all improvements in his flight, 
Spreads foreign wonders in his country's sight, 
Imports what others have invented well. 
And stirs his own to match them or excel. 
'Tis thus reciprocating each with each. 
Alternately the nations learn and teach ; 
While Providence enjoins to every soul 
A union with the vast terraqueous whole. 

Heaven speed the canvas gallantly unfurl'd 
To furnish and ace mmodate a world, 
To give the pole the produce of the sun, 
And knit the unsocial climates into one. 
Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave 
Impel the fleet whose errand is to save. 
To succor wasted regions, and replace 
The smile of opulence in sorrow's face. 
Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen, 
Impede the bark that ploughs the deep serene. 
Charged with a freight transcending in its worth 
The gems of India. Nature's rarest birth. 
That flies, like Gabriel on his Lord's commands, 
A herald of God's love to pagan lands ! 
But ah ! what wish can prosper, or what prayer. 
For merchants rich in cargoes of despair. 
Who drive a loathsozne traffic, gauge, and span. 
And buy the muscles and the bones of man I 
The tender ties of father, husband friend, 
All bonds of nature in that moment end ; 
And each endures, while yet he draws his breath, 
A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death. 
The sable warrior, frantic with regret 
Of her he loves, and never can forget, 
Loses in tears the far-receding shore. [more ; 

But not the thought that they must meet no 
Deprived of her and freedom at a blow. 
What has he left that he can yet forego 1 



Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd, 
He feels his body's bondage in his mind ; 
Puts off his generous nature, and, to suit 
His manners with his fate puts on the brute. 

Oh most degrading of all ills that wait 
On man, a mourner in his best estate ! 
All other sorrows virtue may endure, 
And find submission more than half a cure; 
Grief is itself a medicine, and bestow'd 
To improve the fortitude that bears the load ; 
To teach the Wanderer, as his woes increase, 
The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace 
But slavery — Virtue dreads it as her grave : 
Patience itself is meanness in a slave ; 
Or if the will and sovereignty of God 
Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod, 
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day, 
And snap the chain the moment when you may 
Nature imprints upon whate'er we see, 
That has a heart and life in it, Be free ! 
The beasts are charter'd — neither age nor force 
Can quell the love of freedom in a horse : 
He breaks the cord that held him at the rack ; 
And conscious of an unincumber'd back, 
Snuffs up the morning air. forgets the rein ; 
Loose fly his forelock and his ample mane ; 
Responsive to the distant neigh he neighs ; 
Nor stops, till overleap ; ng all delays 
He finds the pasture where his fellows graze. 

Canst thou, and honor'd with a Christian 
name, 
Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame 1 
Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead 
Expedience as a warrant lor the deed 1 
So may the wolf whom famine has made bold 
To quit the forest and invade the fold : 
So may the ruffian who with ghostly glide, 
Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; 
Not he, but his emergence forced the door, 
He found it inconvenient to be poor. 
Has God then given its sweetness to the cane, 
Unless his laws be trampled on — in vain 1 
Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist, 
Unless his right to rule it be dismiss'd ? 
Impudent blasphemy ! So folly pleads, 
And, avarice being judge, with ease succeeds. 

But grant the plea, and let it stand for just, 
That man make man his prey, because he must ; 
Still there is room for pity to abate 
And soothe the sorrows of so sad a state. 
A Briton knows, or if he knows it not. 
The scripture placed within his reach, he ought, 
That souls have no discriminating hue, 
Alike important in their Maker's view : 
That none are free from blemish since the fall, 
And love divine has paid one price for all. 
The wretch that works and weeps without relief 
Has One that notices his silent grief. 
He, from whose hand alone all power proceeds, 
Ranks its abuse among the foulest deeds, 
Considers all injustice with a frown, 
But marks the man that treads his fellow down 
Begone ! — the whip and bell in that hard hand 
Are hateful ensigns of usurped command. 
Not Mexico could purchase kings a claim 
To scourge him. weariness his only blame. 
Remember. Heaven has an avenging rod, 
To smite the poor is treason against God ! 

Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook'd. 
While life's sublimest joys are overlook'd : 
We wander o'er a sun- burnt thirsty soil, 
Murmuring and weary of ( ur daily toil, 



548 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Forget to enjoy the palm-tree's offered shade, 
Or taste the fountain in the neighboring glade ; 
Else who would lose, that had the power to im- 
The occasion of transmuting fear to love 1 [prove 
Oh 'tis a godlike privilege to save ! 
And he that scorns it is himself a slave. 
Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day 
Would heal his heart and melt his chains away. 
" Beauty for ashes" is a gift indeed, 
And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. 
Then would he say. submissive at thy feet, 
While gratitude and love made service sweet. 
My dear deliverer out of hopeless night, 
Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, 
I was a bondman on my native plain, 
Sin forged and ignorance made fast, the chain ; 
Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew, 
Taught me what path to shun, and what pursue ; 
Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more 
For Africa's once loved, benighted shore ; 
Serving a benefactor, I am free ; 
At my best home, if not exiled from thee, [ceeds 

Some men make gain a fountain whence pro- 
A stream of liberal and heroic deeds ; 
The swell of pity, not to be confined 
Within the scanty limits of the mind. 
Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, 
A rich deposit, on the bordering lands : 
These have an ear for his paternal call, 
Who makes some rich for the supply of all ; 
God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ ; 
And Thornton is familiar with the joy. 

Oh could I worship aught beneath the skies 
That earth has seen, or fancy can devise, 
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, 
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair 
As ever dress'd a bank, or scented summer air. 
Duly, as ever on the mountain's height 
The peep of morning shed a dawning light, 
Again, when evening in her sober vest 
Drew the grey curtain of the fading west, [praise 
My soul should yield thee willing thanks and 
For the chief blessings -of my fairest days : 
But that were sacrilege — praise is not thine. 
But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine : 
Else I would say, and as I spake bid fly 
A captive bird into the boundless sky, 
This triple realm adores thee — thou art come 
From Sparta hither, and art here at home. 
We feel thy force still active, at this hour 
Enjoy immunity from priestly power, 
While conscience, happier than in ancient years, 
Owns no superior but the God she fears. 
Propitious spirit ! yet expunge a wrong 
Thy rights have suffer'd, and our land, too long. 
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share 
The fears and hopes of a commercial care. 
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt; 
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, 
Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood ; 
(\.nd honest merit stands on slippery ground. 
Where covert guile and artifice abound. 
Let just restraint for public peace design'd, 
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind ; 
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee, 
But let insolvent innocence go free. 

Patron of else the most despised of men, 
Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen ; 
Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed, 
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed ; 



I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame 
(Charity chosen as my theme and aim) 
I must incur, forgetting Howard's name. 
Blest with all wealth can give thee, to resign 
Joys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine, 
To quit the bliss thy rural scenes bestow, 
To seek a nobler amidst scenes of woe, [home, 
To traverse seas, range kingdoms, and brinj 
Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome. 
But knowledge such as only dungeons te?ich, 
And only sympathy like /thine could reach , 
That grief, sequester'd from the public stage. 
Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage ; 
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal, 
The boldest patriot might be proud to feel. 
Oh that the voice of clamor and debate, 
That pleads for peace till i,t disturbs the state 
Were hush'd in favor of thy generous plea, 
The poor thy clients and Heaven's smile thy fee 

Philosophy, that does not dream or stray 
Walks arm in arm with nature all his way ; 
Compasses earth, dives into it, ascends 
Whatever steep inquiry recommends, 
Sees planetary wonders smoothly roll 4 

Round other systems under her control, 
Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light, 
That cheers the silent journey of the night, 
And brings at his return a bosom charged 
With rich instruction and a soul enlarged. 
The treasured sweets of the capacious plan, 
That Heaven spreads wide before the view or 

man, 
All prompt his pleased pursuit, and to pursue 
Still prompt him. with a pleasure always new ; 
He too has a connecting power, and draws 
Man to the centre of the common cause, 
Aiding a dubious and deficient sight 
With a new medium and a purer light. 
All truth is precious, if not all divine ; 
And what dilates the powers must needs refine. 
He reads the skies, and, watching every change, 
Provides the faculties an ampler range ; 
And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail, 
A prouder station on the general scale. 
But reason still, unless divinely taught, 
Whate'er she learns, learns nothing as she ought ; 
The lamp of revelation only shows, 
What human wisdom cannot but oppose, 
That man. in nature's richest mantle clad, 
And graced with all philosophy can add, 
Though fair without, and luminous within, 
Is still the progeny and heir of sin. 
Thus taught down falls the plumage of his pride; 
He feels his need of an 'unerring guide, 
And knows that falling he shall rise no more, 
Unless the power that bade him stand restore. 
This is indeed philosophy ; this known 
Makes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own; 
And without this, whatever he discuss; 
Whether the space between the stars and us ; 
Whether he measure earth, compute the sea, 
Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly, or spit a flea ; 
The solemn trifler with his boasted skill 
Toils much, and is a solemn trifler still : 
Blind was he born, and his misguided eyes 
Grown dim in trifling studies, blind he dies. 
Self-knowledge truly learned of course impliet 
The rich possession of a nobler prize ; 
For self to self, and God to man, reveal'd, 
(Two themes to nature's eye forever seal'd,) 
Are taught by ra ys, that fly with equal pace 
From the same csntre of enlightening grace. 



CHARITY. 



548 



Here alay thy foot ; how copious and how clear, 
The o'trhowing well of Charity springs here ! 
Hark ! 'tis the music of a thousand rills, 
Some through the groves, some down the sloping 

hills, 
Winding a secret or 'an open course, 
And all supplied fro in an eternal source. 
The ties of nature do but feebly bind. 
And commerce partially reclaims mankind ; 
Philosophy, without his heavenly guide, 
May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride; 
But, while his province is the reasoning part, 
Hau still a veil of midnight on his heart : 
'Tis truth divine exhibited on earth, 
Gives Charity her being and her birth. [flows, 

Suppose (when thought is warm, and fancy 
Wl. at will not argument sometimes suppose '?) 
An isle possessed by creatures of our kind, 
Endued with reason yet by nature blind. 
Let supposition lend her aid once more, 
And land some grave optician on the shore : 
He claps his lens, if hapiy they may see, 
Close to the part where vision ought to be ; 
But finds that, though his tubes assist the sight, 
They cannot give it, or make darkness light. 
He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud 
A sense they know not to the wondering crowd ; 
He talks of light and the prismatic hues, 
As men of depth in erudition use ; 

But all he gains for his harangue is — Well, 

What monstrous lies some travellers will tell ! 

The soul, whose sight all-quickening grace 
renews, 
Takes the resemblance of the good she views, 
As diamonds, stripp'd of their opaque disguise, 
Reflect the noon-day glory of the skies. 
She speaks of Him, her author, guardian, friend, 
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end, 
[n language warm as all that love inspires ; 
And, in the glow of her intense desires, 
Pants to communicate her noble fires. 
She sees a world stark blind to what employs 
Her eager thought and feeds her flowing joys ; 
Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call. 
Plies to save some, and feels a pang for all : 
Herself as weak as her support is strong, 
She feels that frailty she denied so long ; 
And, from a knowledge of her own disease, 
Learns to compassionate the sick she sees. 
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence, 
The reign of genuine Charity commence. 
Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears, 
She still is kind, and still she perseveres; 
The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, 
'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream ! 
The danger they discern not they deny: 
Laugh at their only remedy, and die. 
But still a soul thus touch'd can never cease, 
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace. 
Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild, 
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child : 
She makes excuses where she might condemn, 
Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them ; 
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast, 
The worst suggested, she believes the best ; 
Not soon provoked, however stung and teased, 
And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased ; 
She rather waives than will dispute her right ; 
And, injured, makes forgiveness her delight. 

Such was the portrait an apostle drew, 
The bright original was one he knew ; 
Heaven held h'.s hand, the likeness must be true. 



When one, that holds communion with th« 

, skies, 

Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, 
And once more mingles with us meaner thinos, 
'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings ; 
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, 
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 
So when a ship, well freighted with the stores 
The sun matures on India's spicy sbores, 
Has dropp'd.her anchor, and her canvas furl'd, 
In some safe haven of our western world, 
'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went, 
The gale informs us laden with the scent. 

Some seek, when queasy conscience has it» 

qualms, 
To lull the painful malady with alms ; 
But charity not feign'd intends alone 
Another's good — theirs centres in their own ; 
And, too short-lived to reach the realms of peace, 
Must cease forever when the poor shall cease. 
Flavia, most tender of her own good name, 
Is rather careless of her sister's fame : 
Her superfluity the poor supplies, 
But, if she touch a" character, it dies. 
The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice, 
She deems all sate, for she has paid the price : 
No charity but alms aught values she, 
Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree 
How many deeds, with which the world has 

rung, 
From pride, in league with ignorance, hav« 

sprung ! 
But God o'errules all human follies still, 
And bends the tough materials to his will 
A conflagration, or a wintry flood, 
Has left some hundreds without home or food : 
Extravagance and avarice shall subscribe, 
While fame and self-complacence are the bribe : 
The brief proclaimed, it visits every pew, 
But first the squire's, a compliment but due • 
With slow deliberation he unties 
His glittering purse, that envy of all eyes ! 
And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm. 
Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm; 
Till rinding, what he might have found before, 
A smaller piece amidst the precious store, 
Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb, 
He half exhibits, and then drops the sum. 
Gold, to be sure ! — Throughout the town 'tis toLf 
How the good squire gives never less than gold. 
From motives such as his. though not the best, 
S prings in due time supply lor the distress'd ; 
Not less effectual than what love bestows, 
Except that office clips it as it goes. 

But lest I seem to sin against a friend, 
And wound the grace I mean to recommend. 
(Though vice derided with a just design 
Implies no trespass against love divine,) 
Once more I would adopt the graver style, 
A teacher should be sparing ox' his smile. 
Unless a love oi virtue light the flame, 
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame 
He hides behind a magisterial air 
His own offences, and strips others bare ; 
Affects indeed a most humane concern, 
That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn; 
That mulish lolly, not to be reclaim'd 
By softer methods, must be made ashamed ; 
But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean") 
Too often rails to gratify his spleen. 
Most satirists are indeed a 'public scourge , 
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge ; 



!>50 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd. 
The milk of their good purpose all to curd. 
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, 
By lean despair upon an empty purse, . 
The wild assassins start into the street. 
Prepared to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. 
No skill in swordmanship, however just, 
Can be secure against a madman's thrust ; 
And even virtue, so unfairly match'd, 
Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd. 
When scandal has new minted an old he, 
Or taxed invention for a fresh supply, 
'Tis called a satire, and the world appears 
Gathering around it with erected ears : 
A thousand names are toss ; d into the crowd : 
Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, 
Just as the sapience of an author's brain 
Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain. 
Strange ! how the frequent interjected dash 
Quickens a market, and helps off the trash ; 
The important letters that include the rest 
Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd ; 
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw 
The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law. 
So. when the cold damp shades of night prevail 
Worms may be caught by either head or tail ; 
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess, 
They meet with little pity, no redress ; 
Plung'd in the stream they lodge upon the mud, 
Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood. 

All zeal for a reform; that gives offence 
To peace and charity, is mere pretence : 
A bold remark; but which, if well applied, 
Would humble many a towering poet's pride. 
Perh?fps the man was in a sportive fit. 
And had no other play-place for his wit ; 
Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame, 
He sought the jewel in his neighbor's shame ; 
Perhaps — whatever end he might pursue, 
The cause of virtue could not be his view. 
At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes, 
The turns are quick the polish'd points surprise, 
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms, 
That, while they please, possess us with alarms ; 
So have I seen, (and hasten'd to the sio-ht 
On all the wings of holiday delight,) 
Where stands that monument of ancient power. 
Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower, [small, 
Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and 
In starry forms disposed upon the wall : 
We wonder as we gazing stand below, 
That brass and steel should make so fine a show ; 
But. though we praise the exact designer's skill, 
Account them implements of mischief still. 

No works shall find acceptance in that day, 
When all disguises shall be rent awav. 
That square not truly with the scripture plan, 
Nor spring from love to God, or love to man. 
As he ordains things sordid in their birth 
To be resolved into their parent earth ; 
And though the soul shall seek' superior orbs. 
Whate'er this world produces, i( absorbs; 
So self starts nothing, but what tends apace 
Home to the goal, where it began the race. 
Such as our motive is our aim must be ; 
If this be servile, that can ne'er be free : 
If self employ us. whatsoe'er is wrought, 
VVe glorify that self, not Him we ought ; 



Such virtues had need prove freir own reward, 

The Judge of all men owes tht>m no regard. 

True Charity, a plant divinely nursed, 

Fed by the love from which it rose at first, 

Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene. 

Storms but enliven its unfading green ; 

Exuberant is the shadow it supplies, 

Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies. 

To look at Him, who form'd us and redeem'd, 

So glorious now. though once so disesteem'd ; 

To see a God stretch forth his human hand, 

To uphold the boundless scenes of his command 

To recollect that, in a form like ours, 

He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers 

Captivity led captive, rose to claim 

The wreath he won so dearly in our name ; 

That, throned above all height, he condescends 

To call the few that trust in him his friends ; 

That, in the heaven of heavens, that space h< 

deems 
Too scanty for the exertion of his beams, 
And shines as if impatient to bestow 
Life and a kingdom upon worms below ; 
That sight imparts a never-dying flame. 
Though feeble in degree, in kind the same. 
Like him the soul, thus kindled from above 
Spreads wide her arms of universal love ; 
And, still enlarged as she receives the grace, 
Includes creation in her close embrace. 
Behold a Christian ! — and without the fires 
The Founder of that name alone inspires, 
Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet, 
To make the shining prodigy complete, 
W 7 hoever boasts that name — behold a cheat ! 
Were love, in these the world's last doting years. 
As frequent as the want of it appears, 
The churches warm'd, they would no longei 

hold 
Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold ; 
Relenting forms would lose their power, or cease ; 
And e'en the dipp'd and sprinkled live in peace : 
Each heart would quit its prison in the breast, 
And flow in free communion with the rest. 
The statesman, skill'd in projects dark and deep 
Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep : 
His budget often fill'd, yet always poor, 
Might swing at ease behind his study door, 
No longer prey upon our annual rents, 
Or scare the nation with its big contents : 
Disbanded legions freely might depart, 
And slaying man would cease to be an art. 
No learned disputants would take the field, 
Sure not to conquer and sure not to yield , • 
Both sides deceived, if rightly understood, 
Pelting each other for the public good. 
Did Charity prevail, the press would prove 
A vehicle of virtue, truth and love ; 
And I might spare myself the pains to show 
What few can learn and all suppose they know 

Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay 
With many a wild, indeed, but flowery spray, 
In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost, 
The attention pleasure has so much engross'd. 
But if unhappily deceived I dream, 
And prove too weak for so divine a theme, 
Let Charity forgive me a mistake, ' 
That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make, 
And spare the poet for his subject's sake. 



CONVERSATION 



Nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus auS ,ri, 
Nco percussa juvant fiuctu tam litora, nee quae 
Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles. 

Virg. Eel. 5. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

n conversation much depends on culture— Its results 
frequently insignificant— Indecent language and oaths 
reprobated— The author's dislike of the clash of argu- 
ments — The noisy wrangler — Dubius an example of in- 
decision— The positive pronounce without hesitation — 
The point of honor condemned — Duelling with fists in- 
stead of weapons proposed — Effect of long tales — The 
retailer of prodigies and lies— Qualities of a judicious 
tale— Smoking condemned— The emphatic speaker— 
The perfumed beau — The grave coxcomb — Sickness 
made a topic of conversation— Picture of a fretful tem- 
per—The bashful speaker— An English company— The 
sportsman — Influence of fashion on conversation— Con- 
verse of the two disciples going to Emmaus— Delights 
of religious conversation— Age mellows the speech- 
True piety often branded as fanatic frenzy — Pleasure of 
communion with the good — Conversation should be un- 
constrained—Persons who make the B'ible their com- 
panion, charged with hypocrisy by the world- The 
charge repelled — The poet sarcastically surmises that 
his censure of the world may proceed from ignorance 
of its reformed manners — An apology for digression — 
Religion purifies and enriches conversation. 

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense 
To every man his modicum of sense, 
And Conversation in its better part 
May be esteem'd a gift, and not ari art. 
Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil. 
On culture, and the sowing of the soil. 
Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, 
But talking is not always to converse ; 
Not more distinct from harmony divine, 
The constant creaking of a country sign. 
As alphabets in ivory employ, 
Hour after hour, the yet unletter'd boy, 
Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee 
Those seeds of science call'd his a b c ; 
So language in the mouths of the adult, 
Witness its insignificant result, 
Too often proves an implement of play, 
A toy to sport with, and pass time away. 
Collect at evening what the day brought forth, 
Compress the sum into its solid worth, 
And if it weigh the importance of a fly, 
The scales are false, or algebra a lie. 
Sacred interpreter of human thought, 
How few respect or use thee as they ought ! 
But all shall give account of every wrong, 
Who dare dishonor or defile the tongue ; 
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, 
Or sell their glory at a market-price ; 
Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon, 
The dear-bought pmceman, and the cheap buf- 
foon. 
There is a prurience in the speech of some, 
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them 
dumb: 



His wise forbearance has their end in view, 
They fill their measure, and receive their due. 
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days, 
Names almost worthy of a Christian's praise, 
Would drive them forth from the resort of men, 
And shut up every satyr in his den. 
Oh come not ye near innocence and truth, 
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth ! 
Infectious as impure, your blighting power 
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower , 
Its odor perish'd and its charming hue, 
Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for its smells of you. 
Not e'en the vigorous and headlong rage 
Of adolescence, or a firmer age, 
Affords a plea allowable or just 
For making speech the pamperer of lust; 
But when the breath of age commits the fault 
'Tis nauseous as the vapor of a vault. 
So wither'd stumps disgrace the sylvan scene 
No longer fruitful, and no longer green ; 
The sapless wood, divested of the bark, 
Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark. 

Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife-* 
Some men have surely then a peaceful life ! 
Whatever subject occupy discourse, 
The feats of Vestris, or the naval force, 
Asseveration blustering in your face 
Makes contradiction stich a hopeless case : 
In every tale they tell, or false or true, 
Well known, or such as no man ever knew, 
They fix attention, heedless of your pain, 
With oaths like rivets forced into the brain ; 
And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, 
They swear it. till affirmance breeds a doubt. 
A Persian, humble servant of the sun, 
Who though devout, yet bigotry had none, 
Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, 
W r ith adjurations every word impress, 
Supposed the man a bishop, or at least, 
God's name so much upon his lips, a priesf 
Bow'd at the close with all his graceful airs, 
And begg'd an interest in his frequent prayers. 

Go, quit the rank to which ye stood preferr'd, 
Henceforth associate in one common herd ; 
Religion, virtue, reason, common sense, 
Pronounce your human form a false pretence ■ 
A mere disguise in which a devil lurks, 
Who yet betrays his secret by his works. 

Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such then 
are, 
And make colloquial happiness your care, 
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate. 
A duel in the form of a debate. 
The clash of arguments and jar of words, 
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival s words, 



552 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Decide no question with their tedious length, 
For opposition gives opinion strength, . 
Divert the champions prodigal of breath, 
And put the peaceably disposed to death. 

thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn, 
Nor carp at every flaw you may discern ; 
Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 
f am not surely always in the wrong ; 

Tis hard if all is false that I advance, 

A fool must now and then be right by chance. 

Not that all freedom of dissent I blame ; 

No — there I grant the privilege I c'laim. 

A disputable point is no man's ground ; 

Rove where you please, 'tis common all around. 

Discourse may want an animated — No, 

To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 

But still remember, if you mean to please. 

To press your point with modesty and ease. 

The mark, at which my juster aim I take, 

Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 

Set your opinion at whatever pitch, 

Knots and impediments make something hitch ; 

Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain. 

Your thread of argument is snapp'd again ; 

The wrangler, rather than accord with you. 

Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. 

Vociferated logic kills me quite, 

A noisy man is always in the right, 

1 twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, 
And, when I hope his blunders are all out. 
Reply discreetly — To be sure — no doubt ! 

Dubius is such a scrupulous good man — 
Yes — you may catch him tripping if you can. 
He would not, with a peremptory tone, 
Assert the nose upon his face his own ; 
With hesitation admirably slow, 
He humbly hopes — presumes — it may be so. 
His evidence, if he were call'd by law 
To swear to sozne enormity he saw, 
For want of prominence and just relief, 
Would hang an honest man and save a thief. 
Through constant dread of giving truth offence, 
He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; 
Knows what he knows as if he knew it ntjt ; 
What he remembers seems to have forgot ; 
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall. 
Centring at last in having none at all. 
Yet, though he tease, and balk your listening ear, 
He makes one useful point exceeding clear ; 
Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme 
A sceptic in philosophy may seem, 
Reduced to practice, his beloved rule 
Would only prove him a consummate fool ; 
Useless in him alike both brain and speech, 
Fate having placed all truth above his reach, 
His ambiguities his total sum. 
He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb. 

Where men of judgment creep and feel their 
The positive pronounce without dismay ; [way, 
Their want of light and intellect supplied 
By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride. 
Without the means of knowing right from wrong, 
They always are decisive, clear, and strong. 
Where others toil with philosophic force, 
Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course ; 
Flings at your head conviction in the lump, 
And gains remote conclusions at a jump : 
Their own defect, invisible to them. ■ 
Seen in another, they at once condemn ; 
And, though sell-idolised in every case, 
Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. 



The cause is plain, and not to be denied, 
The proud are always most provoked by pride. 
Few competitions but engender spite ; 
And those the most where neither has a right 

The point of honor has been deem'd of use. 
To teach good manners, and to curb abuse : 
Admit it true, the consequence is clear, 
Our polish'd manners are a mask we wear, 
And at the bottom barbarous still and rude ■ 
We are restrain'd indeed, but not subdued. 
The ver}^ remedy, however sure, 
Springs from the mischief it intends to cure 
And savage in its principle appears. 
Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears. 
'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend 
Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end ; 
That now and then a hero must decease, 
That the surviving world may live in peace. \ 

Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show 
The practice dastardly, and mean, and low ; 
That men engage in it compell'd by force ; 
And fear, not courage, is its proper source. 
The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear 
Lest fops should censure us, and fools should sneel 
At least to trample on our Maker's laws, 
And hazard life for any or no cause, 
To rush into a fix'd eternal state 
Out of the very flames of rage and hate. 
Or send another shivering to the bar 
With all the guilt of such unnatural war, 
Whatever use may urge, or honor plead, 
On reason's verdict is a madman's deed. 
Am I to set my life upon a throw, 
Because a bear is rude and surly 1 No — 
A moral, sensible, and well-bred man 
Will not affront me, and no other can. 
Were I empower'd to regulate the lists, 
They should encounter with well loaded fists ; 
A Trojan combat would be something new, 
Let Dares beat Entellus black and blue ; 
Then each might show to his admiring friends. 
In honorable bumps his rich amends, 
And carry, in contusions of his skull, 
A satisfactory receipt in full. 

A story, in which native humor reigns, 
Is often useful always entertains : 
A graver fact enlisted on your side, 
May furnish illustration, well applied; 
But sedentary weavers of long tales 
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. 
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth, 
To hear them tell of parentage and birth, 
And echo conversations dull and dry, 
Embellish'd with — He said, — and, So said 1. 
At every interview their route the same, 
The repetition makes attention lame : 
We bustle up with unsuccessful speed, 
And in the saddest part cry — Droll indeed S 
The path of narrative with care pursue, 
Still making probability your clue ; 
On all the vestiges of truth attend, 
And let them guide you to a decent end. 
Of all ambitions man may entertain. 
The worst that can invade a sickly brain, 
Is that which angles hourly for surprise. 
And baits its hook with prodigies and lies. 
Credulous infancy, or age as weak, 
Are fittest auditors for such to seek. 
Who to please others will themselves disgrace. 
Yet please not. but affront you to your face. 
A great retailer of this curious ware, 
Having unloaded and made many stare, 



CONVERSATION. 



553 



Can this be true 1 — an arch observer cries ; 
Yes (rather moved), I saw it with these eyes ! 
Sir ! I believe it on that ground alone ; 
I could not, had I seen it with my own. 

A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct ; 
The language plain, the incidents well link'd ; 
Tell not as new what everybody knows, 
And, new or old still hasten to a close ; 
There, centring in a locus round and neat, 
Let all your rays of information meet. 
What neither yields us profit nor delight 
Is like a nurse's lullaby at night ; 
Guy Earl of Warwick and fair Eleanore, 
Or giant-killing Jack, would please me more. 

The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, 
Makes half a sentence at a time enough ; 
The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, [again. 
Then pause, and puff — and speak, and pause 
Such often, like the tube they so admire, 
Important triflers ! have more smoke than fire. 
Pernicious weed ! whose scent the fair annoys, 
Unfriendly to society's chief joys, 
Thy worst effect is banishing tor hours 
The sex whose presence civihzes ours ; 
Thou art indeed the drug a gardener wants 
To poison vermin that infest his plants ; 
But are we so to wit and beauty blind, 
As to despise the glory of our kind, 
And show the softest minds and fairest forms 
As little mercy as the grubs and worms 1 
They dare not wait the riotous abuse 
Thy thirst-creating steams at length produce, 
When wine has given indecent language birth, 
And forced the floodgates of licentious mirth ; 
For seaborn Venus her attachment shows 
Still to that element from which she rose, , 

And, with a quiet which no fumes disturb, 
Sips meek infusions of a milder herb. 

The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, 
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, 
As if the gnomon on his neighbor's phiz, 
Touch'd with the magnet, had attracted his. 
His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large, 
Proves after all a wind-gun's airy charge, 
An extract of his diary — no ( more," 
A tasteless journal of the day before. 
He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain, 
Call'd on a friend, drank tea,stepp'd home again, 
Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk, 
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk. , 
I interrupt him with a sudden bow, 
Adieu, dear sir ! lest you should lose it now. 

I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
A fine puss gentleman that's all perfume ; 
The sight's enough — no need to smell a beau — 
Who thrusts his head into a raree-show 1 
His odoriferous attempts to please 
Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees ; 
But we that make no honey, though we sting. 
Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing. 
'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort, 
What makes some sick, and others d-la-mort, 
An argument of cogence, we may say, 
Why such a one should keep himself away. 

A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, 
Htuite as absurd, though not so light as he : 
A shallow brain behind a serious mask, 
An oracle within an empty cask, 
The solemn fop ; significant and budge ; 
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge. 
He says but little, and that little said 
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. 



His wit invites you by his looks to come, 

But when you knock it never is at home : 

'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage, 

Some handsome present, as your hopes presage, 

'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove 

An absent friend's fidelity and love, 

But when unpack'd your disappointment groani 

To find it stuff 'd with brickbats, earth, and stones. 

Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, 
In making known how oft they have been sick, 
And give us. in recitals of disease, 
A doctor's trouble, but without the fees ; 
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, 
How an emetic or cathartic sped ; 
Nothing is slightly touch'd. much less forgot, 
Nose, ears and eyes, seem present on the spot. 
Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill, 
Victorious seemed, and now the doctor's skill ; 
And now — alas for unforeseen mishaps ! 
They put on a damp nightcap and relapse ; 
They thought they must have died, they were m 

bad: 
Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. 

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, 
You always do too little or too much : 
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, 
Your elevated voice goes through the brain •, 
You fall at once into a lower key, 
That's worse — the drone-pipe of an humble be©. 
The southern sash admits too strong a light. 
You rise and drop the curtain — now 'tis night. 
He shakes with cold — you stir the fire and strive 
To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. 
Serve him with venison, and he wishes fish ; 
With sole — that's just the sort he would no 

wish. 
He takes what he at first professed to loathe, 
And in due tune feeds heartily on both ; 
Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 
Himself should work that wonder if he can- 
Alas ' his efforts double his distress. 
He likes yours little, and his own still less. 
Thus always teasing others, always teased, 
His only pleasure is to be displeased. 

I pity bashful men. who feel the pain 
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, 
And bear the marks upon a blushing face 
Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace. 
Our sensibilities are so acute, 
The fear of being silent makes us mute. 
We sometimes think we could a speech produce 
Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose 
But, being tried, it dies upon the lip, 
Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip : 
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns, 
Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. 
Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain d ; 
It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd, 
By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, 
To fear each other, fearing none beside. 
The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, 
Self-searching with an introverted eye, 
Conceal'd within an unsuspected part 
The vainest corner of our own vain heart : 
Forever aiming at the world's esteem, 
Our self-importance ruins its own scheme ; 
In other eyes our talents rarely shown, 
Become at length so splendid in our own, 
We dare not risk them into public view, 
Lest they miscarry of what seems their due. 



654 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



True modesty is a discerning grace, 
And only blushes in the proper place ; 
But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, 
Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed to appear : 
Humility the parent of the first. 
The last by vanity produced and nursed. 
The circle form'd. we sit in silent state, 
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; 
Yes, ma'am, and No ma'am, utter'd softly, show 
Every five minutes how the minutes go ; 
Each individual, suffering a constraint 
Poetry may, but colors cannot, paint ; 
And, if in close committee on the sky, 
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ; 
And finds a changing clime a happy source 
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse. 
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth, 
Like conservators of the public health, 
Of epidemic throats, if such there are, [tarrh. 
And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and ca- 
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, 
Fill'd up at last with interesting news. 
Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed, 
And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed : 
But fear to call a more important cause, 
As if 'twere treason against English laws. 
The visit paid, with ecstacy we come, 
As from a seven years' transportation, home, 
And there resume an umembarrass'd brow, 
Recovering what we lost, we know not how, 
The faculties that seem'd reduced to nought, 
Expression and the privilege of thought. 
The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, 
I give him over as a desperate case. 
Physicians write in hopes to work a cure, 
Never, if honest ones, when death is sure ; 
And though the fox he follows may be tamed, 
A mere fox-follower never is reclaim'd. 
Some farrier should prescribe a proper course, 
Whose only fit companion is his horse, 
Dr if, deserving of a better doom. 
The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom. 
Yet e'en the rogue that serves him, though he 

stand 
To take his honor's orders, cap in hand, 
Prefers his fellow grooms with much good sense, 
Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence. 
If neither horse nor groom affect the 'squire, 
Where can at last his jockeyship retire \ 
Oh, to the club, the scene of savage joys, 
The school of coarse good fellowship and noise ; 
There, in the sweet society of those 
Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose, 
Let him improve his talent if he can, 
Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. 
Man's heart had been impenetrably seal'd, 
Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field, 
Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand 
Given him a soul, and bade him understand ; 
The reasoning power vouchsafed, of course in- 

ferr'd 
The power to clothe that reason with his word ; 
For all is perfect that God works on earth, 
And he that gives conception aids the birth. 
If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood, 
What uses of his boon the Giver would. 
The mind despatch'd upon her busy toil, [soil ; 
Should range where Providence has bless'd the 
Visiting every flower with labor meet, 
\nd gathering all her treasures sweet by sweet, 
She should imbue the tongue with what she sips, 
And shed the balmy blessing on the lips, 



That good diffused may more abundant grow, 
And speech may praise the power that bids it flow 
Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, 
That fills the listening lover with delight, 
Forget his harmony, with rapture heard, 
To learn the twittering of a meaner bird 1 
Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice, 
That odious libel on a human voice 1 
No — nature, unsophisticate by man, 
Starts not aside from her Creator's plan ; 
The melody, that was at first design'd 
To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind, 
Is note for note deliver'd in our ears, 
In the last scene of her six thousand years. 
Yet Fashion, leader of a chattering train, 
Whom man, for his own hurt, permits to reign, 
Who shifts and changes all things but his shape 
And would degrade her votary to an ape, 
The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong, 
Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue ; 
There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace 
Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace 
And, when accomplish'd in her wayward school 
Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. 
'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree, 
That none could frame or ratify but she, 
That heaven and hell, and righteousness and sin 
Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, 
God and his attributes (a field of day 
Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray,) 
Fruits of his love, and wonders of his might. 
Be never named in ears esteem'd polite ; 
That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave, 
Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave, 
A close designer not to be believed, 
Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived. 
Oh folly worthy of the nurse's lap, 
Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap ! 
Is it incredible, or can it seem 
A dream to any except those that dream, 
That man should love his Maker, and that fire. 
Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire 1 
Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes, 
And veil your daring crest that braves the skies: 
That air of insolence affronts your God, % 
You need his pardon, and provoke his rod : 
Now, in a posture that becomes you more 
Than that heroic strut assumed before, 
Know, your arrears with every hour accrue 
For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. 
The time is short, and there are souls on earth, 
Though future pain may serve for present mirth, 
Acquainted with the woes that fear or shame*, 
By fashion taught, forbade them once to name, 
And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, 
Have proved them truths too big to be express'd. 
Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground, 
Sure to succeed, the remedy they found ; [mock, 
Touched by that power that you have dared to 
That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, 
Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream, 
That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. 

It happen'd on a solemn eventide, 
Soon after He that was our surety died, 
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, 
The scene of all those sorrows left behind, 
Sought their own village, busied as they went 
In musings worthy of the great event : 
They spake of him they loved, of him whose life, 
Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife. 
Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, 
A deep memorial graven on their hearts 



CONVERSATION. 



55t 



The recollection, like a vein of ore. 

The farther traced, enrich'd them still the more ; 

They thought him, and they justly thought him, 

one 
Sent to do more than he appear'd to have done ; 
To exalt a people, and to place them high 
Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. 
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, 
A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend, 
And ask'd them, with a kind, engaging air, 
What their affliction was, and begg d a share. 
Inibrm'd, he gather'd up the broken thread, 
And, truth a*nd wisdom gracing all he said, 
Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well 
The tender theme on which they chose to dw r ell, 
That, reaching home, the night they said, is near, 
We must not now be parted, sojourn here — 
The new acquaintance soon became a guest, 
And made so welcome at their simple feast, 
He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word. 
And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord ! 
Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say, 
Did they not burn within us by the way 1 

Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves 
Man to maintain, and such as God approves : 
Their views indeed were indistinct and dim, 
But yet successful, being aim'd at him. 
Christ and his character their only scope, 
Their object, and their subject, and their hope, 
They felt what it became them much to feel, 
And, wanting hini to loose the sacred seal. 
Found him as prompt as their desire was true, 
To spread the new-born glories in their view. 
W T ell— what are ages and the lapse of time 
Match'd against truths, as lasting as sublime 1 
Can length of years on God himself exact 1 
Or make that fiction which was once a fact 1 
No — marble.and recording brass decay, 
And, like the graver's memory pass away ; 
The works of man inherit, as is just. 
Their author's frailty, and return to dust : 
But truth divine forever stands secure, 
Its head is guarded as its base is sure ; 
Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years, 
The pillar of the eternal plan appears, 
The raving storm and dashing wave defies, 
Built by that Architect who built the skies. 
Hearts may be found, that harbor at this hour 
That love of Christ, and all its quickening power ; 
And lips unstained by folly or by strife, 
Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of 

life, 
Tastes or* its healthful origin, and flows 
A Jordan for the ablution of our woes. 
O days of heaven, and nights of equal praise, 
Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days, 
When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet 
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, 
Discourse, as if released and safe at home, 
Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come, 
And spread the sacred treasures of the breast 
Upon the lap of covenanted rest ! 

What, always dreaming over heavenly things. 
Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings T 
Canting and whining out all day the word, 
And fcalf the night 1 fanatic and absurd ! 
Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers, 
Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, 
Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day, 
And chase the splenetic dull hours away ; 
Content on earth in earthly things to shine, 
Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine, 



Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teach, 
And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach 

Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame, 
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. 
Is sparkling wit the world's exclusive right'? 
The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light 1 
Can hopes of heaven, bright prospects of an hour 
That come to waft us out of sorrow's power, 
Obscure or quench a faculty that finds 
Its happiest soil in the serenest minds 1 
Religion curbs indeed its wanton play, 
And brings the trifler under rigorous sway, 
But gives it usefulness unknown before, 
And purifying, makes it shine the more. 
A Christian's wit is inoffensive light, 
A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight ; 
Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth ; 
'Tis always active on the side of truth ; 
Temperance and peace ensure its healthful state. 
And make it brightest at its latest date. 
Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, 
Ere fife go down, to see such sights again) 
A veteran warrior in the Christian field, 
Who never saw the sword he could not wield ; 
Grave without dulness, learned without pride, 
Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eye'd ; 
A man that would have foil'd at their own play 
A dozen would-be's of the modern day ; 
Who, when occasion justified its use, 
Had wit as bright as ready to produce, 
Could fetch from records of an earlier age, 
Or from philosophy's enlighten 'd page, 
His rich materials, and regale your ear 
With strains it was a privilege to hear : 
Yet above all his luxury supreme, 
And his chief glory, was the gospel theme ; 
There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, 
His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, 
Ambitious not to shine or to excel, 
But to treat justly what he loved so well. « 

It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, 
When some green heads, as void of wit as thought. 
Suppose themselves monopolists of sense, 
And wiser men's ability pretence. 
Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, 
Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, 
Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb, 
Embalm'd forever in its own perfume. 
And to say truth, though in its early prime, 
And when unstain'd with any grosser crime, 
Youth has a sprightliness and fife to boast, 
That in the valley of decline are lost, 
And virtue with peculiar charms appears, 
Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years 
Yet age, by long experience well inform'd, 
Well read, well temper'd, with religion warm'd, 
That fire abated which impels rash youth, 
Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, 
As time improves the grape's authentic juice, 
Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, 
And claims a reverence in its shortening day, 
That 'tis an honor and a joy to pay. 
The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound 
Than those a brighter season pours around ; 
And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, 
Through wintry rigors unimpair'd endu-e. 

What is fanatic frenzy, scorn 'd so much, 
And dreaded more than a contagious touch 1 
I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear, 
That fire is catching, if you draw too near ; 
But sage observers oft mistake the flame, 
And give true piety that odious name. 



556 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



To tremble (as the creature of an hour 

Ought at the view of an almighty power) 

Before his presence, at whose awful throne 

All tremble in all worlds, except our own. 

To supplicate his mercy, love his ways. 

And prize them above pleasure, Wealth, or praise, 

Though common sense, allow'd. a casting voice, 

And free from bias, must approve the choice, 

Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme, 

And wild as madness in the world's esteem! 

But that disease, when soberly defined, 

Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind ; 

It views the truth with a distorted eye, 

And either warps or lays it useless by ; 

'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws 

Its sordid nourishment from man's applause ; 

And, while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies, 

Presumes itself chief favorite of the skies. 

'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds 

In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, 

Shines in the dark, but, usher'd into day, 

The stench remains, the lustre dies away. 

True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed 
Of hearts in union mutually disclosed ; 
And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, 
Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, up- 
right. 
Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name, 
Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame. 
A dark confederacy against the laws 
Of virtue, and religion's glorious dause : 
They build each other up with dreadful skill, 
As bastions set point-blank against God's will ; 
Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, 
Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out ; 
Call legions up from hell to back the deed ; 
And, cursed^with conquest, finally succeed. 
But souls, that carry on a blest exchange 
Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range, 
•And with a fearless confidence make known 
The sorrows sympathy esteems its own, 
Daily derive increasing light and force 
From such communion in their pleasant course. 
Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, 
Meet their opposers with united strength, 
And, one in heart, in interest, and design, 
Gird up each other to the race divine. 

But Conversation, choose what theme we may, 
And chiefly when Religion leads the way, 
Should flow, like waters after summer showers, 
Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers. 
The Christian, in whose soul, though now dis- 

tress'd, 
Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd, 
When all his glowing language issued forth 
With God's deep stamp upon its current worth, 
Will speak without disguise, and must impart, 
Sad as it is, his undissembling heart, 
Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, 
Or seem to boast a fire, he does not feel. 
The song of Zion is a tasteless thing, 
Unless, when rising on a joyful wing, 
The soul can mix with the celestial bands, 
And give the strain the compass it demands. 

Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat 
A*ll but their own experience as deceit ! 
Will they believe, though credulous enough 
To swallow much upon much weaker proof, 
That there are blest inhabitants on earth, 
Partakers of a new ethereal birth, 
Their hopes, desires, and purposes estranged 
Frdm things terrestrial, and divinely changed, 



Their very language of a kind that speaks 

The soul's sure interest in the good she seeks, 

Who deal with scripture, its importance felt, 

As Tully with Philosophy once dealt, 

And, in the silent watches of the night, 

And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, 

The social walk, or solitary ride, 

Keep still the dear companion at their side 1 

No — shame upon a self-disgracing age, 

God's work may serve an ape upon a stage 

With such a jest as fill'd with hellish glee 

Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ; 

But veneration or respect finds none, 

Save from the subjects of that work alone. 

The World grown old her deep discernmen 

Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose, [shows 

Peruses closely the true Christian's face, 

And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace ; 

Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare, 

And finds hypocrisy close lurking there ; 

And, serving God herself through mere constraint 

Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint. 

And yet, God knows, look human nature through 

(And in due time the world shall know it too) 

That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast, 

That after man's defection laid all waste, 

Sincerity towards the heart-searching God 

Has made the new-born creature her abode, 

Nor shall be found in unregenerate souls 

Till the last fire burn all between the poles. 

Sincerity ! why 'tis his only pride, 

Weak and imperfect in all grace beside, 

He knows that God demands his heart entire, 

And gives him all his just demands require. 

Without it, his pretensions were as vain 

As, having it, he deems the world's disdain ; 

That great defect would cost him not alone 

Man's favorable judgment but his own ; 

His birthright shaken, and no longer clear 

Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere 

Retort the charge, and let the world be told 

She boasts a confidence she does not hold ; 

That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead 

A cold misgiving and a killing dread : 

That while in health the ground of her support 

Is madly to forget that life is short ; 

That sick she trembles, knowing she must die, 

Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie ; 

That while she dotes and dreams that she believes 

She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives, 

Her utmost reach historical assent, 

The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant 

That truth itself is in her .head as dull 

And useless as a candle in a skull, 

And all her love of God a groundless claim, 

A trick upon the canvas, painted flame. 

Tell her again, the sneer upon her face, 

And all her censures of the work of grace, 

Are insincere, meant only to conceal 

A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel : 

That in her heart the Christian she reveres, 

And, while she seems to scorn him, only fears 

A poet does not work by square or line, 
As smiths and joiners perfect a design ; 
At least we moderns, our attention less, 
Beyond the example of our sires digress. 
And claim a right to scamper and run wide, 
Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. 
The world and I fortuitously met ; 
I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt ; 
She did me wrong, I recompensed the deed,, 
And, having struck the balance, now proceed 



CONVERSATION. 



65\ 



Perhaps, however, as some years have pass'd 

Since she and I conversed together last, 

And I have lived recluse in rural shades, 

Which seldom a distinct report pervades, 

Great changes and new manners have occurr'd, 

And blest reforms that I have never heard, 

And she may now be as discreet and wise, 

As once absurd in all discerning eyes. 

Sobriety perhaps may now be found, 

Where once intoxication press'd the ground ; 

The subtle and injurious may be just, 

And he grown chaste that was the slave of lust ; 

Arts once esteem'd may be with shame dismiss'd ; 

Charity may relax the miser's fist ; 

The gamester may have cast his cards away, 

Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray. 

It has indeed been told me (with what weight, 

How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state,) 

That fables old. that seem'd forever mute, 

Revived, are hastening into fresh repute, 

And gods and goddesses, discarded long, 

Like useless lumber or a stroller's song. 

Are bringing into vogue their heathen train, 

And Jupiter bids fair to rule again ; 

That certain feasts are instituted now. 

Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow; 

That all Olympus through the country roves, 

To consecrate our few remaining groves, 

And Echo learns politely to repeat 

The praise of names ibr ages obsolete ; 

That having proved the weakness, it should seem. 

Of revelation's ineffectual beam. 

To bring the passions under sober sway, 

And give the moral springs their proper play. 

They mean to try what may at last be done, 

By stout substantial gods of wood and stone, 

And whether Roman rites may not produce 

The virtues of old Rome for English use. 

May such success attend the pious plan, 

May Mercury once more embellish man, 

Grace him asrain with long forgotten arts. 

Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts. 

Make him athletic, as in days of old. 

Learned at the bar, in the palaestra bold, 

Divest the rougher sex of female airs. 

And teach the softer not to copy theirs: 

The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught, 

Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought. 

'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus. 

For us plain folks, and all who side with us, 

To build our altar confident and bold, 

And say, as stern Elijah said of old, 

The strife now stands upon a fair award, 

If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord : 

If he be silent, faith is all a whim, 

Then Baal is the God, and worship him. 



Digression is so much in modern use, 
Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse, 
Some never seem so wide of their intent, 
As when returning to the theme they meant j 
As mendicants, whose business is to roam, 
Make every parish but their own their home. 
Though such continual zigzags in a book, 
Such drunken reelings have an awkward look. 
And I had rather creep to what is true, 
Than rove and stagger with no mark in view; 
Yet to consult a little seem'd no crime, 
The freakish humor of the present time : 
But now to gather up what seems dispersed, 
And touch the subject I design'd at first, 
May prove, though much beside the rules of axt 
Best for the public, and my wisest part. 
And first, let no man charge me that I mean 
To clothe in sable every social scene, 
And give good company a face severe, 
As if they met around a father's bier; 
For tell some men that, pleasure all their bent, 
And laughter all their work, is life misspent, 
Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply, 
Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. 
To find the medium asks some share of wit, 
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit. 
But though life's valley be a vale of tears, 
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, 
Whose glory, with a fight that never fades, [shades. 
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and opening 
And while it shows the land the soul desires, 
The language of the land she seeks inspires. 
Thus touch'd. the tongue receives a sacred cure 
Of all that was absurd, profane, impure ; 
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech 
Pursues the course that truth and nature teach , 
No longer labors merely to produce 
The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use : 
Where'er it winds, the salutary stream, 
Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, 
While all the happy man possess'd before, 
The gift of nature or the classic store, 
Is made subservient to the grand design, 
For which Heaven formed the faculty divine. 
So, should an idiot, while at large he strays, 
Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays, 
With rash and awkward force the chords h« 

shakes. 
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes; 
But let the wise and well-instructed hand, 
Once take the shell beneath his just command, 
In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd 
Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd, 
Till, tuned at length to some immortal song, 
It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his pravtc 

along. 



RETIREMENT. 



&\ udiis florens ignobilis oti. 

Virg. Georg. lib. iv. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

the busy universally desirous of retirement — Important 
purpose for which this desire was given to man — Mus- 
ing on the works of the creation, a happy employment 
—The service of God not incompatible, however, with 
a life of business — Human life ; its pursuits — Various 
motives for seeking retirement — The poet's delight in 
the study of nature — The lover's fondness for retire- 
ment — The hypochondriac — Melancholy, a malady that 
claims most compassion, receives the least — Sufferings 
of the melancholy man— The statesman's retirement— 
His new mode of life and company — Soon weary of re- 
tirement, he returns to his former pursuits — Citizens' 
villas — Fashion of frequenting watering-places — The 
ocean — The spendthrift in forced retirement — The 
sportsman ostler — The management of leisure a diffi- 
cult task — Man will be summoned to account for the 
employment of life — Books and friends requisite for 
the man of leisure ; and divine communion to fill the 
remaining void— Religion not adverse to innocent 
pleasures— The poet concludes with reference to. his 
own pursuit. 

Hackney'd in business, wearied at that oar, 
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no 

more, 
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low, 
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego ; 
The statesman . lawyer, man of trade, 
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade, 
Where, all his long anxieties forgot 
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot, 
Or recollected only to gild o'er, 
And add a smile to what was sweet before, 
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees, 
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease, 
Improve the remnant of his wasted span, 
And, having lived a trifler, die a man. [breast, 
Thus conscience pleads her cause within the 
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd, 
And calls a creature form'd for God alone, 
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own, 
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, 
From what debilitates and what inflames, 
From cities humming with a restless crowd, 
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud. 
Whose highest praise is that they live in vair. , 
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain. 
Where works of man are cluster'd close around. 
And works of God are hardly to be found, 
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe, 
traces of Eden are still seen below, 
Where mountain, river, forest field, and grove, 
Remind him of his Maker's power and love. 
'Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day, 
In the last scene of such a senseless play, 
True wisdom will attend his feeble call. 
And grace his action ere the curtain fall, [birth. 
Souls that have long despised their heavenly 
T.\eir wishes all impregnated with earth, 



For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless 
In catching smoke and feeding upon air. [care 
Conversant only with the ways of men, 
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. 
Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart, 
Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part, 
And, draining its nutritious powers to feed 
Their noxious growth, starve every better seed. 

Happy, if full of days — but happier far, 
If, ere we yet discern life's evening star, 
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds 
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, 
We can escape from custom's idiot sway, 
To serve the sovereign we were born to obey. 
Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd 
(Infinite skill) in all that he has made ! 
To trace in nature's most minute design 
The signature and stamp of power divine, 
Contrivance intricate express'd with ease, 
Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, 
The shapely limb and lubricated joint, 
Within the small dimensions of a point, 
Muscle and nerve miraculously spun, 
His mighty work, who speaks and it is done, 
The invisible in things scarce * en reveal'd, 
To whom an atom is an ample n 'd : 
To wonder at a thousand insect fonns, 
These hatch'd and those resuscitated worms, 
New life ordain 'd and brighter scenes to share, 
Once prone on earth now buoyant upon air, 
Whose shape would make them, had they bulk 

and size, 
More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; 
With helmet-heads and dragon-scales adorn'd. 
The mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd, 
Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, 
Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth: 
Then with a glance of fancy to survey, 
Far as the faculty can stretch away, 
Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command, 
From urns that never fail, through every land ; 
These like a deluge with impetuous force, 
Those winding modestly a silent course ; 
The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; 
Seas, on which every'nation spreads her sails ; 
The sun, a world whence other worlds drink 
The crescent moon the diadem of night ; [light, 
Stars countless each in his appointed place, 
Fast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space — 
At such a sight to catch the poet's flame, 
And with a rapture like his own exclaim 
These are thy glorious works, thou Source ©/ 

Good, 
How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! 
Thine and upheld by thy paternal care, 
This universal frame, thu? wondrous fair; 



RETIREMENT 



559 



Thy power divine, and bounty beyond 'thought, 
Adored and praised in all that thou hast wrought. 
Absorb'd in that immensity I see. 
I shrink abashed and yet aspire to thee ; 
Instruct me. £uide me to that heavenly day 
Thy words more clearly than thy works display, 
That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine 
I may resemble thee, and call thee mine. 

O blest proficiency ! surpassing all 
That men erroneously their glory call, 
The recompense that arts or arms can yield, 
The bar. the senate, or the tented field. 
Compared with this sublimest life below, 
Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show % 
Thus studied used, and consecrated thus, 
On earth what is seems form'd indeed for us ; 
Not as'the plaything of a froward child, 
Fretful unless diverted and beguiled, 
Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires, 
Of pride, ambition, or impure desires, 
But as a scale, by which the soul ascends 
From mighty means to more important erup. 
Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, 
Mounts from interior beings up to God, 
And sees, by no fallacious light or dim. 
Earth made for man. and man himself for him. 

Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce, 
A superstitious and monastic course : 
Truth is not local, God alike pervades 
And fills the world of traffic and the shades. 
And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes. 
Or scorn'd where business never intervenes. 
But, 'tis not easy with a mind like ours, 
Conscious cf weakness in its noblest powers, 
And in a world where, other ills apart, 
The roving eye misleads the careless heart 
To limit thought, by nature prone to stray 
Wherever freakish fancy points the way ; 
To bid the pleadings of self-love be still, 
Resign our own and seek our Maker's will ; 
To spread the page of scripture, and compare 
Our conduct with the laws engraven there ; 
To measure all that passes in the breast, 
Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test ; 
To dive into the secret deeps within, 
To spare no passion and no favorite sin, 
And search the themes, important above all, 
Ourselves, and our recovery from our fall. 
But leisure silence, and a mind released 
From anxious thoughts how wealth may be in- 
creased, 
flow to secure, in some propitious hour, 
The point of interest or the post of power, 
A soul serene, and equally retired 
From objects too much dreaded or desired, 
Safe from the clamors of perverse dispute, 
At least are friendly to the great pursuit. 

Opening the map of God's extensive plan, 
We find a little isle, this life of man ; 
Eternity's unknown expanse appears 
Circling around and limiting his years. 
The»busy race examine and explore 
Each creek and cavern of the dangerous shore. 
With care collect what in their eyes excels, 
Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and 

shells. 
Thus laden, dream that they are rich and great, 
And happiest te that groans beneath his weight. 
The waves o'ertake them in their serious play. 
And every hour sweeps multitudes away ; 
They shriek and sink, survivors start and weep, 
Pursue their sport, and follow to the deep. 



A few forsake the throng ; with lifted eyes 
Ask wealth of Heaven and gain a real prize, 
Truth, wisdom, grace, and peace like that above 
Seal'd with his signet, whom they serve and 

love ; 
Scorn'd by the rest, with patient hope they wai 
A kind release from their imperfect state, 
And unregretted are soon snatch'd away 
From scenes of sorrow into glorious day. 

Nor these alone prefer a life recluse, 
Who seek retirement for its proper use ; 
The love of change that lives in every breast, 
Genius, and temper, and desire of rest, 
Discordant motives in one centre meet, 
And each inclines its votary to retreat. 
Some minds by nature are averse to noise, 
And hate the tumult half the world enjoys, 
The lure of avarice, or the pompous prize 
That courts display before ambitious eyes ; 
The fruits that hang on pleasure's flowery stem, 
Whate'er enchants them, are no snares to them 
To them th -. deep recess of dusky groves, 
Or forest, wiiere the deer securely roves, 
The^fall of waters, and the song of birds, 
And hills that echo to the distant herds. 
Are luxuries excelling all the glare [share 

The world can boast and her chief favorite. 
With eager step, and carelessly array 'd, 
For such a cause the poet seeks the shade, 
From all he sees he catches new delight, 
Pleased Fancy claps her pinions at the sight. 
The rising or the setting orb of day, 
The clouds that flit, or slowly float away, 
Nature in all the various shape's she wears, 
Frowning in storms, or breathing gentle airs, 
The snowy robe her wintry state assumes, 
Her summer heats, her fruits, and herperfumes 
All. all alike transport the glowing bard, 
Success in rhyme his glory and reward. 
O Nature ! whose Elysian scenes disc-lose 
His bright perfections at whose word they rose, 
Next to that power who form'd thee, and sustains, 
Be thou the great inspirer of my strains. 
Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand 
Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand, 
That I may catch a fire but rarely known, 
Give useful light, though I should miss renown, 
And, poring on thy page, whose every line 
Bears proof of an intelligence divine, 
May feel a heart enrich'd by what it pays, 
That builds its glory on its Maker's praise. 
Woe to the man whose wit disclaims its use, 
Glittering in vain, or only to seduce, 
Who studies nature with a wanton eye, 
Admires the work, but slips the lesson by ; 
His hours of leisure and recess employs 
In drawing pictures of forbidden joys, 
•Retires to blazon his own worthless name, 
Or shoot the careless with a surer aim. 

The lover too shuns business and alarms, 
Tender idolater of absent charms. 
Saints offer nothing in their warmest prayers 
That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ; 
'Tis consecration of his heart, soul, time, 
And every thought that wanders is a crime. 
In sighs he worships his supremely fair, 
And weeps a sad libation in despair ; 
Adores a creature, and. devout in vain, 
Wins in return an answer of disdain. 
As woodbine weds the plant within her reach, 
Rough elm, or smooth-grain'd ash, or gloss* 
beech. 



*60 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



In spiral rings ascends the trank, and lays 
Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays, 
But does a mischief while she lends a grace, 
Straitening its growth hy such a strict embrace ; 
So love, that clings around the noblest minds 
Forbids the advancement of the soul he binds ; 
The suitor's air indeed he soon improves, 
And forms it to the taste of her he loves, 
Teaches his eyes a language, and no less 
Xefines his speech, and fashions his address ; 
But farewell* promises of happier fruits, 
Manly designs, and learning's grave pursuits ; 
Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break, 
His only bliss is sorrow for her sake ; 
Who will may pant for glory and excel. 
Her smile his aim. all higher aims farewell ! 
Thyrsis. Alexis, or whatever name 
May least offend against so pure a flame, 
Though sage advice of friends the most sincere 
Sounds harshly in so delicate an ear, 
And lovers, of all creatures, tame or wild. 
Can least brook management, however mild, 
Yet let a poet (pottry disarms 
The fiercest animals with magic charms) 
Risk an intrusion on thy pensive mood, 
And woo and win thee to thy proper good. 
Pastoral images and still retreats, 
Umbrageous walks and solitary seats, 
Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streams, 
Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day-dreams, 
Are all enchantments in a case like thine, 
Conspire against thy peace with one design, 
Soothe thee to make thee but a surer prey, 
And feed the fire that wastes thy powers away. 
Up — God has formed thee with a wiser view, 
Not to be led in chains, but to subdue ; 
Calls thee to cope with enemies, and first 
Points out a conflict with thyself, the worst. 
Woman indeed, a gift he would bestow 
When he design'd a Paradise below, 
The richest earthly boon his hands afford, 
Deserves to be beloved, but not adored. 
Post away swiftly to more active scenes, 
Collect the scatter'd truth that study gleans, 
Mix with the world, but with its wiser part, 
No longer give an image all thine heart ; 
Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine, 
'Tis God's just claim, prerogative divine. 

Virtuous and faithful Hkbghden, whose skill 
Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, 
Gives melancholy up to nature's care, 
And sends the patient into purer air. 
Look where he comes — in this embower'd alcove 
Stand close conceal'd and see a statue move: 
Lips busy, and eyes fix'd, foot falling slow, 
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below, 
Interpret to the marking eye distress. 
Such as its symptoms can alone express. 
That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue 
Could argue once, could jest, or join the soncr. 
Could give advice, could censure or commend, 
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
Renounced alike its office and its sport, 
Its brisker and its graver strains fall short ; 
Both fail beneath a fever's secret pway, 
And like a summer-brook are past away. 
This is a sight for pity to peruse. 
Till she resemble jaintly what she views, 
till sympathy contract a kindred pain, 
Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. 
This, of all maladies that man infest, 
Claims most compassion, and receives the least : 



Job felt it, when he groan'd beneath the rod 
And the barb'd arrows of a frowning God; 
And such emollients as his friends could spare, 
Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare. 
Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never feel, 
Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer'd steel, 
With mouths made only to grin wide and eat, 
And minds that deem derided pain a treat, 
With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire 
And wit that puppet prompters might inspire, 
Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke 
On pangs enforced with God's severest stroke. 
But. with a soul that ever felt the sting 
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing: 
Not to molest, or irritate, or raise, 
A laugh at his expense, is slender praise ; 
He that has not usurp'd the name of man 
Does all, and deems too little all, he can, 
To assuage the throbbings of the fester'd part, 
And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart. 
'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, 
Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes ; 
Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, 
Each yielding harmony disposed aright ; 
The screws reversed (a task which if he please 
God in a moment executes with ease,) 
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose 
Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. 
Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair 
As ever recompensed the peasant's care, 
Nor soft declivities with tufted hills, 
Nor view of waters turning busy mills, 
Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, 
Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds, 
Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming grove^ 
And waft it to the mourner as he roves, 
Can call up life into his faded eye, 
That passes all he sees unheeded by ; 
No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, 
No cure for such, till God who makes them heaia 
And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill 
That yields not to the touch of human skill, 
Improve the kind occasion, understand 
A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand 
To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon, 
The purple evening and resplendent moon, 
The stars that, sprinkled o'er the vault or nignt 
Seem drops descending in a shower of light, 
Shine not or undesired and hated shine, 
Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine: 
Yet seek him, in his favor life is found, 
All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound : 
Then heaven eclipsed so long, and this dull eartl 
Shall seem to start into a second birth; 
Nature, assuming a more lovely face, 
Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, 
Shall be despised and overlook'd no more, 
Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before 
Impart to things inanimate a voice, 
And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice 
The sound shall run along the winding vale* 
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. 

Ye groves, (the statesman at his desk exclaim* 
Sick of a thousand disappointed aims.) 
My patrimonial treasure and my pride, 
Beneath your shades your grey possessor hide, 
Receive me. languishing for that repose 
The servant of the public never knows. 
Ye saw me once (ah, those regretted days, 
When bovish innocence was all my praise l"> 
Hour after hour delightfully allot, 
To studies then familiar, since forgot, 



RETIREMENT. 



561 



And cultivate a taste for ancient song, 
Catching its ardor as I mused along ; 
Nor seldom, as propitious Heaven might send, 
What once I valued and could boast a friend, 
Were witnesses how cordially I press'd 
His undissembliug virtue to my breast : 
Receive me now. not uncorrupt as then 
Nor guiltless of corrupting other men, 
But versed in arts that, while they seem to stay 
A falling empire, hasten its decay. 
To the fair haven of my native home. 
The wreck of what I was fatigued. I come ; 
For once I can approve the patriot's voice, 
And make the course he recommends my choice : 
We meet at last in one sincere desire, 
His wish and mine both prompt me to retire. 
'Tis done, he steps into the welcome chaise, 
Lolls.at his case behind four handsome bays, 
That whirl away from business and debate 
The disencumber'd Atlas of the state. 
Ask not the boy. who. when the breeze of morn 
First shakes the glittering drops from every thorn, 
Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush 
Sits linking cherry-stones or platting rush, 
How fair is freedom '{ — he was always free : 
To carve his rustic name upon a tree. 
To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion'd hook 
To draw the incautious minnow from the brook, 
Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view, 
His flock the chief concern he ever knew ; 
She shines but little in his heedless eyes, 
The good we never miss we rarely prize : 
But ask the noble drudge in state affairs, 
Escaped from office, and its constant cares. 
What charms he sees in Freedom's smile express'd, 
In freedom lost so long, now repossess'd ; [mands. 
The tongue whose strains were cogent as corn- 
Revered at home, and felt in foreign lands, 
Shall own itself a stammerer in that cause, 
Or plead its silence as its best applause. 
He knows indeed that, whether dress'd or rude, 
Wild without art, or artfully subdued, 
Nature in every form inspires delight, 
But never mark'd her with so just a sight. 
Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store, 
With woodbine and wild roses mantled o'er, 
Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that 
Its cooling vapor o'er the dewy meads [spreads 
Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eye, 
That melt and fade into the distant sky, 
Beauties he lately slighted as he pass'd, 
Seem all created since he travell'd last. 
Master of all the enjoyments he design'd, 
No rough annoyance rankling in his mind.^ 
What early philosophic hours he keeps, 
How regular his meals how sound he sleeps . 
Not sounder he that on the mainmast head, 
While morning kindles with a windy red, 
Begins a long look-out for distant land. 
Nor quits till evening watch his giddy stand. 
Then, swift descending with a seaman's haste, 
Slips to his hamaiock, and forgets the blast. 
He chooses company, but not the squire's, 
Whose wit is rudeness, whose good breeding tires ; 
Nor yet the parsons, who would gladly come, 
Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home; 
Nor can he much affect the neighboring peer, 
Whose toe of emulation treads too near ; 
But wisely seeks a more convenient friend, 
With whom, dismissing forms, he may unbend. 
A maa, whom marks of condescending grace, 
Teach, while they flatter him, his propef place; 



Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws, 

Speak' with reserve, and listens with applause : 

Some plain mechanic, who. without pretence, 

To birth or Wit, nor gives nor takes offence ; 

On whom he rests well pleased his weary powers, 

And talks and laughs away his vacant hours. 

The tide 01 life, *wift always in its course, 

May run in cities with a brisker force. 

But nowhere with a current so serene, 

Or hah' so clear, as in the rural sceme. 

Vet how fallacious is all earthly bliss, 

What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss; 

Some pleasures live a month, and some a year, 

But short the date of all we gather here ; 

No happiness is felt, except trie true, 

That does not charm thee more for being new. 

This observation, as it chanced, not made, 

Or if the thought occurr'd, not duly wcigh'd, 

He sighs — for after all by slow degrees 

The spot he loved has lost the power to please; 

To cross his ambling pony day by day 

Seems at the best but dreaming life away ; 

The prospect, such as might enchant despair, 

He views it not or sees no beauty there ; 

With aching heart, and discontented looks, 

Returns at noon to billiards or to books, 

But feels, while grasping at his faded joys, 

A secret thirst of his renounced employs. 

He chides the tardiness of every post, 

Pants to be told of battles won or lost, 

Blames his own indolence, observes though late, 

'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state, 

Flies to the levee, and, received with grace. 

Kneels kiss.es hands, and shines again in place. 

Suburban villas, highway-side retreats [streets, 
That dread the encroachment of our growing 
Tight boxes, neatly sash'd. and in a blaze 
With all a July sun's collected rays. 
Delight the citizen, who gasping there, 
Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. 
O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought 
That could afford retirement, or could not ? 
'Tis such an easy walk, so sinoota and straight. 
The second milestone fronts the garden gate ; 
A step if fair and. if a shower approach. 
You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach. 
There, prison'd in a parlor snug and small, 
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall. 
The man of business, and his friends compress'd 
Forget their labors, and yet find no rest ; 
But still 'tis rural — trees are to be seen 
From every window, and the fields are green ; 
Ducks paddle in the pond before the door, 
And what could a remoter scene show more 1 
A sense of elegance we rarely find 
The portion of a mean or vulgar mind, 
And ignorance of better things makes man, 
Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can ; 
And he, that deems his leisure well bestow'd 
In contemplation of a turnpike-road. 
Is occupied as well, employs his hours 
As wisely, and as much improves his powers, 
As he that slumbers in pavilions graced 
With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste. 
Yet hence, alas ! insolvencies ; and hence 
The unpitied victim of ill-judged expense, 
From all his wearisome engagements freed, 
Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed 

Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, 

Content with Bristol. Bath, and Tunbridge Wells, 

When health required it, would consent to roam, 

Else more attach'd to pleasures found at home j 

36 



662 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife, 
Ingenious to diversify dull life. 
In coaches, chaises, caravans and hoys 
Fly to the coast for daily nightly joys, 
And all impatient of dry land, agree 
With one consent to rush into the sea. 
Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad, 
Much#of the power and majesty of God. 
He swathes about the swelling of the deep, 
That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleej ; 
Vast as it is. it answers as it flows 
The breathings of the lightest air that blows ; 
Curling and whitening over all the waste, 
The rising waves obey the' increasing blast, 
Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars. 
Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores, 
Till he that rides the whirlwind checks the rein, 
Then all the world of waters sleeps again. 
Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads, 
Now in the floods now panting in the meads, 
Votaries of pleasure still where'er she dwells, 
Near barren rocks, in palaces or cells, 

grant a poet leave to recommend 

(A poet fond of nature, and your friend) 
Her slighted works to your admiring view ; 
Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you. 
Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride, 
With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side, 
Condemn the prattler for his idle pains, 
To waste unheard, the music <»f his strains, 
And, deaf to all the impertinence of tongue, 
That, while it courts, affronts and does you wrong, 
Mark well the finish'd plan without a fault, 
The seas globose and huge, the o'erarching vault. 
Earth's millions daily ted, a world employ'd 
In gathering plenty yet to be enjoy'd, 
Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise 
Of God, beneficent in all his ways ; [shine ! 

Graced with such wisdom how would beauty 
Ye want but that to seem indeed divine. 

Anticipated rents and bills unpaid, 
Force many a shining youth into the shade, 
Not to redeem his time, but his estate, 
And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate. 
There, hid in loathed obscurity, removed 
From pleasures left but never more beloved, 
He just endures, and with a sickly spleen 
Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene. 
Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme ; 
Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime ; 
The warb lings of the blackbird, clear and strong, 
Are musical enough in Thomson's song; 
And Cobham's groves, and Windsor's green re- 
treats, 
When Pope describes them, have a thousand 

sweets ; 
He likes the country, but in truth must own, 
Most likes it when he studies it in town. 

Poor Jack — no matter who — for when I blame, 

1 pity, and must therefore sink the name, 
Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, 
And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. 
The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years, 
Was quickly distanced, match'd against a peer's. 
Jack vanish'd, was regretted, and forgot; 

'Tis wild good-nature's never failing lot. 

At length, when all. had long supposed him dead, 

By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead, 

My lord, alighting at his usual place, 

The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face. 

Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguise 

He mipfif escape the most observing oyes, 



And whistling, as if unconcern'd and gay, 
Curried his nag and look'd another way ; . 
Convinced at last, upon a nearer view, 
'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, 
O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief, and joy 
He prcss'd him much to quit his base employ ; 
His countenance, his purse, his hea t, his hand, 
Influence and power, were all at his command : 
Peers are not always generous as well bred, 
But Granby was meant truly what he said. 
Jack bow'd, and was obliged — confess'd 'twa« 

strange, 
That so retired he should not wish a change, 
But knew no medium between guzzling beer, 
And his old stint — three thousand pounds a-year 

Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe ; 
Some seeking happiness not found below; 
Some to comply with humor, and a mind 
To social scenes by nature disinclined ; 
Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust; 
Some self-impoverish'd, and because they must; 
But few, that court Retirement, are aware 
Of half the toils they must encounter there 

Lucrative offices are seldom lost 
For want of powers proportion'd to the post: 
Give e'en a dunce the employment he desires, 
And he soon finds the talents it requires ; 
A business with an income at its heels 
Furnishes always oil for its own wheels. 
But in his arduous enterprise to close 
His active years with indolent repose, 
He finds the labors of that state exceed 
His utmost faculties, severe indeed. 
'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place, 
But not to manage leisure with a grace ; 
Absence of occupation is not rest, 
A mind quite vacant is a mind distress'd. 
The veteran steed, excused his task at length, 
In kind compassion of his failing strength, 
And turn'd into the park or mead to graze, 
Exempt from future service all his days, 
There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind, 
Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind : 
But when his lord would quit the busy road, 
To taste a joy like that he has bestow'd, 
He proves, less happy than his favor'd brute, 
A life of ease a difficult pursuit. [seem 

Thought, to the man that never thinks, may 
As natural as when asleep to dream; 
But reveries (Tor human minds will act) 
Specious in show, impossible in fact, 
Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought, 
Attain not to the dignity of thought : 
Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain, 
Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure 

reign ; 
Nor such as useless conversation breeds, 
Or lust engenders and indulgence feeds, [dain'd 1 
Whence, and what are we 1 to what end or- 
What means the drama by the world sustain'd ' 
Business or vain amusement, care or mirth, 
Divide the frail inhabitants of earth. 
Is duty a mere sport, or an employ 1 
Life an entrusted talent, or a toy % 
Is there, as reason, conscience, Scripture say, 
Cause to provide for a great future day, 
When, earth's assign 'd duration at an end, 
Man shall be summon'd and the dead attend 1 
The trumpet — will it sound 1 the curtain rise "< 
And show the august tribunal of the skies, 
Where no prevarication shall avail, 
Where eloquence and artifice shall fail. 




\L M IP I IE 



RETIREMENT. 



563 



The pride of arrogant distinctions fall, 
And conscience and our conduct judge us all 1 
Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil 
To learned cares or philosophic toil, 
Though I revere your honorable names, 
if our useful labors and important aims. 
And hold the world indebted to your aid, 
Enrich'd with the discoveries ye have made; 
Yet let me stand excused, if I esteem 
A mind employ 'd on so sublime a theme. 
Pushing her bold inquiry to the date 
And outline of the present transient state, 
And after poising her adventurous wings, 
Settling at last upon eternal things, 
Far more intelligent, and better taught 
The strenuous use of profitable thought. 
Than ye. when happiest and enlighten'd most, 
And highest in renown, can justby boast. 
A mind unnerved, or indisposed to bear 
The weight of subjects worthiest of her care, 
Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires, 
Must change her nature, or in vain retires. 
An idler is a watch that wants both hands; 
As useless if it goes as when it stands 
Books, therefore, not the scandal of the shelves. 
In which lewd sensualists print out themselves; 
Nor those, in which the stage gives vice a blow. 
With what success let modern manners show; 
Nor his who, for the bane of thousands born. 
Built God a church, and laugh'd his words to 
Skilful alike to seem devout and just. [scorn, 
And stab religion with a sly side-thrust ; 
Nor those of learn'd philologists, who chase 
A panting syllable through time and space 
Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, 
To Gaul to Greece, and into Noah's ark ; 
But such as learning without false pretence,- 
The friend of truth -the associate of sound sense, 
And such as in the zeal of good design. 
Strong judgment laboring in the scripture mine, 
All such as manly and great souls produce. 
Worthy to live, and of eternal use : 
Behold in these what leisure hours demand, 
Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand. 
Luxury gives the mind a childish cast, 
And, while she polishes, perverts the taste ; 
Habits of close attention, thinking heads, , 
Become more rare as dissipation spreads. 
Till authors hear at length one general cry, 
Tickle and entertain us, or we die. 
The loud demand, from year to year the same, 
Beggars invention, and makes fancy lame; 
Till farce itself most mournfully jejune, 
Calls for the kind assistance of a tune ; 
And novels (witness every month's review) 
Belie their name, and offer nothing new. 
The mind relaxing into needful sport, 
Should turn to writers of an abler sort. 
Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, 
Give truth a lustre and make wisdom smile. 
Friends (for I cannot stint as some have done, 
Too rigid in my view, that name to one; 
Though one. I grant it. in the generous breast 
Will stand advanced a step above the rest ; 
Flowers by that name promiscuously we call, 
But one, the rose, the regent of them all.) — 
friends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste, 
But chosen with a nice discerning taste. 
Well born, well disciplined, who placed apart 
From vulgar minds, have honor much at heart, 
Ard, though the world may think the ingredients 
The love of virtue, and the fear of God ! [odd, 



Such friends prevent what else would soon 
A temper rustic as the life we 'lead, [succeed, 
And keep the polish of the manners clean, 
As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene; • 
For solitude, however some may rave, 
Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave, 
A sepulchre, in which the living lie, 
Where all good qualities grow sick and die. 
I praise the Frenchman * his remark was shrewd 
How sweet how passing sweet is solitude! 
But grant me still a friend in my retreat, 
Whorn-I may whisper — Solitude is sweet. 
Yet neither these delights nor aught beside, 
That appetite can ask or wealth provide, 
Can save us always from a tedious day, 
Or shine the dulness of still life away; 
Divine communion, carefully enjoy'd, 
Or sought with energy, must fill the void. 
Oh sacred art ! to which alone life owes 
Its happiest seasons and a peaceful close, 
Scorn'd in a world indebted to that scorn 
For evils daily felt and hardly borne, 
Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding hands, 
Flowers of rank odor upon thorny lands, 
And. while experience cautions us in vain, 
Grasp seeming happiness and find it pain 
Despondence self-deserted in her grief. 
Lost by abandoning he- own relief 
Murmuring and ungrateful discontent, 
That scorns afflictions mercifully meant, 
Those humors, tart as wines upon the fret, 
Which idleness and weariness beget ; [breast, 
These, and a thousand plagues that haunt tne 
Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest, 
Divine communion chases, as the day 
Drives to their dens the obedient beasts of prev 
See Judah's promised king bereft of all. 
Driven out an exile from the face of Saul. 
To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies, 
To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies. 
Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice, 
Hear him, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, yet rejoice 
No womanish or wailing grief has part. 
No, not a moment, in his royal heart ; 
'Tis manly music, such as martyrs make. 
Suffering with gladness for a Saviour's sake. 
His soul exults hope animates his lays. 
The sense of mercy kindles into praise, 
And wilds, familiar with the lion's roar, 
Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before : 
'Tis love like his that can alone defeat 
The foes of man or make a desert sweet. 

Religion does not censure or exclude 
Unnuinber'd pleasures harmlessly pursued; 
To study culture and with artful toil 
To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil ; 
To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands 
The grain, or herb, or plant that each demands 
To cherish virtue in an humble state, 
And share the joys your bounty may create ; 
To mark the matchless workings of the power 
That shuts within its seed the future flower, 
Bids these in elegance of form excel, 
In color these, and those delight the smell, 
Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies, 
To dance on earth and charm all human eyei 
To teach the canvas innocent deceit. 
Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet — 
These these are arts pursued without a crime, 
That leave no stain upon the wing of time 

* Bruy^re. 



664 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Me poetry (or, rather, notes that aim 
Feebly and vainly at poetic fame) 
Employs, shut out from more important views, 
Fast bv the banks of the slow -winding Ouse ; 



Content if, thus sequester'd, I re ay raise 
A moniDr's, though not a poet's praise, 
And, while I teach an art too little known, 
To close life wisely, may not waste my own. 



THE TASK 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The history of the following production is 
briefly this : A lady, fond of blank verse, 
demanded a poem of that kind from the au- 
thor, and gave him the Sofa for a subject. 
He obeyed ; and having maeh leisure, con- 
nected another subject with it ; .and, pursuing 
the train of thought to which his situation 
and turn of mind led him, brought forth at 
length, instead of the trifle which he at first 
intended, a serious affair — a volume. 

In the poem on the subject of Education 
he would be very sorry to stand suspected of 
having aimed his censure at any particular 
school. His objections are such as naturally 
apply themselves to schools in general. If 
there were not, as for the most part there is. 
wilful neglect in those who manage them, 
and an omission even of such discipline as 
they are susceptible of, the objects are yet 
too numerous for minute attention ; and the 
aching hearts of ten thousand parents, mourn- 
ing under the bitterest of all disappointments, 
attest the truth of the allegation. His quar- 
rel therefore is with the mischief at large, and 
not with any particular instance of it. 



BOOK I. 

THE SOFA. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Historical deduction of seats, from the stool to the sofa — 
A schoolboy's ramble— A walk in the country— The 
scene described — Rural sounds as well as sights 
delightful — Another walk — Mistake concerning the 
charms of solitude corrected — Colonnades commended 
—Alcove, and the view from it— The wilderness— The 
Grove — The Thresher — The necessity and the benefits 
of exercise — The works of nature superior to, and in 
BOine instances inimitable by, art — The wearisomeness 
of what is commonly called a life of pleasure— Change 
of scene sometimes expedient — A common described, 
and the character of crazy Kate introduced — (iipsies — 
The blessings of civilized life— That state most favor- 
able to virtue — The South Sea islanders compassion- 
ated, but chiefly Omai — His present state of mind sup- 
posed—Civilized life friendly to virtue, but not great 
.cities — Great cities, and London in particular, allowed 
their due praise, but censured — Fete champetre — The 
book concludes with a reflection on the effects of dis- 
sipation and effeminacy upon our public measures. 

I sing the Sofa. I who lately sang 

truth, Hope, and Charity,* and touch'd with awe 

* See Poems. 



The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand. 
Escaped with pain from that adventurous flight 
Now seek repose upon an humbler theme ; 
The theme though humble, yet august and prou:l 
The occasion — ibr the fair commands the song. 

Time was when clothing sumptuous or for use, 
Save their own painted skins our sires had none 
As yet black breeches were not ; satin smooth, 
Or velvet soft or plush with shaggy pile : 
The hardy chief upon the rugged rock, 
VVash'd by the sea or on the gravelly bank 
Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, 
Fearless of wrong reposed his weary strength. 
Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next 
The birthday of Invention ; weak at first, 
Dull in design, and clumsy to perform. 
Joint-stools were then created ; on three legs 
Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding fira 
A massy slab in fashion square or round. 
On such a stool immortal Alfred sat, 
And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms : 
And such in ancient halls and mansions drear 
May still be seen ; but perforated sore, 
And drill'd in holes the solid oak is found, 
By worms voracious eating through and througn 

At length a generation more refined 
Improved the simple plan ; made three legs four 
Gave them a twisted form vermicular, 
And o'er the seats with plenteous wadding stuff'd, 
Induced a splendid cover, green and blue, 
Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought 
And woven close, or needlework sublime. 
There might ye see the piony spread wide, 
The full blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, 
Lapdbg and lambkin with black staring eyes, 
And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. 

Now came the cane from India, smooth and 
With Nature's varnish sever'dinto stripes [bright 
That interlaced each other, these supplied 
Of texture firm a lattice work, that braced 
The new machine, and it became a chair. 
But restless was the chair ; the back erect 
Distress'd the weary loins that felt no ease ; 
The slippery seat betray'd the sliding part 
That press'd it and the feet hung dangling down, 
Anxious in vain to find the distant floor, [placed 
These for the rich ; the rest, whom Fate had 
In modest mediocrity, content 
With base materials, sat on well tann'd hides, 
Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, 
With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, 
Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd, 
If cushion might be call'd what harder seem'd 
Than the firm oak of which the frame was form'd 
No want of timber then was felt or fear'd 
In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood 
Ponderous and fix'd by its own massy weight. 
But elbows still were wanting ; these, some say 



THE TASK— THE SOFA. 



565 



A.n alderman of Cripplegate contrived ; 

And some inscribe the invention to a priest, 

Burly and big. and studious ot" his ease. 

But, rude at first and not with easy slope 

Receding wide, tiiey press'd against the ribs. 

And bruised the side, and elevated high, 

Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears. 

Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged sires 

Oomplain'd. though incommodiously pent in, 

And ill at ease behind. The ladies first 

'Gan murmur, as became the sorter sex. 

Ingenious Fancy, never better pleased 

Than when employed to accommodate the fair. 

Heard the sweet moan with pity : and devised 

The soft settee ; one elbow at each end. 

And in the midst an elbow it received, 

United yet divided, twain at once, 

So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne ; 

And so two citizens, who take the air, 

Close pack'd and smiling, in a chaise and one. 

But relaxation of the languid frame. 

By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs. 

Was bliss reserved for happier days. So slow 

The growth of what is excellent ; so hard 

To attain perfection in this nether world. 

Thus first necessity invented stools. 

Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, 

And Luxury the accomplished Sofa last, [sick, 

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the 
Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he 
Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour, 
To sleep within the carriage more secure, 
His legs depending at the open door. 
Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, 
The tedious rector drawling o'er his head ; 
And sweet the clerk below. Bat neither sleep 
Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, 
Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour, 
To slumber in the carriage more secure, 
Nor sleep enjoyed by curace in his desk, 
Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet 
Compared with the repose the Sofa yields. 

Oh may I live exempted (while I live 
Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene) 
From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe 
Of libertine Excess ! The Sofa suits 
The gouty limb, 'tis true ; but gouty limb, 
Though on a Sofa, may I never feel ; 
For I have loved the rural walk through lanes 
Of grassy swarth. close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, 
And skirted thick with intertexture firm 
Of thorny boughs ; have loved the rural walk 
O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink, 
E er since a truant boy I passed my bounds 
To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames ; 
And still rememb r. nor without regret 
Or* hours that sorrow since has much endear'd. 
How oil. my slice of pocket store consumed, 
Still hungering pennyless and far from home, 
I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws 
Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss 
The bramble, black as jet. or sloes austere. 
Hard fare ! but such as boyish appetite 
Disdains not ; nor the palate, undepraved 
By culinary arts, unsavory deems. 
No Sofa then awaited my return ; 
No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs 
[lis wasted spirits quickly, by long toil 
Incurring short fatigue ; and though our years, 
As life declines speed rapidly away, 
And not a y*ar but pilfers as he goes 
tfome youthful grace, that age would gladly keep ; 



A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees 
Their length and color from the locks they span 
The elastic spring of an unwearied foot. 
That mounts the stile with ease or leaps the fenou 
That play of lungs, inhaling and again 
Respiring freely the fresh air. that makes 
Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, 
Mine have not pilfer'd yet ; nor yet impair'd 
My relish of fair prospect ; scenes that soothed 
Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find 
Still soothing, and of power to charm me still. 
And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love. 
Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth, 
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire — 
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. 
Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, 
And that my raptures are not c onjured up 
To serve occasions of poetic pomp, 
But genuine, and art partner of them all. 
How oil upon yon eminence our pace 
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne 
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, 
While Admiration, feeding at the eye, 
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. 
Thence with what pleasure have we justdiscern'd 
The distant plough slow moving, and beside 
His laboring team that swerved not from the track, 
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy ! 
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 
Of spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 
Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 
Stand, never overlook'd, our favorite elms, 
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut ; 
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, 
That as with molten glass : inlays the vale, 
The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; 
Displaying on its varied side the grace 
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, 
Tall spire from which the sound of cheerful belU 
Just undulates upon the listening ear, 
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. 
Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd, 
Please daily, and whose novelty survives 
Long knowledge, and the scrutiny of years — 
Praise justly due to those that I describe. 

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
The dash of ocean on his winding shore. 
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; 
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, 
And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. 
Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
Of distant floods or on the softer voice 
Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
In matted grass, that with a livelier green 
Betrays the secret oi' their silent course. 
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds. 
But animated nature sweeter still, 
To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
The livelong night : nor these alone, whose notet 
Nice-finger d Art must emulate in vain, 
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
In still-repeated circles, screaming loud. 



566 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The jay. the pie, and e'en the boding owl, 
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, 
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns. 
And only there, please highly for their sake. 

Peace to the artist whose ingenious thought 
Devised the weather-house, that useful toy ! 
Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, 
Forth steps the man — an emblem of myself! 
More delicate his timorous mate retires. 
When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, 
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, 
Or ford the livulets. are best at home. 
The task of new discoveries falls on me. 
At such a season, and with such a charge, 
Once went I forth ; and found, till then unknown. 
A cottage, whither oft we since repair ; 
'Tis perched upon the green hill top : but close 
Environ 'd with a ring of branching elms, 
That overhang the thatch, itself unseen 
Peeps at the vale below ; so thick beset 
With foliage of such dark redundant growth, 
I call'd the low-roof 'd lodge the peasant's nest. 
And, hidden as it is ; and far remote 
From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear 
In village or in town, the bay of curs 
Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, 
And infants clamorous whether pleased orpain'd, 
Oil have I wished the peaceful covert mine. 
Here, I have said, at least I should possess 
The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge 
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. 
Vain thought ! the dweller in that still retreat 
Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. 
Its elevated site forbids the wretch 
To drink sweet waters of the crystal well ; 
He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, 
And. heavy laden, brings his beverage home, 
Far fetch'd and little worth ; nor seldom waits, 
Dependent on the baker's punctual call, 
To hear his creaking panniers at the door. 
Angry and sad, and his" last crust consumed. 
So farewell envy to the peasant's nest ! 
If solitude make scant the means of life, 
Society for me ! — thou seeming sweet, 
Be still a pleasing object in my view ; 
My visit still but never mine abode. 

Not distant far, a length of colonnade 
Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, 
Now scorn'd but worthy of a better fate. 
Our fathers knew the value of a screen 
From sultry suns ; and, in their shaded walks 
And lonir protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon 
The gloom and coolness of declining day. 
We bear our shades about us ; self-deprived 
Of other screen the thin umbrella spread, 
And range an Indian waste without a tree. 
Thanks to Benevolus,* he spares me yet 
These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines; 
And, though himself so polished, still reprieves 
The obsolete prolixity of shade. 

Descending now, — but cautious, lest too fas 4 ., — 
A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge, 
We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip 
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. 
Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, 
We mount again, and feel at every step 
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, 
Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. 



* John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq., of We3ton Un- 
ierwood. 



He. not unlike the great ones of mankind, 
Disfigures earth : and plotting in the dark, 
Toils much to earn a monumental pile. 
That may record the mischiefs he has done. 

The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcovr 
That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures 
The grand retreat from injuries impress'd 
By rural carvers, who with knives deface 
The panels, leaving an obscure, rude name, 
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. 
So strong the zeal to immortalize himself 
Beats in the breast of man. that e'en a few, 
Few transient years, won from the abyss ttl« 
Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, [hoir'd 
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye ; 
And, posted on this speculative height, 
Exults in its command. The sheepfold here 
Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. 
At first, progressive as a stream, they seek 
The middle field ; but, scatter'd by degrees, 
Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. 
There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward 

creeps 
The loaded wain ; while, lighten'd of its charge, 
The wain that meets it passes swiftly by ; 
The boorish driver leaning o'er his team 
Vociferous and impatient of delay. 
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, 
Diversified with trees of every growth, 
Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks 
Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, 
Within the twilight of their distant shades ; 
There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood 
Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. 
No tree in all the grove but has its charms. 
Though each its hue peculiar ; paler some, 
And of a wannish grey ; the willow such, 
And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, 
And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm ; 
Of deeper green the elm ; and deeper still. 
Lord of the woods, the long surviving oak. 
Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, 
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts 
Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve 
Diffusing odors: nor unnoted pass 
The sycamore, capricious in attire, 
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet 
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honore 

bright. 
O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map 
Of hill and valley interposed between.) 
The Ouse, dividing the well water'd land, 
Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, 
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. 

Hence the declivity is sharp and short, 
And such the re-ascent; between them weeps 
A little naiad her impoverish'd urn 
All summer long, which winter fills again. 
The folded gates would bar my progress now, 
But that the lord* of" this enclosed demesne, 
Communicative of the good he owns, 
Admits me to a share : the guiltless eye 
Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. 
Refreshing change ! where now the blazing sun 3 
By short transition we have lost his glare, 
And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. 
Ye fallen avenues ! once more I mourn 
Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice 
That yet a remnant of your race sun ives. 
How airy and how light the graceful arch, 

»Ibid. 



I HE TASK.— THE SOFA. 



56 



Yet a«vful as the i onsccrated roof 
Re-echoing pious anthems ! while beneath 
The chequer'd earth seems restless as a flood 
Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the light 
Shot through the boughs, it dances as they 

dance, 
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, 
And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves 
Play wanton, every moment, every spot. 

And now, with nerves new braced and spirits 
cheer'd, 
We tread the wilderness, whose well rolled walks, 
With curvature of slow and easy sweep — ■ 
Deception innocent — give ample space . 
To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; 
Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms 
We may discern the thresher at his task. 
Thump pfter thump resounds the constant flail, 
That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls 
Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff; 
The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist 
Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. 
Come hither, ye that press your beds ot' down 
And sleep not ; see him sweating o'er his bread 
Before he eats it. — 'Tis the primal curse, 
But soften'd into mercy ; made the pledge 
Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. 

By ceaseless action all that is subsists. 
Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel 
That Nature rides upon maintains her health, 
Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads [moves. 
An instant's pause, and lives but while she 
Its own revolvency upholds the world. 
Winds from all quarters agitate the air, 
And fit the limped element for use, 
Else noxious : oceans, rivers ; lakes, and streams 
All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed 
By restless undulation: e'en the oak 
Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm : 
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 
The impression of the blast with proud disdain, 
Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 
He held the thunder : but the monarch owes 
His firm stability to what he scorns — 
More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. 
The lav/, by which all creatures else are bound. 
iBinds man. the lord of all. Himself derives 
No mean advantage from a kindred cause, 
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. 
The sedentary stretch their lazy length 
When custom -bids, but no refreshment find, 
For none they need : the languid eye, the cheek 
Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, 
And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul, 
Reproach their owner with that love of rest 
To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves. 
Not such the alert and active. Measure life 
By its true worth, the comforts it affords, 
And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. 
Good health, and, its associate in the most, 
Good temper : spirits prompt to undertake, 
And not soon spent, though in an arduous task ; 
The powers of fancy and strong thought are 
E'en age itself seems privileged in them, [theirs ; 
With clear exemption from its own defects. 
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 
The veteran shows, and, gracing a grey beard 
With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave 
Sprightly, and old almost without decay. 

Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, 
Farthest retires — an idol, at whosa shrine 
Who oftenest sacrifice are favor'd least. 



The love of Nature and the scenes she draws 
Is Nature's dictate. Strange ! there should b! 

found, 
Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, 
Renounce the odors of the open field 
For the unscented fictions of the loom: 
Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes, 
Prefer to the performance of a God 
The inferior wonders of an artist's hand ! 
Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art; 
But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, 
None more admires, the painter's magic skill, 
Who shows ine that which I shall never see, 
Conveys a distant country into mine, 
And throws Italian light on English walls. 
But imitative strokes can do no more 
Than please the eye — sweet Nature every sense* 
The air salubrious of her lofty hills, 
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, 
And music of her woods — no works of man 
May rival these ; these all bespeak a power 
Peculiar, and exclusively her own. 
Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast ; 
'Tis free to all — 'tis every day renew'd ; 
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. 
He does not scorn it, who imprison'd long 
In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey 
To sallow sickness, which the vapors, dank 
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, 
Escapes at last to liberty and light ; 
His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue ; 
His eye rehrmines its extinguish'd fires ; 
He walks, he leaps, he runs — is wing'd with joy 
And riots in the sweets of every breeze. 
He does not scorn it, who has long endured 
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. 
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed 
With acrid salts : his very heart athirst 
To gaze at Nature in her green array, 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess d 
With visions prompted by intense desire : 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die to find^- 
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more 

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns , 
The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown, 
And sullen sadness : that o'ershade, distort, 
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause 
For such immeasurable woe appears, 
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Towa 
Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient Man hel 
It is the constant revolution, stale 
And tasteless, of the same repeated joys, 
That palls and satiates, and makes languid life 
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. 
Health suffers, and the spirits ebb ; the heart 
Recoils from its own choice — at the full feast 
Is famish'd — finds no music in the song, 
No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. 
Yet thousands still desire to journey on, 
Though halt, and weary of the path they tread 
The paralytic, who can hold her cards, 
But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand 
To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort 
Her mingled suits and sequences ; and sits, 
Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad 
And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. 
Others are dragg'd into the crowded room, 
Between supporters ; and, once seated, sit, 
Through downright inability to rise, 
Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. 
These speak a loud memento. Yet e'en these 



568 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he 
That overhangs a torrent to a twig. 
They love it, and yet loathe it ; fear to die. 
Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. 
Then wherefore not renounce them ? No — the 
The slavish dread of solitude that breeds [dread, 
Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, 
And their inveterate habits, all forbid. [long 

Whom call we gay % That honor has been 
The boast of mere pretenders to the name. 
The innocent are gay — the lark is gay. 
That dries his feathers saturate with clew, 
Beneath the rosy clouds, while yet the beams 
Of dayspring overshoot his humble nest. 
The peasant too, a witness of his song. 
Himself a songster, is as gay as he. 
But save me from the gayety of those 
Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed ; 
And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyes 
Flash desperation, and betray their pangs 
For property stripp'd off by cruel chance ; 
From gayety that fills the bones with pain, 
The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. 

The earth was made so various, that the mind 
Of desultory man studious of change, 
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. 
Prospects, however lovely, may be seen 
Till half their beauties fade ; the weary sight, 
Too well acquainted with their smiles slides off 
Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. 
Then snug ' r 'osures in the shelter'd vale. 
Where freq . i*t hedges intercept the eye, 
Delight us ; happy to renounce awhile. 
Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, 
That such short absence may endear it more. 
Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, 
That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts 
Above the reach of man. His hoary head, 
Conspicuous may a league, the mariner. 
Bound homeward, and in hope already there, 
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist 
A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows, 
And at his feet the baffled billows die. 
The common, overgrown with fern, and rough 
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, 
And dangerous to the touch has yet its bloom, 
And decks itself with ornaments of gold 
Yields no unpleasing ramble ; there the turf 
Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs 
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense ' 
With luxury of unexpected sweets. 

There often wanders one, whom better days 
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd 
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. 
A serving maid was she, and fell in love 
With one who left her, went to sea, and died. 
Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves 
To distant shores ; and she would sit and weep 
At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too, 
Delusive most where warmest wishes are, 
Would oft anticipate his glad return, 
And dream of transports she was not to know. 
She heard the doleful tidings of his death — 
And never smiled again ! and now she roams 
The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day, 
And there, unless when charity forbids. 
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides. 
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown 
More tatter'd still ; and both but ill conceal 
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. 
She begs an idle pin of all she meets, 
ind hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful food, 



Though press'd with hunger oft, or comeliei 
clothes, [crazed • 

Though pinch 'd with cold, asks never. — Kate is 
. I see a column of slow-rising smoke 
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. » 
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat 
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 
Between two poles upon a stick transverse. 
Receives the morsel — flesh obscene of dog. 
Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd 
From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race' 
They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un 

quench'd 
The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wida 
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, 
The vellum of the pedigree they claim. 
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more 
To conjure clean away the gold they touch, 
Conveying worthless dross into its place ; 
Loud when they beg. dumb only when they steal 
Strange ! that a creature rational, and cast 
In human mould, should brutalize by choice 
His nature ; and. though capable of arts, 
By which the world might profit, and himself, 
Self-banish'd from society, prefer 
Such squalid sloth to honorable toil ! 
Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, 
They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb 
And vex their flesh with artificial sores, 
Can change their whine into a mirthful note 
When safe occasion offers ; and with dance, 
And music of the bladder and the bag, 
Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. 
Such health and gayety of heart enjoy 
The houseless rovers of the sylvan world [much, 
And. breathing wholesome air, arid wandering 
Need other physic none to heal the effects 
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. 

Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crcwd 
By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure, 
Where man. by nature fierce, has laid aside 
His fierceness having learnt, though slow to learn, 
The manners and the arts of civil life. 
His wants indeed are many ; but supply 
Is obvious, placed within the easy reach 
Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. 
Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil ; 
Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, 
And terrible to sight, as when she springs 
(If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote 
And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, 
And strength is lord of all ; but gentle, kind, 
By culture tam'd by liberty refresh'd, 
And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. 
War and the chase engross the savage whole, 
War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant 
The envied tenants of some happier spot: 
The chase for sustenance, precarious trust ! 
His hard condition with severe constraint 
Binds all his facdlties, forbids all growth 
Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns 
Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, 
Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside 
Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, 
And thus the rangers of the western world, 
Where it advances far into the deep, 
Towards the antarctic. E'en the favor'd isles, 
So lately found, although the constant sun 
Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, 
Can boast but little virtue ; and. inert 
Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain 



THE TASK.— THE SOFA. 



569 



In manners — victims of luxurious ease. 
These therefore I can pity, placed remote 
From all that science traces, art invents, 
Or inspiration teaches ; and enclosed 
»n boundless oceans, never to be pass'd 
By navigators uninform'd as they, 
Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again : 
But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, 
Thee, gentle savage !* whom no love of thee 
Or thine, but curiosity, perhaps, 
Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw 
Forth from thy native bowers to show thee here 
With what superior skill we can abuse 
The gifts of Providence, and squander life. 
The dream is past ; and thou hast found again 
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams. 
And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast 
thou found [state, 

Their former charms 1 And. having seen our 
Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp 
Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, 
And heard our music ; are thy simpU friends, 
Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights 
As dear to thee as once 1 And have thy joys 
Lost nothing by comparison with ours 1 
Rude as thou art, (for we returned thee rude 
And ignorant, except of outward show), 
I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart, 
And spiritless as never to regret 
Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. 
Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, 
And asking ot* the surge that bathes thy foot, 
If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. 
I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, 
A patriot's for his country : thou art sad 
At thought of her forlorn and abject state, 
From which no power of thine can raise her up. 
Thus fancy paints thee, and though apt to err, 
Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. 
She tells me. too. that duly every morn 
Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye 
Exploring far and wide the watery waste 
For sight of ship from England. Every speck 
Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale 
With conflict of contending hopes and fears. 
But comes at last the dull and dusky eve. 
And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared 
To dream all night of what the day denied. 
Alas ! expect it not. We found no bait 
To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, 
Disinterested good, is not our trade. 
We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought ; 
And must be bribed to compass earth again 
By other hopes and richer fruits than yours. 

But though true worth and virtue in the mild 
And genial soil of cultivated life 
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, 
Yet not in cities oft : in proud, and gay, 
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow, 
As to a common and most noisome sewer, 
The dregs and feculence of every land. 
In cities foul example on most minds 
Begets its likenesss. Rank abundance breeds 
In gross and pamper'd cities, sloth, and lust, 
And wantonness, and gluttonous excess. 
In cities vice is hidden with most ease, 
Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught 
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there 
Beyond the achievement of successful flight. 
» do confess them nurseries of the arts, 

* Omai. 



In which they flourish most ; where, in the beams 

Of warm encouragement, and in the eye 

Of public note, they reach their perfect size. 

Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd 

The fairest capital of all the world : 

By riot and incontinence the worst. 

There, touch'd by Reynolds a dull blank becomes 

A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 

All her reflected features. Bacon there, 

Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 

And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. 

Nor does the chisel occupy alone 

The power of sculpture, but the style as much ; 

Each province of her art her equal care. 

With nice incision of her guided steel 

She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil 

So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, 

The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. 

Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, 

With which she gazes at yon burning disk 

Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots 1 

In London : where her implements exact, 

With which she calculates, computes, and scans 

All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 

Measures an atom, and now girds a world 1 

In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 

So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, 

As London — opulent, enlarg'd, and still 

Increasing London 1 Babylon of old 

Not more the glory of the earth than she, 

A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. 

She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, 
That so much beauty would do well to purge , 
And show this queen of cities that so fair 
May yet be foul ; so witty, yet not wise. 
It is not seemly, nor of good report, 
That she is slack in discipline ; more prompt 
To avenge than to prevent the breach of law : 
That she is rigid in denouncing death 
On petty robbers, and indulges life 
And liberty, and ofttimes honor too, 
To peculators of the public gold : [puts 

That thieves at home must hang ; but he, that 
Into his over-gorged and bloated purse 
The "wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. 
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, 
That through profane and infidel contempt 
Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul 
And abrogate, as roundly as she may, 
The total ordinance and will of God ; 
Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, 
And centring all authority in modes 
And customs of her own, till sabbath rites 
Have dwindled into unrespected forms, 
And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced. 

God made the country, and man made tha 
town. 
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts 
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
That life holds out to all, should most abound 
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves" 
Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about 
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue 
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes 
But such as art contrives, possess ye still 
Your element ; there only can ye shine ; 
There only minds like yours can do no harm. 
Our groves were planted to console at noon 
The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve 
The moonbeam, sliding softly in between 
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish. 
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare 



670 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



The splendor of your lamps ; they but eclipse 
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 
Our more harmonious notes ; the thrush departs 
Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. 
There is a public mischief in your mirth ; 
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, 
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, 
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, 
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, 
A mutilated structure, soon to fall. 



BOOK II. 

THE TIME-PIECE. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former 
book — Peace among the nations recommended on the 
ground of their common fellowship in sorrow — Prodi- 
gies enumerated — Sicilian earthquake — Man rendered 
obnoxious to these calamities by sin — God the agent 
in them — The philosophy that stops at secondary causes 
reproved — Our own late miscarriages accounted for — 
Satirical notice taken of our trips" to Fontainbleau— 
But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reforma- 
tion — The reverend advertiser of engraved sermons — 
Petit-maitre parson — The good preacher — Picture of a 
theatrical clerical coxcomb — Story-tellers and jesters in 
the pulpit reproved — Apostrophe to popular applause 
—Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with— 
Sum of the whole matter— Effects of sacerdotal mis- 
management on the laity — Their folly and extrava- 
gance — The mischiefs of profusion — Profusion itself, 
with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its princi- 
pal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities. 

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 

Some boundless contiguity of shade, 

Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 

Of unsuccessful or successful war, 

Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, 

My soul is sick, with every day's report 

Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 

It does not feel for man ; the natural bond ■ 

Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 

Not color'd like his own ; and, having power 

To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 

Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 

Lands intersected by a narrow frith 

Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 

Make enemies of nations, who had else 

Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 

Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 

And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, 

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. 

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 

With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 

Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

Then what is man 1 And what man, seeing this, 

And having human feelings, does not blush, 

And hang his head, to think himself a man 1 

I would not have a slave to till my ground, 

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 

And tremble when I wake : for all the wealth 

That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 

No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 

Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave, 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him 



We have no slaves at home : — then why abroad 1 
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lung* 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
And let it circulate through every vein 
Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 

Sure there is need of social intercourse, 
Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid, 
Between the nations in a world that seems 
To toll the death-bell of its own decease, 
And by the voice of all its elements [windi 

To preach the general doom.* When were the 
Let slip with such a warrant to destroy 1 
When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap 
Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry 7 . 
Fires from beneath, and meteors f from above, 
Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd, 
Have kindled beacons in the skies ; and the old 
And crazy earth has had her shaking fits 
More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. 
Is it a time to wrangle, when the props 
And pillars of our planet seem to fail, 
And Nature ^ with a dim and sickly eye 
To wait the close of all % But grant her end 
More distant, and that prophecy demands 
A longer respite, unaccomplished yet ; 
Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak 
Displeasure in his breast who smites the earth 
Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. 
And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve 
And stand exposed by common peccancy 
To what no few have felt, there should be peace 
And brethren in calamity should love. 

Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now 
Lie scatter'd where the shapely column stood. 
Her palaces are dust. In all her streets 
The voice of singing and the sprightly chord 
Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show 
Suffer a syncope and solemn pause; 
While God performs upon the trembling stage 
Of his own works the dreadful part alone. 
How does the earth receive him % — with what 
Of gratulation and delight her King 1 [signs 
Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, 
Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, 
Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads 1 
She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb 
Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps 
And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot. 
The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke, 
For he has touch'd them. From the extremest 
Of elevation down into the abyss [point 

His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. 
The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise, 
The rivers die into offensive pools, 
And, charged wi*h putrid verdure, breathe a gross 
And mortal nuisance into all the air. 
What solid was, by transformation strange, 
Grows fluid ; and the fix'd and rooted earth, 
Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, 
Or with a vortiginous and hideous whirl 
Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense 
The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs 

* Alluding to the calamities in Jamaica. 
t August 18, 1783. 

i Alluding to the fog that covered both Europe and 
Asia during the whole summer of 1783. 



THE TASK.— THE TIME-PIECE. 



571 



And agonies of human and of brute 
Multitudes, fugitive on every side, 
And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene 
Migrates uplifted ; and with all its soil 
Alighting in far distant fields, finds out 
A new possessor, and survives the change. 
Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought 
To an enormous and o'erbearing height, 
Not by a mighty wind, but by that "Voice 
Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore 
Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, 
Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge. 
Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the 

throng 
That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, 
Look'd to the sea for safety 1 They are gone, 
Gone with the refluent wave into the deep — 
A prince with half his people ! Ancient towers, 
And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes < 
Where beauty ott and letter 'd worth consume 
Life in the unproductive shades of death. 
Fall prone : the pale inhabitants come forth, 
And. happy in their unforeseen release 
From all the rigors of restraint, enjoy 
The terrors of the day that sets them free, [fast, 
Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee 
Freedom ! whom they that lose thee so regret. 
That e'en a judgment making way for thee, 
Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake. 

Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame 
Kindled in heaven that it burns down to earth. 
And. in the furious inquest that it makes 
On God's behalf lays waste his fairest works. 
The very elements, though each be meant 
The minister of man. to serve his wants, 
Conspire against him. With his breath he draws 
A plague into his blood ; and cannot use 
Life's necessary means, but he must die. 
Storms rise to o'erwhelm him : or if stormy winds 
Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, 
And. needing none assistance of the storm. 
Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. 
The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, 
Or make his house his grave : nor so content, 
Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, 
And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. 
What then ! — were they the wicked above all, 
And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle 
Moved not. while theirs was rock'd like a light 

skirt 
The sport of every wave 1 No : none aTe clear, 
And none than we more guilty. But. where all 
Stand chargeable with guilt and to the shafts 
Of wrath obnoxious. God may choose his mark: 
May punish, if he please, the less, to warn 
The more malignant. If he spared not them, 
Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, 
Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! 

Happy the man who sees a God employ'd 
In all the good and ill that chequer life ! 
Resolving all events, with their effects 
And manifold results, into the will 
And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
The least of our concerns (since from the least 
The greatest ott originate,,) could chance 
Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 
Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen 
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 
The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyed 



In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; 
And having found his instrument, forgets, 
Or disregards, or more presumptuous still, 
Denies the power that wields it. God proclriml 
His hot displeasure against foolish men, 
That live an atheist life : involves the heaven 
In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, 
And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 
Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin. 
And putrify the breath of blooming Health. 
He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend 
Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips, 
And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, 
And desolates a nation at a blast. 
Forth steps the spruce philosopher,. and tells 
Of homogeneal and discordant springs 
And principles ; of causes, how they work 
By necessary laws their sure effects ; 
Of action and re-action. He has found 
The source of the disease that nature feels, 
And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 
Thou fool ! will thy discovery <jf the cause 
Suspend the effect, or heal it'? Has not God 
Still wrought by means since first he made tha 
And did he not of old employ his means [world 1 
To drown it 1 What is his creation less 
Than a capacious reservoir o£ means 
Form'd for his use. and ready at his win"? 
Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of him 
Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 
And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still— 
My country ! and, while yet a nook is left 
Where English minds and manners may be 
found, [clime 

Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy 
Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 
With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, 
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
And fields without a flower, for warmer France 
With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia*s groves 
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. 
To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime 
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire 
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task ; 
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart 
As any thunderer there. And I can feel 
Thy follies too, and with a just disdain 
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks 
Reflect dishonor on the land I love. 
How. in the name of soldiership and sense, 
Should England prosper, when such things, ai 
And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er, [smooth 
With odors, and as profligate as sweet ; 
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, [these 
And love when they should fight ; when such a« 
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark 
Of her magnificent and awful cause 1 
Time was when it was praise and boast enough 
In every clime, and travel where we might, 
That we were born her children. Praise enough 
To fill the ambition of a private man, 
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, 
And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. 
Farewell those honors, and farewell with them 
The hope of such hereafter ! They have fallen 
Each in the field of glory ; one in arms, 
And one in council — Wolfe upon the lap 
Of smiling victory that moment won, 
And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame; 
They made us many soldiers. Chatham still 



Consulting England's happiness at home, 

Secured it by an unforgiving frown, 

If anywrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, 

Put so much of his heart into his act, 

That his example had a magnet's force, 

And all were swift to follow whom all loved. 

Those suns are set. Oh rise some other such ! 

Or all that we have left is empty talk 

Of old achievements, and despair of new. 

Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float 
Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck 
With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, 
That no rude savor maritime invade 
The nose of nice nobility ! Breathe soft, 
Ye clarionets ; and softer still, ye flutes ; 
That winds and waters, lull'd by magic sounds, 
May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore ! 
True, we have lost an empire, let it pass. 
True ; we may thank the perfidy of Prance, 
That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, 
With all the cunning of an envious shrew. 
And let that pass — 'twas but a trick of state ! 
A brave man knows no malice but at once 
Forgets in peace the injuries of war, 
And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. 
And, shamed as we have been, to the very beard 
Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved 
Too weak for those decisive blows that once 
Ensured our mastery there, we yet retain 
Some small pre-eminence ; we justly boast 
At least superior jockeyship, and claim 
The honors of the turf as all our own ! 
Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, 
And show the shame ye might conceal at home 
In foreign eyes ! — be grooms and win the plate, 
Where once your nobler fathers won a crown ! — 
'Tis generous to communicate your skill 
To those that need it ! Folly is soon learn'd : 
And under such preceptors who can fail ! 

There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, 
The expedients and inventions multiform, 
To which the mind resorts in chase of terms 
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win — 
To arrest the fleeting images that fill 
The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast 
And force them sit till he has'pencil'd off 
A faithful likeness of the forms he views : 
Then to dispose his copies with such art. 
That each may find its most propitious light, 
And shine by situation, hardly less 
Than by the labor and the skill it cost ; 
Are occupations of the poet's mind 
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought 
With such address from themes of sad import, 
That, lost in his own musings, happy man ! 
He feels the anxieties of life, denied 
Their wonted entertainment, all retire. 
Such joys has he that sings. But ah ! not such, 
Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. 
Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps 
Aware of nothing arduous in the task 
They never undertook, they little note 
His dangers or escapes, and haply find ■ 
Their least amusement where he found the most. 
But is amusement all 1 Studious of song, 
And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, 
I would not trifle merely, though the world 
Be loudest in their praise who do no more, 
yet what can satire, whether grave or gay 1 
It may correct a foible, may chastise 
the freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, 



Retrench a swdrd-blade, or displace a patch ; 
But where are its sublimer trophies found 1 
What vice has it subdued 1 whose heart reclaimed 
By rigor 1 or whom laugh'd into reform 1 
Alas ! Leviathan is not so tamed : 
Laugh'd at, he laughs again ; and, stricken hard, 
Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, 
That fear no discipline of human hands. 

The pulpit therefore (and I name it fill'd 
With solemn awe, that bids me well beware 
With what intent I touch that holy thing) — 
The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, 
Strutting and vaporing in an empty school, 
Spent all his force, and made no proselyte) — 
I say the pulpit (in the sober use 
Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) [stand, 

Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall 
The most important and effectual guard, 
Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause. 
There stands the messenger of truth : there stands 
The legate of the skies ! — His theme divine, . 
His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
By him the violated law speaks out 
Its thunders ; and by him, in strains as sweet 
As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. 
He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, 
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete 
Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms 
Bright as his own, and trains by every rule 
Of holy discipline, to glorious war, 
The sacramental host of Gods elect ! [were I 
Are all such teachers 1 — would to heaven all 
But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedged be- 
tween 
Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheekg 
Inspires the news, his 'ftumpet. Keener far 
Than all invective is his bold harangue, 
While through that public organ of report 
He hails the clergy ; and, defying shame, 
Announces to the world his own and theirs ! 
He teaches those to read whom schools dismissV, 
And colleges, untaught ; sells accent, tone, 
And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer 
The adagio and andante it demands. 
He grinds divinity of other days 
Down into modern use ; transforms old print 
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. 
Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware 1 
Oh, name it not in Gath ! — it cannot be, [aid. 
That grave and learned clerks should need such 
He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, 
Assuming thus a rank unknown before — 
Grand caterer and drynurse of the church ! 
I venerate the man whose heart is warm, 
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and 

whose life. 
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 
That he is honest in the sacred cause. 
To such I render more than mere respect, 
Whose actions say that they respect themselves, 
But loose in morals, and in manners vain. 
In conversation frivolous, in dress 
Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse ; 
Frequent in park with lady at his side, 
Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes ; 
But rare at home, and never at his books, 
Or with his pen, save when he scrawlj a card; 
Constant at routs, familiar with a rou id 
Of ladyships — a stranger to the poor ■ 
Ambitious of preferment for its gold; 



THE TASK.— THE TIME-PIECE, 



57 



And well prepared, by ignorance and sloth, 

By infidelity and love of world, 

To make God's work a sinecure ; a slave 

To his own pleasures and his patron's pride : 

From such apostles, O ye mitred heads. 

Preserve the church ! and lay not careless hands 

On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. 

Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, 
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and 

own — 
Paul should himself direct me. I would trace 
His master strokes and draw from his design. 
I would express him simple, grave, sincere ; 
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, 
And plain in manner; decent solemn, chaste, 
And natural in gesture ; much impress'd 
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, 
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds 
May feel it too; affectionate in look 
And tender in address, as well becomes 
A messenger of grace to guilty men. 
Behold the picture ! Is it like ? Like whom 1 
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, 
And then skip down again ; pronounce a text ; 
Cry — hem ; and reading what they never wrote, 
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, 
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene ! 

In man or woman, but far most in man, 
And most of all in man that ministers 
And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe 
All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn ; 
Object of my implacable disgust. 
What ! will a man play tricks 1 will he indulge 
A silly fond conceit of his fair form, 
And just proportion, fashionable mien, 
And pretty face, in presence of his God % 
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, 
As with the diamond on his lily hand, 
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, 
When I am hungry for the bread of life 1 
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames 
His noble office, and. instead of truth. 
Displaying his Own beauty, starves his flock ! 
Therefore avaunt all attitude, and stare, 
And start theatric, practised at the glass ! 
I seek divine simplicity in him 
Who handles things divine ; and all besides, 
Though learn'd with labor, and though much 

admired 
By curious eyes and judgments ill inform'd, 
To me is odious as the nasal twang 
Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, 
Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
Through the press'd v nostril, spectacle bestrid. 
Some, decent in demeanor while they preach, 
That task perform'd, relapse into themselves ; 
And. having spoken wisely, at the close 
Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye, 
Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not ! 
Forth comes the pocket-mirror. — First we stroke 
An eyebrow ; next compose a straggling lock ; 
Then with an air most gracefully peribrm'd 
Fall back into our seat, extend an arm, 
And lay it at its ease with gentle care, 
With handkerchief in hand depending low : 
The better hand more busy gives the nose 
Its bergamot. or aids the indebted eye. 
With opera glass to watch the moving scene, 
And recognize the slow-retiring fair. — 
Now this is fulsome ; and offends me more 
Than in a churchman slovenly neglect 
A.nd rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind 



May be indifferent to her house of clay, 

And slight the hovel as beneath her care ; 

But how a body so fantastic, trim, 

And quaint, in its deportment and attire, 

Can lodge a heavenly mind — demands a doubt 

He that negotiates between God and man, 
As God's ambassador, the grand concerns 
Of judgment and of mercy, should beware 
Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful 
To court a grin, when you should woo a soul ; 
To break a jest when pity would inspire 
Pathetic exhortation ; and to address 
The skittish fancy with facetious tales.. 
When sent with God's commission to the heart ' 
So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip 
Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, 
And I consent you take it for your text, 
Your only one, till sides and benches fail. 
No : he was serious in a serious cause, 
And understood too well the weighty terms [stoo 
That he had taken in charge. He would no* 
To conquer those by jocular exploits 
Whom truth and soberness assail'd in vain. 

O popular applause ! What heart of man 
Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms] 
The wisest and the best feel urgent need 
Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales ; 
But, swell'd into a gust — who then, alas ! 
With all his canvas set, and inexpert, 
And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power! 
Praise, from the rivell'd lips of toothless, bald 
Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean 
•Ana" craving Poverty, and in the bow 
Respectful of the smutch'd artificer, 
Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb 
The bias of the purpose. How much more, 
Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite, 
In language soft as adoration breathes 1 
Ah. spare your idol ! think him human still. 
Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! 
Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. 

All truth is from the sempiternal source 
Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome 
Drew from the stream below. More favor'd, we 
Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain-head, 
To them it flow'd much mingled and defiled 
With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams 
Illusive of philosophy, so call'd, 
But falsely. Sages after sages strove 
In vain to filter off a crystal draught 
Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced 
The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred 
Intoxication and delirium wild. 
In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth [man'' 
And spring-time of the world ; ask'd, Whence i 
Why form'd at all 1 and wherefore as he is 1 
Where must he find his Maker 1 with what rite* 
Adore him 1 Will he hear, accept, and bless 1 
Or does he sit regardless of his works 1 
Has man within him an immortal seed 1 
Or does the tomb take all 1 If he survive 
His ashes where 1 and in what weal or woe 1 
Knots worthy of solution, which alone 
A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague 
And all at random, fabulous and dark, 
Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life 
Defective and unsanction'd, proved too weak 
To bind the roving appetite, ana lead 
Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd. 
'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, 
Explains all mysteries, except her own, 
And so illuminates the path of life 



974 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



That fools discover it, and stray no more. 
Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, 
My man of morals, nurtured in the shades 
Of Academus — is this false or true 1 
Fs Christ the abler teacher, or the schools 1 
If Christ, then why resort at every turn 
To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short 
Of man's occasions, when in him reside 
Grace, knowledge, comfort— an unfathom'd store 1 
How oft, when Paul has served us with a text, 
Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully preach'd ! 
Men that, if now alive, would sit content 
And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, 
Preach it who might. Such was their love of 

truth, 
Their thirst of knowledge, and their candor too ! 

And thus it is. — The pastor, either vain 
By nature, or by flattery made so, taught 
To gaze at his own splendor, and to exalt 
Absurdly, not his office, but himself; 
Or unenlighten'd, and too proud to learn ; 
Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach ; 
Perverting often, by the stress of lewd 
And loose example, whom he should instruct ; 
Exposes, and holds up to brbad disgrace 
The noblest function, and discredits much 
The brightest truths that man has ever seen. 
For ghostly counsel — if it either fall 
Below the exigence, or be not back'd 
With show of love, at least with hopeful proof 
Of some sincerity on the giver's part ; 
Or be dishonor 'd in the exterior form 
And mode of its conveyance by such tricks ; * 
As move derision, or by foppish airs 
And histrionic mummery, that let down 
The pulpit to the level of the stage — 
Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. 
The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, 
While prejudice in men of stronger minds 
Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see. 
A relaxation of religion's hold 
Upon the roving and untutor'd heart 
Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapp'd, 
The laity run wild. — But do they now 1 
Note their extravagance, and be convinced. 

As nations, ignorant of God, contrive 
A wooden one, so we, no longer taught 
By monitors that mother church supplies, 
Now make our own. Posterity will ask 
(If e*er posterity see verse of mine) 
Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, 
What was a monitor in George's days 1 
My very gentle reader, yet unborn, 
Of whom I needs must augur better things, 
Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world 
Productive only of a race like ours, 
A monitor is wood — plank shaven thin. 
We wear it at our backs. There closely braced 
And neatly fitted, it compresses hard 
The prominent and most unsightly bones 
And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use 
Sovereign and most effectual to secure 
A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, 
From rickets and distortion, else our lot. 
But, thus admonish'd, we can walk erect — 
Ono proof at least of manhood ! while the friend 
Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. 
Our habits, costlier than Luculus wore, 
And by caprice as multiplied as his, 
Just please us while the fashion is at full, 
Rut mange with every moon. The sycophant 
Who waits to drese us arbitrates their date ; 



Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye ; 

Finds one ill made, another obsolete, 

This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived : 

And, making prize of all that he condemns, 

With our expenditure defrays his own. 

Variety's the very spice of life, 

That gives it all its flavor. We have run 

Through every change that Fancy, at the loom 

Exhausted, has had genius to supply ; 

And, studious of mutation still, discard 

A real elegance, a little" used, 

For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. 

We sacrifice to dress, till household joys 

And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry 

And keeps our la: Ter lean ; puts out our fires ; 

And introduces h"i >er : frost, and woe, 

Where peace and h> tspitality might reign. 

What man that li\ es, and that knows how to live, 

Would fail to exhibit at the public shows 

A form as splendid as the proudest there, 

Though appetite raise outcries at the cost 1 

A man of the town lines late, but soon enough, 

With reasonable forecast and despatch, 

To ensure a side-box station at half price. 

You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, 

His daily fare as delicate. Alas! 

He picks clean teeth, and. busy as he seems 

With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet ! 

The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws 

With magic wand. So potent is the spell, 

That none decoy'd in*o that fatal ring, 

Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. 

There we grow early grey, but never wise ; 

There form connexions, but acquire no friend ; 

Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success ; 

Waste youth in occupations only fit 

For second childhood, and devote old age 

To sports which only childhood could excuse. 

There they are happiest who dissemble best 

Their weariness ; and they the most polite 

Who squander time and treasure with a smile, 

Though at their own destruction. She that asks 

Her dear five hundred friends contemns them all, 

And hates their coming- . They (what can they 

less?) 
Make just reprisals ; and, with cringe and shrug, 
And bow obsequious hide their hate of her. 
All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace, 
Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, 
And gild our chamber ceiling; as they pass, 
To her, who, frugal only that her thrift 
May feed excesses she can ill affoi'd, 
Is hackney'd home unlackeyM ; who, in haste 
Alighting turns the key in he: own door, 
And, a tthe watchman's lantei i borrowing light. 
Finds a cold bed her only con fort left, [wives, 
Wives beggar husbands, husl ands starve thei? 
On Fortune's velvet altar Kffer ng up 
Their last poor pittance — Fort, ne, most severe 
Of goddesses yet known, and t ostlier far 
Than all that held their routs in Juno's heaven.— 
So fare we in this prison-house the world; 
And 'tis a fearful spectacle to s< e 
So many maniacs dancing in tlieir chains. 
They gaze upon the links that hold them fast 
With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, 
Then shake them in despa ; ', and dance again! 

Now basket up the fami K of plagues 
That waste our vitals; peculation, sale 
Of honor, perjury corruption, frauds 
By forgery, by subterfuge of law. 
By tricks and lies as numerous a »d as keen 



THE TASK.— THE TIME-PIECE 



57 



As the necessities their authors feel ; 
Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat 
At the right door. Profusion is the sire. 
Profusion unrestrained with all that's base 
In character, has litter'd all the land, 
And bred, within the memory of no few, 
A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, 
A people sucli as never was till now. 
It is a hungry vice : — it eats up all 
That gives society its beauty, strength, 
Convenience, and security, and use ; 
Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd 
And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws 
Can seize the slippery prey ; unties the knot 
Of union, and converts the sacred band, 
That holds mankind together, to a scourge 
Profusion, deluging a state with lusts 
Of grossest nature and of worst effects, 
Prepares it for its ruin : hardens, blinds, 
And warps the consciences of public men, 
Till thev can laugh at Virtue ; mock t^e fools 
That t w«t them; and in the end disclose u face 
That would have shock'd Credulity herseli, 
Unmask'd. vouchsafing this their sole excuse — 
Since all alike are selfish, why not they ] 
This does Profusion, and the accursed cause 
Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. 
In colleges and halls, in ancient days, 
When learning, virtue, piety, and truth 
Were precious and inculcated with care, 
There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head, 
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er, 
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, 
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. 
His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile 
Play'd on his lips ; and in his speech was heard 
Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. 
The occupation dearest to his heart 
Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke 
The head of modest and ingenuous worth, 
That blush'd at its own praise ; and press the 

youth 
Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew 
Beneath his care a thriving vigorous plant ; 
The mind was well-inform'd, the passions held 
Subordinate, and diligence was choice 
If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must. 
That one among so many overleap'd 
The limits of control, his gentle eye 
Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke : 
His frown was full of terror, and his voice 
Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe 
As left him not till penitence had won 
Lost favor back again, and closed the breach. 
But discipline, a faithful servant long, 
Declined at length into the vale of years : 
A palsy struck his arm ; his sparkling eye 
Was quench'd in rheums of age ; his voice, un- 
strung, 
Grew tremulous, and moved derision more 
Than reverence in perverse rebellious youth. 
So colleges and halls neglected much 
Their good old friend ; and Discipline at length, 
O'erlook'd and unernploy'd. fell sick and died. 
Then Study languish'd. Emulation slept, 
And Virtue fled. The schools became a scene 
Of sohmn farce, where ignorance in stilts, 
His cap well lined with logic not his own, 
With parrot tongue performed the scholar's part, 
Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. 
Then Compromise had place, and Scrutiny 
Became stone blind ; Precedence went in truck, 



And he was competent whose purse was s« 
A dissolution of all bonds ensued ; 
The curbs invented for the mulish mouth 
Of headstrong youth wlere broken ; bars and bolt* 
Grew rusty by disuse ; and massy gates 
Forgot their office, opening with a touch; 
Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade, 
The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest, 
A mockery of the world ! What need of these 
For gamsters, jockeys, brothellers impure, 
Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oflener seer 
With belted waist and oointers at their heels 
Than in the bounds of duty 1 What was learn'd 
If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot ; 
And such expense as pinches parents blue, 
And mortifies the liberal hand of love, 
Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports 
And vicious pleasures ; buys the boy a name 
That sits a stigma on his father's house, • 

And cleaves through life inseparably close 
To him that wears it. What can after-games 
Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, 
The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon 
Add to such erudition, thus acquired, 
Where science and where virtue are profess'd 1 
They may confirm his habits, rivet fast 
His folly, but to spoil him is a task 
That bids defiance to the united powers 
Of fashion dissipation, taverns, stews. 
Now blame we a&st the nurslings or the nurse 1 
The children, crook'd and twisted, and deform'd. 
Through want of care ; or her. whose winking 
And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood 1 [eye 
The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of her charge, 
She needs herself correction ; needs to learn 
That it is dangerous sporting with the world, 
W T ith things so sacred as a nation's trust, 
The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. 
All are not such. I had a brother once — 
Peace to the memory of a man of worth, 
A man of letters and of manners too ! 
Of manners sweet as Virtue always wears, 
When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. 
He graced a college,* in which order yet 
Was sacred; and was honor'd. loved, and wept 
By more than one themselves conspicuous there. 
Some minds are temper'd happily, and mix'd 
With such ingredients of good sense and taste 
Of what is excellent in man, they thirst 
With such a zeal to be what they approve, 
That no restraints can circumscribe them more 
Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's 

sake. 
Nor can example hurt them : what they see 
Of vice in others but enhancing more 
The charms of virtue in their just esteem. 
If such escape contagion, and emerge 
Pure from so foul a pool to shine abroad, 
And give the world their talents and themselves, 
Small thanks to those, whose negligence or sloth 
Exposed their inexperience to the snare, 
And left them to an undirected choice. 

See then the quiver broken and decay'd, 
In which are kept our arrows ! Rusting there 
In wild disorder, and unfit for use, 
What wonder, if. discharged into the world, 
They shame their shooters with a random flight, 
Their points obtuse, and feathers drunk with 

wine ! 
Well may the church wage unsucceessful war, 

* Bene't College, Cambridge. 



576 



COWPER'S WORKteJ. 



With such artillery arm'd. Vice parries wide 
The undreaded volley with a sword of straw, 
And stands an impudent and fearless mark. 

Have we not track'd the* felon home, and found 
His birthplace and his dam? The country 

mourns, 
Mourns because every plague that can infest 
Society, and that saps and worms the base 
Of the edifice that Policy has raised, 
Swarms in all quarters ; meets the eye. the ear, 
And suffocates the breath at every turn. 
Profusior breeds them; and the cause itself 
Of that calamitous mischief has been found: 
Found too where most offensive, in the skirts 
Of the robed pedagogue ! Else let the arraign'd 
Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge. 
So when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm, 
And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, 
Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth, 
Polluting Egypt: gardens, fields, and plains 
Were cover'd with the pest ; the streets were fiil'd ; 
The croaking nuisance lurk'd in every nook, 
N>' palaces, nor even chambers, 'scaped; 
And the land stank — so numerous was the fry. 



BOOK III. 

THE GARDEN 



THE ARGUMENT. 

8elf-recoIUction and reproof— Address to domestic hap 
piness— yome account of myself— The vanity of many 
of thea pursuits who are reputed wise — Justification 
of my censures — Divine illumination necessary to the 
most expert philosopher— The question, What is 
truth? answered by other questions — Domestic happi- 
ness addressed again — Few lovers of the country— My 
tame hare— Occupations of a retired gentleman in hi? 
garden —Pruning — Framing — Greenhouse— Sowing o.' 
flower seeds— Th^ country preferable to the town even 
in the winter — Reasons why it it deserted at that seasoi 
-Ruinous effects of gaming, and of expensive im- 
provement — Book concludes with an apostrophe to the 
metropolis. 

is one who, long in thickets and in brakes 

Entangled, winds now this way and now that 

His devious course uncertain, seeking home; 

Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd. 

And sore discomfited, from slough to slough 

Plunging and half despairing of escape ; 

If chance at length he finds a greensward smooth 

And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise 

He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, 

And winds his Wiiy with pleasure and with ease ; 

So I, designing other themes, and call'd 

To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due. 

To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams, 

Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat 

Of academic fame (howe'er deserved,) 

Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. 

But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier road 

I mean to tread. I feel myself at large. 

Courageous, and re fresh 'd for future toil. 

If toil awaits me. or if dangers new. 

Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflect 
Most part an empty ineffectual sound. 
What chance that I, to fame so little known, 
Nor conversant with men or manners much, 
Should speak to purpose, or with better hope 
Crack the *atiric thong 1 'Twere wiser far 



For me, enamour'd of sequester'd scenes, 
And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose, [vine 
Where chance may throw me, beneath elm a 
My languid limbs, when summer sears«the plains 
Or when rough winter rages, on the soft 
And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air 
Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth 
There, undisturb'd by Folly, and apprised 
How great the danger of disturbing her, 
To muse in silence, or at least confine 
Remarks that gall so many to the few, 
My partneis in retreat. Disgust conceaPd 
If ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault 
Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. 

Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss 
Of Paradise that has survived the fall ! 
Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, 
Or tasting long enjoy thee ! too infirm, 
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets 
Unmix 'd with drops of bitter, which neglect 
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup : 
Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms 
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, 
Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. 
Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored. 
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist 
And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm 
Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support; 
For thou art meek and constant hating chan£* 
And finding in the calm of truth-tried k r e 
Joys that her stormy raptures never yieF. 
Forsaking thee what shipwreck have we made 
Of honor, dignity, and fair renown! 
Till prostitution elbows us aside, 
In all our crowded streets ; and senates seem 
Convened lor purposes of empire less 
Than to release the adultress from her bond. 
The adultress ! what a theme for angry verse 
What provocation to the indignant heart, 
7hat feels for injur'd love! but I disdain 
The nauseous task, to paint her as she is, 
j Cruel abandon'd. glorying in her shame! 
No: — let her pass, and. charioted along 
[n guilty splendor, shake the public ways ; 
The frequency of crimes has washed them wbii.e; 
And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch, 
Whom matrons now. of chaiacter unsmirch'd, 
And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. 
Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time, 
Not to be pass'd : and she, that had renounced 
Her sex's honor, was renounced herself 
By all that prized it; not for prudery's sake, 
But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. 
'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, 
Desirous to return, and not received ; 
But was a wholesome rigor in the main, 
And taught the unblemish'd to preserve with care 
That purity, whose loss was loss of all. 
Men too were nice in honor in those days, 
And iudcred offenders well. Then he thai 

snarp d, 
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd, 
Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that 

sold 
His country or was slack when she required 
His every nervp, in action and at stretch, 
Paid, with the blood that he had basely spared, 
The price of his default. But now — yes, now 
We are become so candid and so fair, 
So liberal in construction, and so rich 
In Christian charity, (good-natured age !) 
That they are safe, sinners of either sex, 



THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. 



577 



Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, 

well bred, 
Well equipaged. is ticket good enough 
To pass us readily through every door. 
Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, 
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet.) 
May claim this merit still — that she admits 
The worth of what she mimics with such care, 
A.-id thus, gives virtue indirect applause; 
But she has burnt her mask, not needed hce. 
Where Vice has such allowance, that her .shifts 
And specious semblances have lost their use. 

I was a stricken deer, lhat left the herd 
Long since ■ with many an arrow deep infix'd 
My panting r.ido was charged, when I withdrew, 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There was I found by One who had himself 
Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, 
And in his hands and feet the cruel scars. 
With gentle force soliciting the darts. [live. 

He drew them forth, and heal'd. and bade me 
Since then, with few associates, in remote 
Any silent woods I wander, far from those 
My f jrmer partners of the peopled scene ; 
With few associates, and not wishing more. 
Here much I ruminate, as much I may. 
With other views of men and manners now 
Than once, and others of a life to come. 
I see that all are wanderers, gone astray 
Each in his own delusions ; they are lost 
In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd 
And never won. Dream after dream ensues ; 
And still they dream that they shall still succeed ; 
And still are disappointed. Rings the world 
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, 
And add two-thirds of the remaining half, 
And find the total of their hopes and fears 
Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay 
As if created only like the fly, [noon, 

That spreads his motley wings in the eye of 
To sport their season, and be seen no more. 
The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, 
And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. 
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats 
Of heroes little known ; and call the rant 
A x istory: describe the man. of whom 
His own coevals took but little note ; 
And paint his person, character, and views, 
As they had known him from his mother's womb. 
They disentangle from the puzzled skein, 
In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up, 
The threads of politic and shrewd design, 
That ran through all his purposes, and charge 
His mind with meanings that he never had, 
Or having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore 
The solid earth, and from the strata there 
Extract a register, by which we learn, 
That he who made it, and reveal'd its date 
To Moses, was mistaken in its age. 
Some, more acute, and more industrious still, 
Contrive creation : travel nature up 
To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, 
And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fix'd, 
And planetary some; what gave them first 
Rotation, from what fountain fiow'd their light. 
Great contest follows, and much learned dust 
Involves the combatants ; each claiming truth. 
And truth disclaiming bo.h. And thus they 

spend 
The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp 
In playino tricks with nature, giving laws 
To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. 



Is't not a pity, now. that tickling rheums 
Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight 
Of oracles like these 1 Great pity too, 
That, having wielded the elements, and built 
A thousand systems, each in his own way, 
They should go out in fume, and be forgot 1 
Ah ! what is life thus spent 1 and what are they 
But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke- 
Eternity for bubbles proves at last 
A senseless bargain. Wh?n T see such crames 
Play'd by the creatures of a Power who'swears 
That lie will judge the earth, and call the fooi 
To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain • 
And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, 
And prove it in the infallible result 
So hollow and so false — I feel my heart 
Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd. 
If this be learning, most of all deceived. 
Great crimes alarm tiie conscience, but it sleej i 
While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. 
Defend me therefore, common sense, say I, 
Prom reveries so airy, from the toil 
Of dropping buckets into empty wells, 
And growing old in drawing nothing up ! 

'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, 
Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose, 
And overbuilt with most impending brows,— 
'Twere well, could you permit the world to hv/>. 
As the world pleases: what's the world to you '• 
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk 
As sweet as charity from human breasts. 
I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, 
And exercise all functions of a man. 
How then should I and any man that lives 
Be strangers to each other \ Pierce my vein, 
Take of the crimson stream meandering there, 
And catechise it well : apply thy glass, 
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood 
Congenial with thine own : and if it be, 
What edge of subtlety canst tliou suppose 
Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, 
To cut the link of brotherhood, by which 
One common Maker bound me to the kind 1 
True ; I am no proficient, T confess, 
In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift 
And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, 
And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath' 
I cannot analyze the air, nor catch 
The parallax of yonder luminous point, 
That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss : 
Such powers I boast not — neither can I rest. 
A silent witness of the headlong rage, 
Or heedless folly by which thousands die, 
Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. 

God never meant that man should scale the 
heavens , 

By strides of human wisdom. In his works, 
Though wondrous, he commands us in his won! 
To seek him rather where his mercy shines. 
The min I indeed enlighten'd from above, 
Views hiai in all ; ascribes to the grand cause 
The grand effect ; acknowledges with joy 
His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. 
But never yet did philosophic tube, 
That brings the planets home into the eye 
Of .Observation, and discovers, else 
Not visible, his family of worlds, 
Discover him that rules them ; such a veil 
Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birtfc. 
And (lmk in things divine. Full often too 
Our wayward intellect, the more we learn 
Of nature, overlooks her Author more; 
37 



57b 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



From instrumental causes proud to draw 
Conclusions retrograde and mad mistake. 
But if his word once teach us. shoot a ray- 
Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal 
Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, 
Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized 
.n the pure fountain of eternal love, 
Has eyes indeed ; and, viewing all she sees 
As meant to indicate a God to man, 
Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. 
Learning has borne such fruit in other days 
Or. all her branches : piety has found 
Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer 
Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. 
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage ! 
Sagacious reader of the works of God. 
And his word sagacious. Such, too. thine, 
Milton, whose genius had angelic wings. 
And fed on manna ! And such thine, in whom 
Our British Themis gloried with just cause, 
[mmortal Hale ! for deep discernment praised, 
And sound integrity, not more than famed 
For sanctity of manners undefiled. 

All flesh is grass/and all its glory fades 
Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind; 
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream 
The man we celebrate must find a tomb, 
And we that worship him ignoble graves. 
Nothing is proof against the genera" curse 
Of vanity, that seizes all belcw. 
The only amaranthine flower on earth 
Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure, truth. 
But what is truth 1 'Twas Pilate's question put 
To truth itself that deign'd him no reply. 
And wherefore 1 will not God impart his light 
To them that ask it 1 — Freely — 'tis his joy, 
His glory, and his nature to impart. 
But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 
Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. 
What's that which brings contempt upon a book, 
And him who writes it. though the style be neat, 
The method clear, and argument exact % 
That makes a minister in holy things 
The joy of many and the dread of more, 
His name a theme for praise and for reproach 1 — 
That, while it gives us worth in God's account, 
Depreciates and undoes us in our own 1 
What ^earl is it that rich men cannot buy, 
That learning is too proud to gather up ; 
Bat which the poor, and the despised of all, 
Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? 
Tell me — and I will tell thee what is truth. 

O friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasure pass'd ! 
Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets ; 
Though many boast thy favors, and affect 
T.i understand and choose thee for their own. 
But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, 
E'en as his first progenitor, and quits, 
Though placed in Paradise (for earth has still 
Some traces of her youthful beauty left,) 
Substantial happiness for transient joy. 
Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse 
The growing seeds of wisdom ; that suggest, 
By every pleasing image they present, 
Reflections such as meliorate the heart, - 
Compose the passions, and exalt the mind ; 
Scej.-s such as these 'tis his ^pr; n.. delight 
To fill with riot and defile with blood. 
Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes 
t\'e persecute, annihilate the tribes 



That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, 
Fearless and rapt away from all his cares ; 
Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, 
Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye ; 
Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, 
Be quell'd in all our summer months' retreat ; 
How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, 
Who dream they have a taste for fields and 

groves, 
Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen, 
Arid crowd the roads, impatient for the town ! 
They love the country, and none else, who seek 
For their own sake its silence and its shade. 
Delights which who would leave, that has a hear« 
Susceptible of pity, or a mind 
Cultured and capable of sober thought, 
For all the savage din of the swift pack, 
And clamors of the field? — Detested sport, 
That owes its pleasures to another's pain ; 
That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks 
Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued 
With eloquence, that agonies inspire 
Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs 1 
Vain tears, alas ! and sighs that never find 
A corresponding tone in jovial souls ! 
Well — one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare 
Has never heard the sanguinary yell 
Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. 
Innocent partner of my peaceful home, 
Whom ten long years' experience of my care 
Has made at last familiar ; she has lost 
Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, 
Not needful here beneath a roof like mine. 
Yes — thou mayest eat thy bread, and /ick the 

hand 
That feeds hee ; thou mayest frolic on the tio-»r 
At evening, and at night retire secure 
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd; 
For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged 
All that is human in me to protect 
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. 
If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave ; 
And, when I place thee in it, sighing say, 
" I knew at least one hare that had a frien i." 

How various his employments whom the world 
Calls idle ; and who justly in return 
Esteems that busy world an idler too ! 
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his peu, 
Delightful industry enjoy 'd at home, 
And Nature, in her cultivated trim 
Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad — 
Can he want occupation who has these 1 
Will he be idle who has much to enjoy 1 
Me. therefore, studious of laborious ease, 
Not slothful, happy to deceive the time, 
Not waste it, and aware that human life 
Is but a loan to be repaid with use, 
When He shall call his debtors to account, 
From whom arc all our blessings, business Gnu-- 
E'en here : while sedulous I seek to improvt,, 
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, 
The mind He gave me : driving it, though slack 
Too oft, and much impeded in its work, 
By causes not to be divulged in vain, 
To its just point — the service of mankind. 
He, that attends to his interior self, 
That has a heart, and keeps it: has a mind 
That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks 
A social, not a dissipated life. 
Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve 
No unimportant, though a silent task. 
A life all turbulence and noise may stem 



THE TASK.— THE GARDEN, 



579 



To him that leads it wise, and to be praised ; 
But wisdom is a pearl with most success 
Sought in still water and beneath clear skies. 
He that is ever occupied in storms. 
Or dives not for it. or brings up instead, 
Vainly industrious a disgraceful prize. 

The morning finds the self-sequestered man 
Fresh for his task intend what task he inay. 
Whether inclement seasons recommend 
Ws warm but simple home, where he enjoys. 
With her who shares his pleasures and his heart. 
Sweet converse sipping calm the fragrant lymph 
Which neatly she prepares ; then to his book 
Well chosen and not sullenly perused 
In selfish silence, but imparted oft. 
As aught occurs, that she may smile to hear, 
Or turn to nourishment digested well. 
Or if the garden, with its many cares. 
All well repaid, demand him. he attends 
The welcome call, conscious how much the hand 
Of lubbard Labor needs his watchful eye, 
Oft loitering lazily, :f not o'ersecn. 
Or misapplying his unskilful strength. 
Nor does he govern only or direct. 
But much perforins himself No works, indeed, 
That ask robust, tough sinews, bred to toil 
Servile employ ; but such as may amuse, 
Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. 
Proud of his well-spread walls he viewo his trees. 
That meet, no barren interval between 
With pleasure more than e'en their fruits afford ; 
Which, save himself who trains them, none can 

feel. 
These thereftie are his own peculiar charge ; 
No meaner hand may discipline the shoots. 
None but his steel approach them. What is weak. 
Distemper'd, or has lost prolific powers, 
[mpair'd by age. his unrelenting hand 
Dooms tc the knife : nor does he spare, the soft 
And succulent, that feeds its giant growth, 
But barren, at the expense of neighboring twigs 
L ess ostentatious, and yet studded thick 
With hopeful gems. The rest no portion left 
riiat may disgrace his art. or disappoint 
Large, expectation, he disposes neat 
At measured distances, that air and sun, 
Admitted freely, may aibrd their aid, 
And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. 
Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, 
And hence e'en Winter fills his wither'd hand 
With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own.* 
Fair recompense of labor well bestow'd, 
A nd wise precaution ; which a clime so rude 
.Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the 

child 
Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods 
Discovering much the temper of her sire. 
For oft, as if in her the stream of mild 
Maternal nature had reversed its course, 
She brings her infants forth with many smiles ; 
But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. 
He therefore, timely warn'd, himself supplies 
Her want of care, screening and keeping warm 
The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may 

sweep 
His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft 
As the sun peeps, and vernal airs breathe mild, 
The fence withdrawn, he gives them every beam 
And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. 

To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, 
to grateful to the palate, and when rare 

* Miruturque novos fructug et non su a coma. — Vire.. 



So coveted, else base and disesteem'd, — 
Food for the vulgar merely — is an art 
That toiling ages have but just matured, 
And at this moment unassay'd in song, [since 
Yet gnats have had, and trogs and mice, long 
Their eulogy ; those sang the Mantuan bard ; 
And these the Grecian, in ennobling strains; 
And in thy numbers. Phillip:; shines for aye, 
The solitary shilling. Pardon then, 
Ye sage dispensers of pcetic fame. 
The ambition of one meaner far. whose p>wers, 
Presuming an attempt not less sublime. 
Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste 
Of critic appetite no sordid fare, 
A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. 
The stable yields a stercoraceous heap, 
Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, 
And potent to resist the freezing blast : 
For, ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf 
Deciduous, when now November dark 
Checks vegetation in the torpid plant 
Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. 
Warily therefore, and with prudent heed, 
He seeks a favor'd spot; that where he builds 
The agglomerated pile his frame may front 
The sun's meridian disk, and at the back 
Enjoy close shelter wall, or reeds, or hedge 
Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread 
Dry fern or litter'd hay, that may imbibe 
The ascending damps ; then leisurely impose 
And lightly, shaking it with agile hand 
From the full fork, the saturated straw. 
What longest binds the closest forms secure 
The shapely side, that as it rises takes, 
By just degrees, an overhanging breadth, 
Sheltering the base with its projected eaves , 
The uplifted frame, compact at every joint, 
And overlaid with clear translucent, glass. 
He settles next upon the sloping mount. 
Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure 
From the dash'd pane the deluge as it falls. 
He shuts it close, and the first labor ends. 
Thrice must the voluble and restless earth 
| Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth, 
| Slow gathering in the midst, through the square 

mass 
Diffused, attains the surface . when, behold ! 
A pestilent and most corrosive steam, 
Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, 
And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, 
Asks egress ; which obtain 'd, the overcharged 
And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad, 
In volumes wheeling slow, the vapdr dank ; 
And, purified, rejoices to have lost 
Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage 
The impatient fervor, which at first conceives 
Within its reeking bosom, threatening death 
To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. 
Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft 
The way to glory by miscarriage foul, 
Must. prompt him, and admonish how to catch 
The auspicious moment, when the temper'd heat 
Friendly to vital motion, may aiford 
Soft fomentation, and invite the seed. 
The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, 
And glossy, he commits to pots of size 
Diminutive, well fill'd with well prepared 
And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long, 
And drunk no moisture from the dripping cloud* 
These on the warm and genial earth, thit 

hides 
The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, 
He places lightly, and, as time subdues 



580 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The rage of fermentation, plunges deep 

In the soft medium, till they stand immersed. 

Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick, 

And spreading wide their spongy lobes : at first 

Pale, wan, and livid ; but assuming soon, 

If fann'd by balmy and nutritious air, 

Strain'd through the friendly mats, a vivid green. 

Two loaves produced, two rough indented leaves, 

Cautious he pinches from the second stalk 

A pimple, that portends a future sprout, 

Asd interdicts its growth. Thence straight 

succeed 
The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish ; 
Prolific all, and harbingers of more 
The crowded roots demand enlargement now, 
And transplantation in an ampler space. 
Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply 
Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, 
Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. 
These have their sexes ; and when summer 
The bee transports the fertilizing meal [shines. 
From flower to flower, and e'en the breathing air 
Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. 
Not so when winter scowls. Assistant Art 
Then acts in Nature's office, brings to pass 
The glad espousals, and ensures the crop. 

Grudge not. ye rich, (since- Luxury must have 
His dainties, and ihe World's more numerous 
Lives by contriving delicates for you,) [half 

Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, 
The vigilance, the labor, and the skill, 
That day and night are exercised, and hang 
Upon the ticklish balance of suspense. 
That ye may garnish your profuse regales 
With summer truits brought ibrth by wintry suns. 
Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart 
The process. Heat, and cold, and wind, and 

steam, [ing flies, 

Moisture, and drought mice, worms, and swarm- 
Minute as dust, and numberless oft work 
Dire disappointment, that admits no cure, 
And which no care can obviate. It were long, 
Too long, to tell the expedients and the shifts 
Which he that fights a season so severe 
Devises, while he guards his tender trust ; 
And oft at last in vain. The harn'd and wise 
Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song 
Cold as its theme, and like its theme the fruit 
Of too much labor, worthless when produced. 
Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too. 
Unconscious of a less propitious clime. 
There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, 
While the winds whistle, and the snows descend. 
The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf 
Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast 
Of Portugal and western India there. 
The ruddier orange, and the paler lime, 
Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm, 
And seem to smile at what they need not fear. 
The amomum there with intermingling flowers 
And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts 
Her crimson honors ; and the spangled beau, 
Ficoides glitters bright the winter long. 
All plants, of every leaf that can endure [bite. 
The winter's frown, if screen'd from his shrewd 
Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims. 
Levantine regions these ; the Azores send 
Their jessamine, her jessamine remote 
Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, 
They form one social shade, as if convened 
By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. 
Vet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass 



But by a master's hand, disposing well 
The gay diversities of leaf and flower, 
Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms. 
And dress the regular yet various scene. 
! Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van 
j The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still 
Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. 
So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome 
A noble show ! while Roscius trod the stage ; 
And so, while Garrick, as renown'd as he, 
The sons of Albion ; fearing each to lose 
Some note of Nature's music from his lips, 
| And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen 
In every dash of his far beaming eye. 
Nor taste alone and well contrived display 
Suffice to give the marshalfd ranks the grace 
Of their complete effect. Much yet remains 
Unsung, and many cares are yet behind, 
And 'more laborious; cares on which depends 
Their vigor, injured soon, not soon restored. 
The soil must be renew'd, which often wash'd 
Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, 
i And disappoints the roots; the slender roots 
; Close interwoven, where they meet the vase, 
I Must smooth be shorn away ; the sapless branofc 
i Must fly before the knife ; the wither'd leaf 
Must be detach'd. and where it strews the flooi 
Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else 
Contagion, and disseminating death. 
I Discharge but these kind offices (and who 
I Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?' 
j Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased. 

The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf, 
[ Each opening blossom freely breathes abroad 
[ Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. 

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, 
! All healthful, are the employs of rural life, 
j Reiterated as the wheel of time 
Runs round ; still ending and beginning still. 
Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll. 
That softly swell'd and gaily dress'd appears 
A flowery island, from the dark green lawn 
Emerging, must be deem'd a labor due 
To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. 
Here also grateful mixture of well match'd 
And sorted hues, (each giving each relief, 
And by contrasted beauty shining more,, 
Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous 

spade, 
May turn the clod and wheel the compost home 
But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, 
And most attractive, is the fair result 
Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind. 
Without it all is gothic as the scene 
To which the insipid citizen resorts 
Near yonder heath ; where Industry misspent, 
But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, 
Has made a heaven on earth ; with suns and 

moons 
Of close ramm'd stones has charged the encumber'c 

soil, 
And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. 
He therefore who would see his flowers disposed 
Sightly and in just order j ere he gives 
The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, 
Forecasts the future whole ; that when the 

scene 
Shall break into its preconceived display, 
Each for itself, and all as with one voice 
Conspiring, may attest his bright design. 
Nor even then, dismissing as perform'd 
His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. 
Few self-supported flowers endure the wind 



THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. 



is*: J 



STninjured, but expect the upholding aid 

Df the smooth shaven prop. and. neatly tied, 

Are wedded thus like beauty to old age, 

For interest sake, the living to the dead. 

Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused 

And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair. 

Like virtue, thriving most where little seen ; 

Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbor shrub 

With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch 

Else unadorn'd. with many a gay festoon 

And fragrant chaplet recompensing well [lend. 

The strength they borrow with the grace they 

All hate the rank society of weeds, 

Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust 

The impoverish'd earth ; an overbearing race. 

That, like the multitude made faction-mad. 

Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. 

O blest seclusion from a jarring world. 
Which he, thus occupied, enjoys ! Retreat 
Cannot indeed to guilty man restcre 
Lost innocence, or cancel follies past : 
But it has peace, and much secures ; ~e mind 
From all assaults of evil; proving st'l 
A faithful barrier, not o'erleap'd with ease 
By vicious Custom, raging uncontroll'd 
Abroad, and desclating public life. 
When fierce temptation, seconded within 
By traitor Appetite, and arm'd with darts? 
Temper'd ir Hell, invades the throbbing breast, 
To combar may be glorious, and success 
Perhaps may crown us ; but to fly is safe. 
Had I the choice of sublunary good. 
What could I wish, that I possess not here 1 
Health, leisure, means to improve it. friendship. 

peace. 
No loose or wanton, though a wandering, muse, 
And constant occupation without care. 
Thus blest I draw a picture of that bliss; 
Hopeless indeed, that dissipated minds, 
And profligate abusers of a world 
Created fair so much in vain for them, 
Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, . 
A.llured by my report: but sure no less 
That self-condetnivd they must neglect the prize. 
And what they will not taste must yet approve. 
What we admire we praise : and, when we praise, 
Advance it into notice, that, its worth 
Acknowledged, others may admire it too. 
I therefore recommend, though at the rir.k 
Of popular disgust, yet boldly still. 
The cause of piety and sacred truth 
And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd 
Should best secure them and promote them most, 
Scenes that 1 love, and with regret perceive 
Forsaken, or through folly not enjoy'd. 
['are is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles. 
And chaste, though unconfined. whom I extol. 
Not as the prince in Shushan. when he calld, 
Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, 
To grace the full pavilion. His design 
Was but to boast his own peculiar good. 
Which all might view with envy, none partake. 
My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets, 
And afce that sweetens all my bitters too, 
Nalure. enchanting Nature, in whose form 
And lineaments divine I trace a hand 
That errs not, and finds raptures still renew'd, 
V? free to all men — universal prize, 
tsirange that so fair a creature should yet want 
Admirers, and be destined to divide 
With meaner objects e'en the few she finds ! 
Stnpp'd of her ornaments, her leaves, &nd flovrcn. i 



She loses all her influence. Cities then 
Attract us, and neglected nature pines, 
Abandon'd, as unworthy of our love. 
But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed 
By roses ; and clear suns, though scarcely felt ; 
And groves, if unharmonious, yet secure 
From clamor, and whose very silence charms ; 
To be prefcrr'd to smoke, to the eclipse 
That metropolitan volcanoes make, [long; 

Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day 
And to the stir of Commerce, driving slow, 
And thundering loud with his ten thousand 

wheels 1 
They wouid be were not madness in the head, 
And folly in the heart ; were England now 
What England was plain, hospitable, kind. 
And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewell 
To all the virtues of those better days. 
And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once 
Knew their own masters ; and laborious hinds, 
Who had survived the father, serv'd the son. 
Now the legitimate and rightful lord 
Is but a transient guest, newly arrived, 
And soon to be supplanted. He that saw 
His patrimonial timber cast its leaf 
Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price 
To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. 
Estates are landscapes gazed upon awhile, 
Then advertised, and auctioneer'd away. 
The country starves, and they that feed the o'p.t- 

charged 
And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, 
By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. 
The wings that waft our riches out of sight. 
Grow on the gamester's elbows ; and the alert 
And nimble motion of those restless joints, 
That never tire, soon fans them all away. 
Improvement too, the idol of the age, 
Is ted with many a victim. Lo, he comes ! 
The omnipotent magician, Brown appears ' 
Down falls the venerable pile, the abode 
Of our forefathers — a grave whisker'd race, 
But tasteless. Springs a palace in its sttad, 
But in a distant spot ; where more exposed 
It may enjoy the advantage of the north, 
And aguish east, till time shall have transform'd 
Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. 
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn ; 
Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise : 
And streams, as if created for his use. 
Pursue the track of his directing wand. 
Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, 
Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades — 
E'en as he bids ! The enraptured owner smiles. 
'Tis finish 'd, and yet finish'd as it seems, 
Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, 
A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. 
Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth, 
He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplish'd 

plan, 
That he has touch'd. retouch'd, many a long day 
Labor'd. and many a night pursued in dreams. 
Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the 
He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy ! [heaver 
And now perhaps the glorious hour is come 
When, having no stake left, no pledge to endcai 
Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause 
A moment's operation on his love, 
He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal, 
To serve his country. Ministerial grace 
Deals him out money from the public chest; 
Or, if that mine be shut, some private purtio 



582 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Supplies his need with a usurious loan, 

To be refunded duly, when his vote 

vVell managed shall have earn f d its worthy price. 

O innocent, compared w ; th arts like these, 

Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball 

Sent through the traveller's temples! He that 

finds 
One drop of Heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, 
Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content, 
So he may wrap himself in honest rags 
At his last gasp ; but could not for a world 
Pish up his dirty and dependent bread 
From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, 
Sordid and sickening at his own success. 

Ambition, avarice, penury incurr'd 
By endless riot, vanity, the lust 
Of pleasure and variety, despatch, 
As duly as the swallows disappear, [town. 

The world of wandering knights and squires to 
London engulfs them all! The shark is there, 
And the shark's prey ; the spendthrift, and the 

leech 
That sucks him ; there the sycophant, and he 
Who, with bareheaded and obsequious bcwb, 
Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail 
And groat per diem, if his patron frown. 
The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp 
Were character'd on every statesman's door, 
" Battkr'd and bankrupt fortunes mended 

hkrk!" 
These are the charms that sully and eclipse 
The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe 
That lean hard-handed Poverty inflicts, 
The hope of better things, the chance to win, 
The wish to shine, the thirst to'be amused, 
That at the sound of winter's hoary wing 
Unpeople all our counties of such herds 
Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose, 
And wanton vagrants as make London, vast 
And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. 

O thou, resort and mart of all the earth, 
Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind, 
And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
Much that I love, and more that I admire 
And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair, 
That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I c*n laugh, 
And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, 
Feel wrath and pity, when I think on thee ! 
Ten righteous would have saved a city once, 
And thou hast many righteous. — Well for thee — 
That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 
And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour, 
Than Sodom in her day had power to be, 
For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain. 



BOOK IV. 

THE WINTER EVENING. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

ITie post comes in— The newspaper read-— The world 
contemplated at a distance— Address to vnn'i- -The 
rural amusements of a winter evening compai>-.d with 

. the fashionable ones — Address to evening — A brown 
study— Fall of snow in the evening— The wagoner— A 
poor family piece— The rural thief— Public houses— 
The multitude of them censured — The farmer's daugh- 
ter: what she was; what she is— The simplicity of 
country raanners almost lost— Causes of the change— 
i>«6ertion of the country by ti* i rich— Neglect of magis- 



trates—The militia principally in fault— The new re 
cruit and his transformation — Reflection on bodies cor 
porate— The love of rural objects natural to all, aiE> 
never to be totally extinguished. 

Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge 
That with its Wearisome but needful length 
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ; — 
He comes the herald of a noisy world,, [locks; 
With spa'tter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozer 
News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind. 
Yet, careless what he brings, his one concern 
Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 
And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. 
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. 
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief 
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
With tears, that trickled down the writers' cheeki 
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill. 
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
But O the important budget ! usher'd in 
With s ich heart-shaking music who can say 
What are its tidings 1 have our troops awaked 1 
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd; 
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave 1 
Is India free 1 and does she wear her plumed 
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, 
Or do we grind ner still 1 The grand debate, 
The popular harangue, the tart reply, 
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 
And the loud laugh — I long to know them all; 
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free, 
And give them voice and utterance once again. 
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
Not such his evening, who with shining face 
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 
And bored with elbow points through both hil 

sides, 
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : 
Nor his who patient stands till his feet throb, 
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, 
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 
This folio of four pages, happy work ! 
Which not e'en critics criticise ; that holds 
Inquisitive attention, while I read, 
Fast bound in chams of silence, which the fair 
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break ; 
What is it but a map of busy life. 
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns'? 
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge 
That tempts Ambition. On the summit see 
The seals of office glitter in his eyes; [heels, 
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At hii 
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, 
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 
Here rills of oily eloquence, in soil 
Meanders, lubricate the course they take ; 
Vhe modest speaker is ashamed and grieved 
To engross a nv?n*cnt's notice ; and yet begs, 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 



583 



Be»|s a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, 
However trivial all that he conceives. 
Sweet bashfulness ! it claims at least this praise ; 
The dearth of information and good sense, 
That it foretells us ulways comes to pass. 
Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 
There forests of no meaning spread the page 
In which all comprehension wanders lost; 
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 
With merry descants on a nation's woes. 
The rest appears a wilderness of strange 
But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks 
A.nd lilies for the brows of faded age. 
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 
Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of \. v evr 
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, [sweets. 
Sermons, and city feasts, and favorite airs, 
^Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits, 
And Katerfelto. with his hair on end 
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, 
To peep at such a world ; to see th? stir 
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
To hear the roar she sends through all ber gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease 
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
To some secure and more than mortal height, 
That liberates and exempts me from them all. 
It tpms submitted to my view, turns round 
With ill its generations : I behold 
The tumult and am still. The sound of war 
Ha^ lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 
And avarice that make man a wolf to man ; 
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats 
By which he speaks the language of his heart. 
Aw 1 sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 
He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
From flower to flower, so he from land to land ; 
The manners, customs, policy of all 
Pay contribution to the store he gleans ; 
He sucks intelligence in every clime, 
And spreads the honey of his deep research 
At his return — a rich repast for me. 
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. 
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes 
Discover countries, with a kindred heart 
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ; 
While fancy, like the finger of a clock, 
Runs the great circuit and is still at home. 

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, 
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other 

snows 
Than those of age. thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
But urg'd by storms along its slippery way, 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
D<nvn to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
CtaCrpensating his loss w ich added hours 
CK social converse anu instructive ease, 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 



I crown thee king of intimate delights, 
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates 
No powder'd pert proficient in the art 
Of sounding an alarm assaults these doors 
', Till the street rings; no stationary steeds 
I Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the 
J sound. 

I ""he silent circle fan themselves, and quake : 
i But here the needle plies its busy task. 
• Tue pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, 

Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, 
! Unfolus its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and sprigs. 
j And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, 
;' Follow the nimble finger of the fair; 
{ A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow 
I With mo-1 success when all besides decay. 
| The poet l or historian's page by one 
I Made vocal for the amusement of the rest ; 
I The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sound* 
j The touch from many a trembling chord shake! 

out: j, 

i And the clear voice symphonious. yet distinct, 
| And in the charming .strife triumphant still, 
| Beguile the night, a±:d bet a keener edge 
j On female industry: the threaded steel 
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 
The volume closed, the customary rites 
Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal, 
Such as the mistress of the world once found 
Delicious, when her patriots of high note', 
Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, 
And ui>der an old oak's domestic shade. 
Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg! 
Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, 
Nor such as with a frown ibrbids the play 
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth : 
Nor do we madly, like an impious world, 
Who deem religion frenzy, and the God 
That made them an intruder on their joys, 
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise 
A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, 
Exciting oft our gratitude and love, 
While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand 
That calls the past to our exact review, 
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare 
The disappointed foe. deliverance found 
Unlook'd for, life preserved and peace restored, 
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. 
O evenings worthy of the gods ! exclaim'd 
The Sabine bard. O evenings. I reply. 
More to be prized and coveted than yours, 
As more illumined, and with nobler truths, 
That I. and mine, and those we love, enjoy. 

Is Winter hideous in a garb like this 1 
Needs he the tragic fur. the smoke of lamps, 
The pent-up breath of an unsavory throng, 
To thaw him into feeling ; or the smart 
And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits 
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile 1 
The self-complacent actor, when he views 
(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) 
The slope of faces from the floor to the roof 
(As if one master sprinjr controll'd them all, ) 
Relax'd into a universal grin, 
Sees not a countenance there that speaks of ioj 
Half so refined or so sincere as ours. 
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tnoJu 
That idleness has ever yet contrived 



584 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, 
To palliate dullness, and give time a shove. 
Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
Unsoil'd and swift and of a silken sound ; 
But the World's Time is Time in masquerade ! 
Theirs, should T paint him, has his pinions fledged 
With motly plumes; and. where the peacock 

shows 
His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red 
With spots quadrangular of diamond form. 
Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, 
And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. 
What should be. and what was an hour-glass 

once. 
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace 
Well does the work of his destructive scythe. 
Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion 

blinds 
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most ; 
Whose only happy are their wasted hours. 
E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore 
The backstring and the bib, assume the dress 
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school 
Of card-devoted Time, and. night by night 
Placed at some vacant corner of the board, 
Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. 
But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, 
Where shall I find an end, or how proceed 1 
As he that travels far oft turns aside, 
To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower, 
Which seen <!< lights him not; then, coming 

homt 
Describes and prints it. that the world may know 
How far he went for what was nothing worth ; 
So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread, 
With colors mix'd for a far different use, 
Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thing 
That Fancy finds in her excursive flights. 

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; 
Return, sweet Evening, and continue long ! 
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west. 
With matron step slow moving, while the Night 
Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand em- 
In letting fail the curtain of repose [ploy'd 

On bird and beast, the other charged for man 
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : 
Not sumptuously adorn'd. not needing aid, 
Like homely featured Night, of clustering gems; 
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, 
Suffices thee ; save that the moon is thine 
No less than hers, not worn indeed on high 
With ostentatious pageantry, but set 
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, 
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. 
Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, 
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift : 
And. whether I devote thy gentle hours 
To books, to music, or the poet's toil ; 
To weaving nets for bird- alluring fruit; 
Or twining silken threads round ivory reels, 
When they command whom man was born to 

please ; 
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. 

Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze 
With lights, by clear reflection multiplied 
From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, 
Goliath, mi^ht have seen his giant bulk 
Whole without stooping, towering crest and a .1, 
My pleasures too begin. But me prhaps 
Tiie glowing hearth may satisfy awhile 

iKi faint illumination, that uplifts 
Vi.e shadow? to the ceiling, there by fits 



Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. 

Not undelighr'ful is an hour to me 

So spent in parlor twilight : such a gloom 

Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, 

The mind contemplative, with some new theme 

Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all. [powers, 

Laugh ye, who boast your more mercuria.. 

That never felt a stupor, know no pause, 

Nor need one ; I am conscious and confess, 

Fearless, a soul that does not always think. 

Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wild 

Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers. 

Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd 

In the red cinders, while with poring eye 

I gazed, myself creating what I saw. 

Nor less amused, have I quiescent watch'd 

The sooty films that play upon the bars, 

Pendulous and foreboding, in the view 

Of superstition, prophesying still, [proach. 

Though still deceived, some stranger's near ap- 

'Tis thus the understanding takes repose 

In indolent vacuity of thought, 

And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face 

Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask 

Of deep deliberation, as the man 

Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost. 

Thus oft. reclined at ease, I lose an hour 

At evening, till at length the lii.ezing blast, 

That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home 

The recollected powers ; and, snapping short 

The glassy threads with which the fancy weavei 

Her brittle toils, restores me to myself. 

How calm is my recess ; and how the frost, 

Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear 

The silence and the warmth enjoy'd within ! 

I saw the woods and fields at close of day 

A variegated show ; the meadows green, 

Though faded ; and the lands, where lately waved 

The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 

Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. 

I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 

Wit-i verdure not unprofitable, grazed 

By ii.»cks. fast feeding, and selecting each 

His fax orite herb ; while all the leafless groves, 

That ski ft the horizon, wore a sable hue, 

Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. 

To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 

Which even now. though silently perform'd, 

And slowly, and by most unf It, the face 

Of universal nature undergoes. 

Fast falls a fleecy shower : the downy flakes 

Descending, and with never ceasing lapse, 

Softly alighting upon all below. 

Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 

Gladly the thickening mantle ; and the green 

And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast, 

Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil, 

In such a world, so thorny, and where none 
Finds happiness unblighted ; or. if found, 
Without some thistly sorrow at its side ; 
It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
Against the law of love, to measure lots 
With less distinguished than ourselves; thatthui 
We may with patience bear our moderate ills, 
And sympathize with others suffering more. 
Ill fares the travellei now. and he that stalks 
In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. 
The wain goes heavily, impeded sore 
By congregated loads, adhering close 
To the clogg'd wheels ; and in its sluggish pace 
N isless appears a moving hill of snow. 
The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 



586 



While every breath, by respiration strong 
. Forced downward, is consolidated soon 
Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear 
The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, 
vVith hall-shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and 

teeth 
Presented bare against the storm, plods on. 
One hand secures his hat, save when with both 
He brandishes his pliant length of whip. 
Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. 
O happy ; and, in my account, denied 
That sensibility of pain with which 
Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou ! 
Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed 
The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. 
The learned finger never need explore 
Thy vigorous pulse ; and the unhealthful east. 
That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone 
Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 
Thy days roll on exempt from household care ; 
Thy wagon is thy wife, and the poor beasts, 
That drag the dull companion to and fro, 
Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. 
Ah, treat them kindly ! rude as thou appear'st, 
Yet show that thou hast mercy ! which the great, 
With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place, 
Humane as they would seem, not always show. 

Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, 
Such claim compassion in a night like this, 
And have a friend in every feeling heart. 
• varm'd, while it lasts, by labor all day long 
They brave the season, and yet find at eve, 
111 clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. 
The frugal housewife trembles when she lights 
Her scanty stock of brushwood blazing clear, 
But dying scon, like all terrestrial joys. 
The few small embers left she nurses well ; 
And while her infant race, with outspread hands, 
And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks, 
Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd, 
The man feels least, as more inured than she 
To winter, and the current in his veins 
More briskly moved by his severer toil ; 
Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. 
The taper soon extinguish'd. which I saw 
Dangled along at the cold finger's end 
Just when the day declined ; and the brown loaf 
Lodged on the shelf half eaten without sauce 
Of savory cheese, or butter, costlier still ; 
Sleep seems their only refuge : for, alas, 
Where penury is felt the thought is chained, 
And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few ! 
With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care. 
Ingenious Parsimony fakes, but just 
Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool, 
Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale. 
They live, and live without extorted alms 
From grudging hands ; but other boast have none 
To soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg, 
Nor comfort else, but in then mutual love. 
I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, 
For ye are worthy ; choosing rather far 
A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd, 
And eaten with a sigh, than to endure 
The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs 
*>f knaves in office, partial in the work 
Of distribution ; liberal of their aid 
To clamorous importunity in rags, 
But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blush 
To wear a tatter'd garb however coarse, 
Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth : 
These ask with painful shyness, and, refused 



Because deserving, silently retire ! 
But be ye of good courage ! Time itself 
Shall much befriend you. Time shall give in- 
crease ; 
And all your numerous progeny, well train'd, 
But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, 
And labor too. Meanwhile ye shall not want 
What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, 
Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. 
I mean the man who, when the distant poor 
Need help, denies them nothing but his name. 

But poverty with most, who whimper forth 
Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe ; 
The effect of laziness or sottish waste. 
Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad 
For plunder ; much solicitous how best 
He may compensate for a day of sloth 
By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong. 
Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge, 
Plash'd neatly, and secured with driven stakes 
Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength. 
Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame 
To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil, 
An ass's burden and, when laden most' 
And heaviest, light of fool steals fast away, 
Nor does the boarded hovel better guard 
The well-stack'd pile of riven logs and roots 
From his pernicious foice. Nor 'will he leave 
Un wrench 'd the door, however well secured, 
Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps ' 
In unsuspecting pomp. T witch 'd from the 

perch, 
He gives the princely bird, with all his wives, 
To his voracious bag. struggling in vain, 
And loudly wondering at the sudden change, 
Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse, 
Did pity of their sufferings warp aside 
His principle, and tempt him into sin 
For their support, so destitute. But they 
Neglected pine at home ; themselves, as more 
Exposed than others, with less scruple made 
His victims, robb'd of their defenceless all. 
Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst 
Of ruinous ebriety that prompts 
His every action, and imbrutes the man. 
O for a law to noose the villain's neck 
Who starves his own ; who persecutes the blood 
He gave them in his children's veins, and hates 
And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love ! 

Pass where we may, through city or through 
Village, or hamlet, of this merry land, [town, 
Though lean and beggar'd, every twentieth pace 
Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff 
Of stale debauch, forth issuing from the styes 
That law has licensed, as makes temperance 

reel. 
There sit. involved and lost in curling clouds 
Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, 
The lackey, and the groom: the craftsman theie 
Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil ; 
Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears 
And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike, 
All learned, and all drunk ! the fiddle screams 
Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail eel 
Its wasted tones and harmony unheard : [she 
Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while 
Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, 
Perch'd on the sign-post, holds with even hand 
Her undecisive scales. In this she lavs 
A weight of ignorance ; in that, of pride ; 
And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. 
Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound 



oS6 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The cheek distending oath, not to be praised 

As ornamental, musical, polite, 

Like those which modern senators employ, 

Whose oath is rhetoric, and who sweat for fame ! 

Behold the schools in which plebeian mmds, 

Once simple, are initiated in arts, 

Which some may practise with politer grace, 

But none with readier skill ! — 'tis here they learn 

The road that leads from competence and peace 

To indigence and rapine ; till at last 

Society, grown weary of the load, 

Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. 

But censure profits little : vain the attempt 

To advertise in verse a public pest, 

That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds 

His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. 

The excise is fatten'd with the rich result 

Of all this riot : and len thousand casks, 

Forever dribbling out their base contents. 

Touch 'd by the Midas finger of the stat3, 

Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. 

Drink, and be mad then ; .'tis your country bids ! 

Gloriously drunk, obey the important call ! 

Her cause demands the assistance of your 

throats ; — 
Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. 

Would I had fall'n upon those happier days,. 
That poets celebrate ; those golden times, 
And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings, 
And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. [hearts 
Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had 
That felt their virtues : Innocence, it seems, 
From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the 
The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'd [groves ; 
Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing) 
Then were not all effaced : then speech profane 
And manners profligate were rarely found, 
Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. 
Vain wish ! those days were never : airy dreams 
Sat for the picture : and the poet's hand, 
Imparting substance to an empty shade, 
Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. 
Grant it : — I still must envy them an age 
That favor'd such a dream; in days like these 
Impossible, when Virtue is so scarce, 
That to suppose a scene where she presides, 
Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. 
No : we are polish'd now ! The rural lass, 
Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, 
Her artless manners, and her neat attire, 
So dignified, that she was hardly less 
Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, 
Is seen no more. The character is lost ! 
Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft, 
And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised, 
And magnified beyond all human size, 
Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand 
For more than half the tresses it sustains ; 
Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form 
111 j-ropp'd upon French heels; she might be 

deem'd 
('But that the basket dangling on her arm 
Interprets her more truly) of a rank 
Too proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs 
Expect her soon with footboy at her heels, 
No longer blushing for her awkward load, 
Her train and her umbrella all her care! 

The town has tinged the country : and the stain 
Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, 
The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs 
Down into scenes still rural ; but, alas ! 
Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now ! 



Time was when in the pastoral retreat 
The ungarded door was safe : men did not watcA . 
To invade another's right, or guard their own. 
Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscared 
By drunken howlings ; and the chilling tale 
Of midnight murder was a wonder heard 
W T ith doubtful credit, told to frighten babes, 
But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, 
And slumbers unalarm'd. Now, ere you sleep, 
j See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care 
And drop the night-bolt ; — ruffians are abroad ; 
And the first 'larum of the cock's shrill throat 
May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear 
To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. 
E'en daylight has its dangers ; and the walk 
Through pathless wastes and woods, uncon- 
scious once 
Of other tenants than melodious birds, 
Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold, 
Lamented change ! to which full many a cause 
Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. 
The course of human things from good to ill, 
From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. 
Increase of power begets increase of wealth ; 
Wealth luxury, and luxury excess : 
Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague, 
That seizes first the opulent, descends 
To the next rank contagious, and in time 
Taints downward all the graduated scale 
Of order, from the chariot to the plough. 
The rich, and they that have an arm to check 
The license of the lowest in degree, 
Desert their office ; and themselves, intent 
On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus 
To all the violence of lawless hands 
Resign the scenes their presence might protect. 
Authority herself not seldom sleeps, 
Though resident, and witness of the wrong. 
The plump convivial parson often bears 
The magisterial sword in vain, and lays 
His reverence and his worship both to rest 
On the same cushion of habitual sloth. 
Perhaps timidity restrains his arm ; 
When he should strike he trembles, and sets free 
Himself enslaved by terror of the band, 
The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind 
Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, 
He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove 
Less dainty than becomes his grave outside 
In lucrative concerns. Examine well 
His milk-white hand ; the palm is hardly clean- 
But here and there an ugly smutch appears. 
Foh ! 'twas a bribe that left it : he has touch'd 
Corruption ! whoso seeks an audit here 
Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, 
Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. 
But faster far, and more than all the rest, 
A noble cause, which none, who bears a spark 
Of public virtue, ever wish'd removed, 
Works the deploreo and mischievous effect. 
'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd 
The heart of merit in the meaner class. 
Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage 
Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, 
Seem most at variance with all moral go»d, 
And incompatible with serious thought. 
The clown, the child of nature, without guile, 
Blest with an infant's ignorance of all 
But his own simple pleasures ; now and then 
A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair ; 
Is balloted, and trembles at the news: 
Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling sweara 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 



581 



A Bible-oath to be whate'e*- they please, 
To do he knows, not what The task perform'd, 
That instant he becomes tne sergeant's care, 
His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. 
His awkward gait, his introverted toes. 
Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, 
Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, 
Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff, 
He yet by slow degrees puts off himself. 
Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well: 
He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; 
'He steps right onward, martial in his air, 
His form, and movement ; is as smart above 
As meal and larded locks can make him ; wears 
His hat. or his plumed helmet, with a grace ; 
And, his three yeajs of heroship expired, 
Returns indignanl to the slighted plough. 
He hates the field, in which no fife or drum 
Attends him ; drives his cattle to a march ; 
And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 
'Twere well if his exterior change were all — 
But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost 
His ignorance and harmless manners too. 
To swear, to game, to drink ; to show at home. 
By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath breach, 
The great proficiency he made abroad ; 
To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends ; 
To break some maiden's and his mother's heart ; 
To be a pest where he was useful once ; 
Are his sole aim, and all his glory now. 

Man in society is like a flower 
Blown in its native bed : 'tis there alone 
His faculties, expanded in full bloom, 
Shine out ; there only reach their proper use. 
But man, associated and leagued with man 
By regal warrant, or self-join'd by bond 
For interest sake, or swarming into clans 
Beneath one head for purposes of war, 
Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound 
And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, 
Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr'd, 
Contracts defilement not to be endured. 
Hence charter'd boroughs are such pu blic plagues ; 
And burghers, men immaculate perhaps 
In all their private functions, once combined, 
Become a loathsome body, only fit 
For dissolution, hurtful to the main. 
Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin 
Against the charities of domestic life, 
Incorporated, seem at once to lose 
Their nature ; and, disclaiming all regard 
For mercy and the common rights of man, 
Build factories with blood, conducting trade 
At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe 
Of innocent commercial Justice red. 
Hence too the field of glory, as the world 
Misdeems it. dazzles by its bright array, 
With all its majesty of thundering pomp, 
Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, 
Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught 
On principle, where foppery atones 
For folly, gallantry for every vice. 

But slighted as it is. and by the great 
Abandon'd. and, which still I more regret, 
Infected with the manners and the modes 
It knew not once, the country wins me still. 
I never framed a wish, or form'd a plan, 
That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, 
But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd 
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
Had found me, or the hope of being free. 
My very dreams were rural ; rural too 



The firstborn of my youthful muse, 
Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells 
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. 
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuuea 
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 
Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe 
Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, 
The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. 
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms : 
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd 
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue 
To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. 
I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age 
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first 
Engaged my wonder ; and admiring still, 
And still admiring, with regret supposed 
The joy half lost, because not sooner found. 
There too, enamour'd of the life I loved, 
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 
Determined, and possessing it at last, 
With transports, such as favor'd lovers feel, 
I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had known 
Ingenious Cowley ! and. though now reclaim'd 
By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 
I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. 
I still revere $hee, courtly though retired ; 
Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silen 

bowers, 
Not unemploy'd ; and finding rich amends 
For a lost world in solitude and verse. 
'Tis born with all : the love of Nature's works 
Is an ingredient in the compound man, 
Infused at the creation of the kind. 
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughou 
Discriminated each from each, by strokes 
And touches of his hand, with so much art 
Diversified, that two were never found 
Twins at all points— yet this obtains in all, 
That all discern a beauty in his works,, [form'd 
And all can taste them : minds that have been 
And tutor'd, with a relish more exact, 
But none without some relish, none unmoved. 
It is a flame that dies not even there 
Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds, 
Nor habits of luxurious city life, 
Whatever vise they smother of true worth 
In human bosoms, quench it or abate. 
The villas with which London stands begirt 
Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads 
Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, 
The glimp se of a green pasture, how they cheei 
The citizen, and brace his languid frame ! 
E'en in the stifling bosom of the town 
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms 
That soothe the rich possessor ; much consoled, 
That here and there some sprigs of mournftr 

mint, 
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wall 
He cultivates. These serve him with a hint 
That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green 
Is still the livery she delights to wear. 
Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole 
What are the casements lined with creeping 
The prouder sashes fronted with a range [herbs, 
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, [proofi 
The Frenchman's darling 1* are they not al 
That man, immured in cities, still retains 
His inborn inextinguishable thirst 
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss 

* Mignonette. 



588 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



By supplemental shifts, the best he may 1 
The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, 
And they that never pass their brick- wall bounds, 
To range the fields and treat their lungs with air. 
Yet feel the burning instinct c over head 
Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, 
And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands, 
A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there ; 
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets 
The country, with what ardor he contrives 
A peep at Nature, when he can no more. 

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, 
And contemplation, heart-consoling joys. 
And harmlesss pleasures, in the throng'd abode 
Of multitudes unknown ! hail, rural life ! 
Address himself who will to t^e pursuit 
Of honors, or emolument, or fame ; 
I shall not add myself to such a chase, 
Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. 
Some must be great. Great offices will have 
Great talents. And God gives to every man 
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, 
That lifts him into life, and lets him fall 
Just in the niche he was ordain 'd to fill. 
To the deliverer of an injured land 
He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart 
To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; 
To monarchs dignity ; to judges sense ; ' 

To artists ingenuity and skill; 
To me an unambitious mind, content 
In the low vale of life, that early felt 
A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long 
Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd. 



BOOK V. 

THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

&. frosty morning— The foddering of cattle— The wood- 
man and his dog — The poultry— Whimsical effects of 
frost at a waterfall— The empress of Russia's palace of 
ice— Amusements of monarchs— War, one of them— 
Wars, whence— And whence monarchy— The evils of 
it — English and French loyalty contrasted — The Bas- 
tile, and a prisoner there — Liberty the chief recom- 
mendation of this country — Modern patriotism ques- 
tionable, and why— The perishable nature of the best 
human institutions— Spiritual liberty not perishable— 
The slavish state of man by nature— Deliver him, 
Deist, if you can— Grace must do it— The respective 
merits of patriots and martyrs stated— Their different 
treatment— Happy freedom of the man whom grace 
makes free— His relish of the works of God— Address 
to the Creator. 

Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb 
Ascending, fires the horizon ; while the clouds, 
That crowd away before the driving wind, 
More ardent as the disk emerges more, 
Resemble most some city in a blaze, [ray 

Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting 
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, 
And, tinginji all with his own rosy hue, 
From every herb and every spiry blade 
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 
Mine, spindling into longitude immense, 
In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
That I myself am but a fleeting shade, 
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
f view the muscular proportion'd limb 



Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless paij 
As they design'd to mock me, at my side 
Take step for step ; and, as I near approach 
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, 
Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man. 
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents 
And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, 
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, 
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. 
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence 
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep 
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
Their wonted fodder ; not like hungering man, 
Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent. meek,° 
And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
He from the stack carves out the accustom'd load, 
Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, 
His broad keen knife into the solid mass ; 
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 
With such undeviating and even force 
He severs it away : no needless care, 
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile 
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd 
The cheerful haunts of man ; to wield the axe 
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, 
From morn to eve his solitary task. 
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears 
And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur, 
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a 

frisk 
Wide scampering, snatches up the driften snow 
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; 
Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for 

joy- 
Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl 
Moves right toward the mark ; nor stops foi 

aught, 
But now and then with pressure of his thumb 
To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube, 
That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing clouc 
Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. 
Now from the roost, or from the neighboring 

pale, 
Where, diligent to catch the first fair rdeam 
Of smiling day, they gossip'd side i>y side, [caD 
Come trooping at the housewife's well-known 
The feather'd tribes domestic. Half on wing, 
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, 
Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves, 
To seize the fair occasion: well they eye 
The scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolved 
To escape the impending famine, often scared 
As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 
Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 
Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, 
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'd 
To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
His wonted strut ; and, wading at their head 
With well-consider'd steps, seems to resent 
His alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd. 
How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 
The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, 
Due sustenance, or where subsist they now 1 
Earth yields them nought : the imprison'd worm 

is safe 
Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs 
Lie cover'd close ; and berry-bearing thorns, 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 



58* 



fhat feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,) 

Aflprd the smaller mim trels no supply. . 

The long protracted rigor of the year 

Thins all their numerous flocks. In ohinks and 

holes 
Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, 
As instinct prompts ; self-buried ere they die. 
The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, 
Where neither grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, now 
Repays their labor more ; and, perch 'd aloft 
By the way-side, or stalking in the path, 
Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track, 
Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to 

them, 
\jf voided pulse or half-digested grain. 
The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, 
O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood, 
Indurated and fix'd, the snowy weight 
Lies undissolved ; while silently beneath, 
And unperceived, the current steals away. 
Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps 
She milldara, dashes on the restless wheel, 
And wantons in the pebbly gulf below ; 
No frost can bind it there ; its utmost force. 
Can but arrest the light and smoky mist 
That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. 
And see where it has hung the embroider'd banks 
With forms so various that no powers of art, 
The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene ! 
Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high 
(Fantastic misarrangement !) on the roof 
Large growth of what may seem the sparkling 

trees 
And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops 
That trickle down the branches, fast congeal'd 
Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, 
And prop the pile they but adorn'd before. 
Here grotto within grotto safe defies 
The sunbeam ; there, embossed and fretted wild, 
The growing winder takes a thousand shapes 
Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain 
The likeness of some object seen before. 
Thus Nature works as if to mock at Art, 
And in defiance of her rival powers ; 
By these fortuitous and random strokes 
Performing such inimitable feats 
As she with all her rules can never reach. 
Less worthy of applause, though more admired, 
Because a novelty, the work of man, 
Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ ! 
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, 
The wonder of the North. No forest fell 
When thou wouldst build ; no quarry sent its 

stores, 
To enrich thy walls : but thou didst hew the 

floods, 
And make thy marble of the glassy wave. 
In such a palace Aristseus found 
Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale 
Of his lost bees to her maternal ear : 
In such a palace Poetry might place 
The armory of Winter ; where his troops, 
The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, 
SHn-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, 
And snow, that 6ften blinds the traveller's course, 
And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. 
Silently as a dream the fabric rose ; 
No sound of hammer or of saw was there, 
[cs upon ice, the well-adjusted parts 
Were soon conjoined; nor other cement ask'd 
Than water interfus'd to make them one. 
Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, 
Illumined every side ; a watery light 
wleam'd through the clear transparency, that 

seem'd 
Another moon new risen, or meteor fallen 



From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene 
So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth 
And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound 
Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within, 
That royal residence might well befit, 
For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths 
Of flowers, that fear'd no enemy but warmth, 
Blush'd on the panels. Mirror needed none 
Where all was vitreous ; but in order due 
Convivial table and commodious seat [there ; 
(What seem'd at least commodious seat) were 
Sofa and couch, and high-built throne august. 
The same lubricity was found in all, 
And all was warm to the warm touch ; a &cene 
Of evanescent glory, once a stream, 
And soon to slide into a stream again. 
Alas 'twas but a mortifying stroke 
Of undesign'd severity, that glanced 
(Made by a monarch) on her own estate, 
On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 
'Twas transient in its nature, as in show 
'Twas durable ; as worthless, as it seem'd 
Intrinsically precious ; to the foot 
Treacherous and false ; it smiled, and it was cold. 

Great princes have great playthings. Soiat 
*> have play'd 

At hewing mountains into men, and some 
At building human wonders mountain high. 
Some have amused the dull sad years of life 
(Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad) 
With schemes of monumental fame; and sough 
By pyramids and mausolean pomp. 
Short-lived themselves, to immortalize their bones 
Some seek diversion in the tented field, 
And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. 
But wars a game which, were their subjects wise. 
Kings would not play at. Nations would do wel 
To extort their truncheons from the puny hands 
Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds 
Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, 
Because men suffer it. their toy. the world. 

W T hen Babel was confounded, and the great 
Confederacy of projectors wild and vain 
Was split into diversity of tongues, 
Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, 
These to the upland, to the valley .those, 
God drave asunder, and assign'd their lot 
To all the nations. Ample was the boon 
He gave them, in its distribution fair 
And equal ; and he bade them dwell in peace. 
Peace was awhile their care : they plough'd, and 

sow'd, 
And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife 
But violence can never longer sleep 
Than human passions please. In every heart 
Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war; 
Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. 
Cain had already shed a brother's blood ; 
The deluge wash'd it out ; but left unquench'd 
The seeds of murder in the breast of man. 
Soon by a righteous judgment in the line 
Of Li" dc'ccndmg progeny was found 
The first artUicer nf death ; the shrewd 
Contriver, wuu hrst sweated at the forge, 
And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel 
To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. 
Him Tubal named the Vulcan of old times, 
The sword and falchion their inventor claim; 
And the first smith was the first murderer's son 
His art survived the waters ; and ere long, 
When man was multiplied and spread abroad 
In tribes and clans, and had begun to call 



590 



COWPER'S' WORKS. 



These meadows and that range of hills his own, 
The tasted sweets of property begat 
Desire of more ; and industry in some, 
To improve and cultivate their just demesne, 
Made others covet what they saw so fair. 
Thus war began on earth ; these fought for spoil, 
And those in self-defence. Savage at first 
The onset, and irregular. At length 
One eminent above the rest' for strength. 
For stratagem, or courage, or for all. 
Was chost:n leader; him they served in war. 
And him in <;<-ace, for sake of warlikr deeds, 
Reverenced n.» less. Who could with him com 
Or who so wo/tny to control themselves ] [pare -. 
As he, whose prowess had subdued their foedl 
Thus war affording field for the display 
Of virtue, made one chief whom times of peacs, 
Which have their exigencies too. and call 
For skill in government, at length made king. 
King was a name too proud for man to wear 
With modesty and meekness ; and the crown, 
So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, 
Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound. 
It is the abject property of most, 
That, being parcel of the common mass. 
And destitute of means to raise themselves, 
They sink, and settle lower than they need. 
They know not what it is to feel within • 
A comprehensive faculty, that grasps 
Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, 
Almost without an effort, plans too vast 
For their conception, which they cannot move. 
Conscious of impotence, they soon grow drunk 
With gazing, when they see an able man 
Step forth to notice ; and besotted thus, 
Build him a pedestal, and say, ' Stand there, 
And be our admiration and our praise." 
They roll themselves before him in the dust, 
Then most deserving in their own account 
When most extravagant in his applause, 
As, if exalting him they raised themselves. 
Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound 
And sober judgment, that he is but man, 
They demi-deiiy and fume him so, 
That in due season he forgets it too. 
Inflated and "astrut with self-conceit, 
He gulps the windy diet; and, ere long, 
Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks 
The world was made in vain, if not for him. 
Thenceforth they are his cattle : drudges, borri 
To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, 
And sweating in his service, his caprice 
Becomes the soul that animates them all. 
He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, 
Spent in the purchase of renown for him, 
An easy reckoning ; and they think the same. 
Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings 
Were burnish'd into heroes, and became 
The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; [died. 
Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and 
Strange, that such folly, as hits bloated man 
To eminence, fit only for a god, 
Should ever drivel out of human lips. 
E'en in the cradled weakness of the world ! 
Still stranger much, that, when at length mankind 
Had reacfi'd the sinewy firmness of their youth, 
And could discriminate and argue well 
On subjects more mysterious they were yet 
Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear 
And qua'ke before the gods themselves had made. 
But above measure strange, that neither proof 
^f sad fxporisnce, nor examples set 



By some, whose patriot virtue has prevailMj 
Can even now, when they are grown mature 
In wisdom, and with philosophic deeds 
Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest ! 
Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone 
To reverence what is ancient, and can plead 
A course of long observance for its use, 
That even servitude, the worst of ills, 
Because delivered down from sire to son, 
Is kept' and guarded as a sacred thing ! 
But is it fit, or can it bear the shock 
Of rational discussion, that a man, 
Compounded and made up like other men 
Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust 
And folly in as ample measure meet, 
As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, 
Should be a despot absolute, and boast 
Himself the only freeman of his land 1 
Should when he pleases, and on whom he will, 
Wage war, with any or with no pretence 
Of provocation given, or wrong sustained, 
And force the beggarly last doit, by means 
That his own humor dictates, from the clutch 
Of pow^ty, that thus he may procure 
His thousands, weary of penurious life, 
A splendid opportunity to die 1 
Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old 
Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees 
In politic convention) put your trust 
In the shadow of a bramble, and, reclined 
In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch, 
Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway, 
Where find ye passive fortitude 1 Whence 

springs 
Your self-denying zeal, that holds it good 
To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang 
His thorns with streamers of continual praise 1 
We too are friends to loyalty. We love 
The king who loves the law, respects his 

bounds, 
And reigns content within them : him we serve 
Freely, and with delight, who leaves us free : 
But, recollecting still that he is man, 
We trust him not too far. King though he be, 
And king in England too, he may be weak, 
And vain enough to be ambitious still ; 
May exercise amiss his proper powers, 
Or covet more than freemen choose to grant : 
Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, 
To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, 
But not to warp or change it. We are his 
To serve him nobly in the common cause, 
True' to the death, but not to be his slaves. 
Mark now the difcrence, ye that boast your 

love 
Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. 
We love the man, the paltry pageant you : 
We the chief patron of the commonwealth, 
You the regardless author of its woes : 
We for the sake of liberty a king, 
You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake. 
Our love is principle, and has its root 
In reason, is judicious, manly, free ; 
Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, 
And licks the foot that treads it in the dust 
Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, 
Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, 
[ would not be a king to be beloved 
Causeless, and daub'd with undisceming' 

praise, 
Where love is mere attachment to the throne, 
Mot to the man who fills it as he ought. 

Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at wiD 
Of a superior, he is never free. 
Who lives, and is not weary of a life 
Exposed to manacles, deserves them well. 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 



59) 



The state th.?t strives for liberty, though foil'd, 

And forced to abandon what she bravely sought, 

Deserves ?.t least applause for her attempt, 

And pity for her loss. But that's a cause 

Not otlen unsuccessful: power usurp'd 

Is weakness when opposed ; conscious of wrong, 

'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. 

But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought 

Of freedom, in that hope itself possess 

All that the contest calls for; spirit. stre:\o'.h. 

The scorn or* danger, and united heart-? ; 

The surest presage of the good they seek.* 

Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more 
To France than all her losses and df.ftats. 
Old or of later date by sea or land. 
Her house of bondage, worse tharj that of old 
Which God avenged on Pharaoh- -the Bastile. 
Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts ; 
Ye dungeons, and ye cages of d'/spair, 
That monarchs have supplied from age to age 
With music, such as suits their sovereign ears, 
The sighs and groans of miserable men ! 
There's not an English heart that would not leap 
To hear that ye were fallen at last ( to know 
That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd 
In forging chains for us themselves were free.- 
For he who values Liberty confines 
His zeal for her predominance within 
No narrow bounds ; her cause engages* him 
Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man.- 
There dwell trie most forlorn of human kind, 
Immured though unaccused, condemn'd untried, 
Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape! 
There, like the visionary emblem seen 
By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, 
And. filleted about with hoops of brass, 
Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are 

gone, 
To count the hour-bell, and expect no change ; 
And ever, as the sullen sound is heard, 
Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note 
To him whose moments all have one dull pace, 
Ten thousand rovers in the world at large 
Account it music : that it summons some 
To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball : 
The wearied hireling finds it a release 
From labor; and the lover, who. has chid 
Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke 
Upon fiis heart-strings, trembling with delight — 
To fly for refuge from distracting thought 
To such amusements as ingenious woe 
Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools — 
To read engraven on the mouldy walls. 
In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, 
A sad memorial, and subjoin his own — 
To turn purveyor to an overgorged 
And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest 
Is made familiar, watches his approach. 
Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend — 
To wear out time in numbering to and fro 
The studs that thick emboss his iron door ; 
Then downward and then upward, then aslant, 
And then alternate ; with a sickly hope 
By dint, of change to give his tasteless task 
Some relish ; till the sum, exactly found 
In all directions, he .begins again. — 
Oh comfortless existence ! hemm'd around 

* The author hopes that he shall not be censured for 
unnecessary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He 
Is aware that it is become almost fashionable to stigmatize 
nch sentiments as no better than empty declamation ; 
But it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times. 



With woes, which who that suffers would no* 

kneel 
And beg for exile, or the pangs of death ? 
That man should thus encroach on fellow man, 
Abridge him of his just and native rights, 
I Eradicate him, tear him from his hold 
Upon the endearments of domestic life 
And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, 
And doom him for perhaps a heedless word 
To barrenness, and solitude, and tears, 
Moves indignation, makes the name of king 
(Of king whom such prerogative can please) 
As dreadful as the Maniehoan god, 
Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. 

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower 
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
And we are weeds without it. All constraint, 
Except what wisdom lays on evil men, 
Is evil ; hurts the faculties, impedes 
Their progress in the road of science ; blinds 
The eyesight pi Discovery ; and begets, 
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind 
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit 
To be the tenant of man's noble form. 
Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, 
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed 
By public exigence, till annual food 
Fails for the craving hunger of the state, 
Thee I account still happy, and the chief 
Among the nations, seeing thou art free. 

My native nook of earth ! Thy clime is rude, 
Replete with vapors, and disposes much 
All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine 
Thine unadulterate manners are fess soft 
A;. a plausible than social life requires: 
And thou hast need of discipline and art 
To give thee what politer France receives, 
From nature's bounty — that humane address 
And sweetness without which no pleasure is 
In converse, either starved by cold reserve, 
Or flu=ih'd with fierce dispute, a serseless liawL 
Yet being free I love thee: for the s ke 
Of that one feature can be well content, 
Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, 
To seek no sublunary rest beside. 
But once enslaved, farewell ! I could endure 
Chiii n^ nowhere patiently; and chains at home 
Where I am free by birthright, not at all. 
Then what were left of roughness in the grain 
Of British natures, wanting its excuse 
That it belongs to freemen, would disgust 
And shock me I should then with double pain 
Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime ; 
And. if I must bewail the blessing lost, 
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, 
I would at least bewail it under skies 
Milder, among a people less austere ; 
In scenes which, having never known me free, 
Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. 
Do I forebode impossible events, [may ! 

And tremble at vain dreams 1 Heaven grant I 
But the age of virtuous politics is past, 
And we are deep in that of cold pretence. 
Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, 
And we too wise to trust them. He that takes 
Deep in his soft credulity the stamp 
Design'd by loud declaimers on the part 
Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, 
Incurs derision for his easy faith 
And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough: 
For when was public virtue to be found 
Where private was not 1 Can he love the whole 



Who loves no part 1 He be a nation's friend 
Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there 1 
Can he be strenuous in his country's cause 
Who slights the charities for whose dear sake 
That country, if at all, must be beloved 1 

'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad 
For England's glory, seeing it wax pale [hearts 
And sickly, while her champions wear their 
So loose to private duty, that no brain. 
Healthful and undisturb d by factious fumes, 
Can dream them trusty to the general weal. 
Such were not they of old, whose temper'd blades 
Dispersed the shackles of usurp'd control, [sons 
And hev'd them link from link; then Albion's 
Wc.e sons indeed ; they felt a filial heart 
Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs ; 
And. shining each in his domestic sphere, 
Shone brighter still, once call'd to public view. 
'T' r - Jiierefore many, whose sequester'd lot 
Forbids 'heir interference, looking on, 
Anticipate perforce some di™ 3 event; 
And, seeing the old castle of the state. 
That promised once more firmness, so assail'd 
Tha' all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, 
otand motionless expectants of its fall. 
AH has its date below ; the fatal hour 
Was r^giacer'd in heaven ere time began. 
Wc turn to dust, and all our mightiest works 
Die f oo : the deep foundations that we lay, 
xime ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. 
W~ build with what we deem eternal rock : 
A distant age asks where the fabric stood ; 
And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain, 
The undisooverable secret sleeps. 

But there is yet a liberty, unsung 
By poets, and by senators unpraised, 
Which monarchs cannot giant, nor all the powers 
Of earth and hell confederate take away . 
A liberty which persecution, fraud. 
' >ppression. prisons, have no power to bind : 
Which whoso ta*tes can be enslaved no more. 
'Tis liberty of heart, derived from Heaven, ' 
Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, 
And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 
By the unimpeachable and awful oath 
And promise of a God. His other gifts 
All bear the royal stamp that, speaks them his, 
And are aug ist ; but this transcends them all. 
His other w .rks. the visible display 
Of all-creating energy and might, 
Are grand, no doubt and worthy of the word 
That, finding an interminable space 
Unoccupied, has rill'd the void so well. 
And made so sparkling what was, dark before. 
But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, 
Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene. 
Mig. t well suppose the Artificer divine 
Meant it eternal, had he not himself 
Pronounced it transient glorious as it is, 
And, still designing a more glorious far, 
Dooin'd it as insufficient for his praise. 
These, therefore, are occasional and pass; 
Form'd for the confutation of the fool, 
Whose lying heart disputes against a God; 
That office served, they must be swept away. 
Not so the labors of his love : they shine 
In "ther heavens than these that we behold, 
And fade not. There is paradise that fears 
.No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends 
Large prelibation oft to saints below. 
Of these the first in order, and the pledge 



And confident assurance of the rest, 
Is liberty : a flight into his arms, 
Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, 
A clear escape from tyrannizing lust, 
And full immunity from penal woe 

Chains are the portion of '•r.oited man, 
Stripes, and a dungeon ; and his body serve* 
The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, 
Opprobrious residence he finds them all 
Prepense his heart to idols, he is held 
In silly dotage on created thing?, 
Careless of their Creator. And that iow 
And sordid gravitation of his powers 
To ■** vile clod so draws him. with such force 
Resistless from the centre he should seek, 
That he at last forgets it. All his hopes 
Tend downward ; his ambition is to sink, 
To reach a depth profounder still, and still 
Pro founder, in the fathomless abyss 
Of folly plunging in pursuit of death. 
But, ere he gain the comfortless repose 
He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul, 
In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures — 
What does he not. from lusts opposed in vain, 
And self-reproaching conscience ! He foresees 
The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, 
Fortune ami dignity ; the loss of all 
That can ennoble him. and make frail life, 
Short as it is. supportable. Still worse, [sins 
Far worse than all the plagues, with which hia 
Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes 
Ages of hopeless misery. Future death. 
And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, 
Like that which sends him to the dusty grave ; 
But unrepeatable enduring death. 
Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears : 
*» ,r h t none can prove a forgery may be true ; 
"''(;<: none but bad men wish exploded must. 
That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud 
Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst 
Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ; 
And he abhors the jest by which he shines. 
Remorse begets reform. His master-lust 
Falls first before his resolute rebuke, [ensues, 
Auil aeeras dethroned and vanquished. Peace 
But spurious and short-lived ; the puny child 
Of self-congratulating pride, begot 
On fancied innocence. Again he falls. 
And fights again ; but finds his best essay 1 " 
A presage ominous, portending still 
Its own dishonor by a worse relapse. 
Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd 
So oil. and wearied in the vain attemci, 
Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now 
Takes part with appetite, and pleads the causa 
Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd ; 
With shallow shifts and old devices, worn 
And tatter'cl in the service of debauch, 
Covering his shame from his offended sight. 

" Hath God indeed given appetites to man, 
And stored the earth so plenteously with mean* 
To gratify the hunger of his wish ; 
And doth he reprobate, and will he damn 
•fhe use of his own bounty 1 making first 
So frail a kind and then enacting laws 
So strict, that less than perfect must despair? 
Falsehood ! which whoso but suspects of truth 
Dishonors God, and makes a slave of man. 
Do they themselves, who undertake for hire 
The teacher's office, arid dispense at large 
Their weekly dole of edifying strains, 
Attend to their own music ] have they faith 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK 



593 



In what, with such solemnity of tone 
And gesture, they propound to our belief? 
Nay— conduct hath the loudest tongue. The 

voice 
Is but an instrument, on which the priest 
May play what tune he pleases. In the deed. 
The unequivocal, authentic deud, 
We find sound argument, we road the heart.' 1 

Such reasonings (ii'that name must needs be- 
To excuses in which reason has no part) [long 
Serve to compose i spirit well inclined 
To live on terms of amity with vice, 
And sin without disturbance. Often urged, 
(As often as libidinous discourse 
Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes 
Of theological and grave import) 
They gain at last his unreserved assent ; 
Till harden'd his heart's temper in the forge 
Of lust, and on the anvil of despair, [moves 

He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing 
Or nothing mu' h his constancy in ill ; 
Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease ; 
'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. 
Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. 
Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear 
Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth 
How lovely, and the moral sense how sure. 
Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps 
Directly to the first and only fair. 
Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers 
Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise : 
Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, 
And with poetic trappings grace thy prose, 
Till it outmantle all the pride of verse. — 
Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass. 
Smitten in vain ! such music cannot charm 
The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, 
And chills and darkens a wide wandering soul. 
The still small voicfi is wanted. He must 

speak, 
Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect ; 
Who calls for things that are not, and they come. 
Grace makes the slave a freeman. : Tis a 

change 
That turns to ridicule the turgid speech 
And stately tone of moralists, who boast. 
As if, like him of fabulous renown, 
They had indeed ability to smooth 
The shag of savage nature, and were each 
An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song. 
But transformation of apostate man 
From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, 
Is work for Him that, made him. He alone, 
And He by means in philosophic eyes 
Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves 
The wonder; humanizing what is brute 
In the lost kind, extracting from the lips 
Of asps their venom, overpowering strength 
By weakness, and hostility by love. 

Patriots have toil'd. and in their country's cause 
Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, 
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge 
Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, 
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down 
To latest tunes; and Sculpture, in her turn, 
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass 
To guard them and to immortalize her trust : 
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid. 
To those who posted at the shrine of Truth, 
Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood, 
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, 
And for a time ensure to his loved land 



The sweets of liberty and equal laws ; 

But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, 

And win it with more pain. Their blood is she 

In confirmation of the noblest claim — 

Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, 

To walk with God. to be divinely free. 

To soar, and to anticipate tiie skies. 

Yet few remember them. They lived unknown 

Tiil Persecution dragg'd them into fame, 

And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew 

— No marble tells us whither. With their names 

No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : 

And history, so warm on meaner themes, 

Is cold on this. She execrates indeed 

The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, 

But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.* 

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And ail are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, 
Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of nature, and, though poor perhaps, compared 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 

| With a propriety that none can fed. 

i But who with filial confidence inspired. 

' Can lift to heaven an un presumptuous eye, 
And smiling say — " My Father made them all I' 
Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
And by an emphasis of interest his. 
Whose eye they ftll with tears of holy joy, 
Whose heart with praise and whose exalted mind 
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love 
That plann'd, and built, iittii still upholds a world 
So clothed with beauty tor rebellious man 1 
Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
The loaded soil, am" 1 ye may waste much g d 
In senseless riot ; but ye will not find 
In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, 
A liberty like his who, 'inimpeach'd 
Of usurpation, an. I to o man's wrorv., 
Appropriates nature as his Father o woiK, 
And has a richer use of yours than you. 
He is indeed a freeman, free by birth 
Of no mean city ; .plann'd or e'er the hills 
Were built the fountains open'd, or the sea 
With all hi. : roaring multitude of waves. 
His freed .en is the same in every state ; 
And r;o condition of this changeful life, 
So manifold in cares, whose every day 
Brings its own evii with it. makes it less : 
For he has wings that neither sickness, pain. 
Nor penury, can cripple or confine. 
No nook so narrow but he spreads them there 
With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds 
His body bound ; but knows not what a range 
His spi :.i takes. uncimscicus of a chain ; 
And that to bind him is a vain attempt. 
Whom God delights in. and in whom he dwells. 
Acquaint thyself with God. if thou wouldst 
His works. Admitted once to his embrace, [taste 
Thou shalt perceive that thou was blind before ; 
Thine eye?, shall be instructed ; and thine heart 
Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight 
'Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought 
Brutes graze the mountain-top. with faces prone, 
And eyes intent upon the scanty herb 

* See Hume. 
38 



594 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



[t yields them ; or, recumbent on its brow, 
Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread 
Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away 
From inland regions to the distant main. 
Man views it. and admires ; but rests content 
.With what he views. The landscape has his 

praise. 
But not its Author. Unconcern'd who form'd 
The paradise he sees, he finds it such, 
And. such well pleased to find it, asks no more. 
Not so the mind that has been touch'd from 

Heaven. 
And in the school of sacred wisdom taught 
To read his wonders in whose thought the world, 
Fair as it is. existed ere it was. 
Not for its own sake' merely, but for his 
Much more who fashion'd it, he gives it praise ; 
Praise that, from earth resulting, as it ought, 
To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once 
Its only just proprietor in Him. 
The soul that sees him or receives sublimed 
New faculties, or learns at least to employ 
More worthily the powers she own'd before, 
Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze 
Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, 
A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms 
Terrestrial in the vast and the minute ; 
The unambiguous footsteps of the God, 
Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing. 
And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. 
Much conversant with Heaven, she often holds 
With those fair ministers of light to man, 
That nightly fill the skies with silent pomp, 
Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were 

they 
With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste 
To gratulate the new-created earth, 
Sent -forth a voice, and all the sons of God 
Shouted for joy. — " Tell me, ye shining hosts, 
That navigate a sea that knows no storms, 
Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, 
If from your elevation, whence ye view 
Distinctly scenes invisible to man, 
And systems of whose birth no tidings yet 
Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race 
Faror'd as ours ; transgressors from the womb, 
And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, 
And to possess a brighter heaven than yours 1 
As one who long detained on foreign shores 
Pants to return, and when he sees afar 
His country's weather-bleach 'd and batter'd rocks 
From the green wave emerging, darts an eye 
Radiant with joy towards the happy land ; 
So I with animated hopes behold, 
And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, 
That show like beacons in the blue abyss, 
Ordain'd to guide the embodied spirit home 
From toilsome life to never-ending rest. 
Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires 
That give assurance of then own success, 
And that, infused from Heaven, must thither 

tend." 
So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truth 
Illuminates. Thy lamp : mysterious Word ! 
Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost, 
With intellects bemazed in endless doubt, 
But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built, 
With moans that were not till by thee ernploy'd, 
Worlds that had never been hadst thou in strength 
Been less, or less benevolent than strong. 
They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power 
And goodness infinite, but speak in ears 
That hear not, or receive not their report. 



In vain thy creatures testify of thee, 
Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed 
A teaching voice ; but 'tis the praise of thine 
That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn. 
And with the boon gives talents for its use 
Till thou art heard, imaginations vain 
Possess *he heart, and fables false as hell, 
Y"et, deem'd oracular, lure down to death. 
The unin form'd. and heedless souls of men. 
We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves ae 
The glory of thy work ; which yet appears [blind. 
Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, 
Challenging human scrutiny, and proved 
Then skilful most when most severely judged. 
But chance is not ; or is not where thou reign'st ; 
Thy providence forbids that fickle power 
(If power she be that works but to confound) 
To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. 
Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can 
Instruction, and inventing to ourselves [sleep, 
Gods such as guilt makes welcome ; gods that 
Or disregard our follies, or that sit 
Amused spectators of this bustling stage. 
Thee we reject, unable to abide 
Thy purity ; till pure as thou art pure ; 
Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause, 
For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. 
Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, 
Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven 
Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 
A* voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, [song, 
Till thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of 
A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works ; 
Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, 
And adds his rapture to the general praise. 
In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide 
Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 
The author of her beauties, who, retired 
Behind his own creation, works unseen 
By the impure, and hears his power denied. 
Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
From thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
At random without honor, hope, or peace. 
From thee is all that soothes the life of man. 
His high endeavor, and his glad success, 
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
But, O thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! 
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; 
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. 



BOOK VI. 

THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 

THE 'ARGUMENT. 

Bells at a distance— Their effect— A fine noon in winter 
— A sheltered walk — Meditation better than books — 
Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it ap- 
pear less wonderful than it is — The transformation that 
spring effects in a shrubbery described —A mistake con- 
cerning the course of nature correcltvt— (.Jod maintains 
it by an unremitted act — The amusements fashionable 
at this hour of the day reproved — Animate happy, a 
delightful sight— Origin of cruelty to animals— That it 
is a great crime proved from Scripture — That, proof 
illustrated by a tale — A line drawn between the lawful 
and unlawful destruction of them — Their good and 
useful properties insisted on- -Apology for the once- 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



696 



miume bestowed by the author on animals — Instances 
of man's extravagant praise of man — The groans of 
the creation shall have an end — A view taken of the 
restoration of all things — An invocation and an invi- 
tation of Him who shall bring it to pass — The retired 
man vindicated from the charge of uselceauess— Con- 
clusion. 



There is in souls a sympathy with sounds; 

And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased 

With melting airs or martial, brisk, or grave : 

Some chord in unison with what we hear 

Is touch'd within us. and the heart replies. 

How soft the music of those village bells. 

Falling at intervals upon the ear 

[n cadence sweet, now dying all away, 

Now pealin<r 'oud again, and louder still, 

Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 

With easy force it opens all the cells ' 

Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard 

A kindred melody, the scene recurs. 

And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 

Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 

That in a few short moments I retrace 

(As in a map the voyager his course) 

The windings of my way through many years. 

Short as in retrospect the journey seems, 

It seem'd not always short ; the rugged path, 

And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn 

Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. 

Yet, feeling present evils, while the past 

Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, 

How readily we wish time spent revoked, 

That we might try the ground again, where once 

(Through inexperience, as we now perceive) 

We miss'd that happiness we might have found ! 

Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend 

A father, whose authority, in show 

When most severe, and mustering all its force. ' 

Was but the graver countenance of love : [lower. 

Whose favor, like the clouds of spring, might 

And utter now and then an awful voice. 

But had a blessing in its darkest frown. 

Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. 

We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand 

That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age. allured 

By every gilded folly, we renounced 

His sheltering side and wilfully forewent 

That converse.' which we now in vain regret, 

How gladly would the man recall to life 

The boy's neglected sire! a mother too. 

That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still. 

Might he demand them at the gates of death. 

Sorrow has. since they went subdued and tamed 

The playful humor; he could now endure 

(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) 

And feel a parent's presence no restraint. 

But not to understand a treasure's worth 

Till time has stolen away the slighted good, 

Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 

And makes th.p world the wilderness it is. 

The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, [hold, 

And. seeking gra • • to improve the prize they 

Would urge a wiser <uit than asking more. 

The night was winter in his roughest mood ; 
The morninijr sharp and clear. But now at noon 
Upon the southern side of the slant hills 
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 
The season smiles resigning all its rage, 
ind has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
Without a cloud and white without a spnek 
The dazzling splendor of the scene below. 
igain the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 



And through the trees T view the embattled tower 
Whence all the music. I again perceive 
The soothing influence of the wafted strains. 
And settle in soil musings as I tread 
The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
The roof though moveable through all its length 
As the wind sways it. has yet well sufficed, 
And, intercepting in their silent fall 
The frequent flakes has kept a path for me. 
No noise is here or none that hinders tho-rht. 
The redbreast warbles still, but Ls content 
With slender notes, and more that half .sup- 
press d : 
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, 
That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so sc ft. 
Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
May think down hours to moments. Here the 
May give a useful lesson to the head. [hear' 
And Learning wiser grow without his bcoks. 
Knowledge and Wisdom far from being one. 
Have oft times no connexion. Knowledge d"°«»3 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge a rude unprofitable mass, 
The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, 
Till smooth'd, and squared, and fitted to its 

place 
Does but encumber whom it seems to er- -i< h. 
Knowledge is proud that he has leair^ d sm 

much ; 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
Books are not seldom talismans and spells, 
By which the magic art of shrewder wits 
Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. 
Some to the fascination of a name [style 

Surrender judgment hoodwink'd. Some the 
Infatuates, and through labyrinth and wilds 
Or" error leads them, by a tune entranced. 
While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear 
The insupportable fatigue of thought. 
And swallowing therefore without pause or choice 
The total grist unsifted husks and all. 
But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course 
Defies the check of winter, haunts of deei, 
And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs. 
And lanes in which the primrose ere her time 
Peeps through the moss that clothes the haw- 
thorn root. 
Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, 
Not shy, as in the world, and to be won 
By slow solicitation seize at once 
The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. 

What prodigies can power divine perform 
More grand than it produces year by year, 
And all in sight of inattentive man? 
Familiar with the effect, we slight the cause. 
And in the constancy of nature's course, 
The regular return of genial months, 
And renovation of a faded world, 
See nought to wonder at. Should God again, 
As once in Gibeon. interrupt the race 
Of the undeviating and punctual sun, [ x cn 

How would the world admire ! but speaks i' 
An agency divine, to make him know 
His mc inert when to sink and when to rise, 
Age after «.ge than to arrest his course? 
All we brnold is miracle ; lut seen 
So duly, ill is miracle m vain 



596 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Where now the vital energy that moved, 
While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph 
Through the imperceptible meandering veins 
Of' leaf' and flower] It sleeps; and the icy 
Of unprolific winter has impressed [touch 

A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. 
But let the months go round, a few short months. 
And all shall be restored. These naked shoots. 
Barren as' lances, among which the wind 
Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, 
Shall put their graceful foliage on again, 
\nd. more aspiring and with ampler spread, 
Shall boast new charms, and more than they 

have lost. 
Then each, in its peculiar honors clad, 
Shall publish, even to the distant eye, 
Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich 
In streaming gold ; syringa ivory pure ; 
The scentless and the scented rose; this red, 
And of an humbler growth the other* tall, 
And throwing up into the darkest gloom 
Of neighboring cypress, or more sable yew. 
Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf 
That the wind severs from the broken wave ; 
The ;lac, various in array, now white. 
Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set 
With purple spikes pyramidal, as if, 
Studious of ornament, yet unresolved [all: 

Which hue she most approved, she chose them 
Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, 
But well compensating her sickly looks 
With never-cloying odors, early and late ; 
Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm 
Of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods, 
That scarce' a leaf appears; mezereon too, 
Though leafless : well attired, and thick beset 
With blushing wreaths, investing every spray ; 
Althaea with the purple eye; the broom, 
Yellow and bright as bullion unalloy'd 
Her blossoms ; and luxuriant above all 
The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets. 
The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd 

leaf 
Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more 
The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars. — 
These have been and these shall be in their day ; 
And all this uniform, uncolor'd scene 
Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load. 
And flush into variety again. 
From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, 
Is nature's progress, when she lectures man 
In heavenly truth ; evincing, as she makes 
The grand transition, that there lives and works 
A soul in all things, and that soul is God. 
The beauties of the wilderness are his, 
That make so gay the solitary place. 
Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms 
That cultivation glories in, are his. 
He sets the bright procession on its way, 
And marshals all the order of the year ; 
tie marks the bounds which Winder may not pass, 
And blunts his poin f ed fury ; in its case. 
Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ. 
Uninjured, with inimitable art; 
And. ere one flowery season fades and di s 
Designs the blooming wonders of the nex ; 

Some say, that in the origin of things, 
When all creation started into birth, 
The infant elements received a law, [force 

From which they swerve not since ; that under 

* The Guelder Rose. 



Of that controling ordinance they move, 

And need not his immediate hand, who first 

Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. 

Thus dream they and contrive to save a God 

The incumb/ance of his own concerns, and spare 

The great Artificer of all that moves 

The stress of a continual act. the pain 

Of unremitted vigilance and care, 

As too laborious and severe a task. 

So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, 

To span omnipotence, and measure might. 

That knows no measure, by the scanty rule 

And standard of his own, that is to-day, 

And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. 

But how should matter occupy a charge, 

Dull as it is and satisfy a law 

So vast in its demands, unless impell'd 

To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, 

And under pressure of some conscious cause 

The Lord or' all. himself through all diffused, 

Sustains and is the life of all that lives. 

Nature is but a name for an effect, 

Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire, 

By which the mighty process is maintain'd, 

Who sleeps not. is not weary ; in whose sight 

Slow circling ages are his transient days; 

Whose work is without habor ; whose designs 

No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts; 

And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. 

Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, 

With self-taught rites, and under various names 

Female and male. Pomona. Pales, Pan, 

And Flora, and Verturanus ; peopling earth 

With tutelary goddesses and gods 

That were not ; and commending as they would 

To each some province, garden field, or grove. 

But all are under one. One spirit, His 

Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows 

Rules universal nature. Not a flower 

But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 

Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 

Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, 

And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 

In grains as countless as the seaside sands, 

The forms with which he sprinkles all the aarth. 

Happy who walks with him ! whom w hat he finds 

Of flavor or of scent in fruit or flower. 

Or what he views of beautiful or grand 

In nature, from the broad majestic oak 

To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, 

Proaipts with remembrance of a present God. 

His presence, who made all so fair, perceived 

Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene 

Is dreary, so with him all seasons please. 

Though winter had been none, had man beei 

true, 
And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake, 
Yet not in vengeance : as this smiling sky, 
So soon succee ling such an angry night, 
And these dissolving snows and this clear strearr 
Recovering fast its liquid music, prove. [tuned 
Who then that has a mind well strung and 
To contemplation, and within his reach 
A scene so friendly to his favorite task, 
Would waste attention at the chequer'd board, 
His host of wooden warriors to and fro 
Marching and countermarching, with an eye 
As fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridged 
And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand 
Trembling, as if eternity were hung 
In balance on his conduct of a pin 1 
Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



697 



Who pant with application misapplied 

To trivial joys, and pishing ivory balls 

Across a velvet level, feel a joy 

Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds 

Its destined goal of difficult access. 

Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon 

To miss, the mercer's plague, from shop to shop 

Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks 

The polish 'd counter, and approving none. 

Or promising with smiles to call again. 

Nor him who, by his vanity seduced 

And soothed into a dream that he discerns 

The difference of a Guido from a daub 

Frequents the crowded auction: station'd there 

As duly as the Lungford of the show. 

With glass at eye. and catalogue in hand, 

And tongue accomplished in the fulsome cant 

And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease: 

Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls, 

He notes it in his book, then raps his box. 

Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate 

That he has let it pass — but never bids. 

Here unmolested, through whatever sign 
The sun proceeds. 1 wander. Neither mist. 
Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, 
Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. 
E'en in the spring and playtime of the year. 
That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
With all her little ones, a sportive train. 
To gather kingcups in the yellow mead. 
And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick 
A cheap but wholesome salad trom the brook. 
These shades are all my own. The timorous 

hare. 
Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, 
Scarce shuns me ; and the stockdove unalarm'd 
Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends 
His long love-ditty for my near approach. 
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm. 
That age or injury has hollow'd deep. 
Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves. 
He has outslept the winter, ventures forth 
To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun. 
The squirrel, flippant pert, and full of play : 
He sees me. and at once, swift as a bird. 
Ascends the neighboring beech : there whisks 

his brush. 
And perks his ears and stamps and cries aloud. 
With all the prefctiness of feign'd alarm. 
And anger insignificantly fierce. 

fThe heart is hard in nature, and unfit 
For human fellowship, as being void 
Of sympathy, and. therefore dead alike 
To love and friendship both that is not pleased 
With sight of animals enjoying life, 
Nor feels their happiness aug'.nent his own. 
The bounding fawn, that darts across the glade 
Where none pursues, through mere delight of 

heart. 
And spirits buoyant with excess of glee ; 
The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet, 
That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, 
Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his 

heels, 
Starts to the voluntary race again; 
The very kine that gambol at high noon. 
The total herd receiving first from one 
That leads the dance a summons to be gay, 
Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth 
Their efforts, y^t resolved with one consent 
To give such act and utterance as they may 
ri o ecstacy too oi£ to be suppress'd — 



These, and a thousand images of bliss, 

With which kind Nature graces every scene, 

Where cruel man defeats not her design, 

Impart to the benevolent, who wish 

All that are capable of pleasure pleased, 

A far superior happiness to theirs. 

The comfort of a reasonable joy. V 

Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call 
Who form'd him from the dust, his future grave 
When he was crown'd as never king was since. 
God set the diadem upon his head. 
And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood 
The new-made monarch, while before him pass'd, 
All happy, and all perfect in their kind, [haunts 
The creatures, summoned from their various 
To see their sovereign, and confess his sway. 
Vast was his empire, absolute his power, 
Or bounded only by a law, whose force 
'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel 
And own. the law of universal love. 
He ruled with meekness, they obeyed with joy j 
No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart, 
And no distrust of his intent in theirs. 
So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, 
Where kindness on his part, who rules the whole, 
Begat a tranquil confidence in all. 
And fear as yet was not. nor cause to fear. 
But sin marr'd all; and the revolt of man, 
That source of evils not exhausted yet, 
Was punish'd with revolt of his from him. 
Garden of God. how terrible the change [heart 
Thy groves and lawns then witness'd ! Everv 
Each animal, of every name, conceived 
A jealousy and an instinctive fear, 
And. conscious of some danger, either fled 
Precipitate the loathed abode of man, 
Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort, 
As taught him too to tremble in his turn. 
Thus harmony and family accord 
Were driven from Paradise ; and in that hour 
The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd 
To such irigantir and enormous growth. 
Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. 
Hence date the persecution and the pain 
That man indicts on all inferior kinds, 
U -:/:i ;vl|< ■--, of their plaints. To make him sport, 
To gmnry the frenzy of his wrath, 
Or his base gluttony, are causes good 
And just in his account, why bird and beast 
Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed 
With blood of their inhabitants impaled. 
Earth groans beneath the burden of a war 
Waged with defenceless innocence, whde he, 
Not satisfied to prey on all around, 
Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs 
Needless, and first torments ere he devours. 
Now happiest they that occupy the scenes 
The most remote from his abhorrd resort, 
Whom once, as delegate of God on earth, 
They fear'd. and as his perfect image loved. 
The wilderness is theirs, with all its caves, 
Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains, 
Unvisited by man. There they are free, 
And howl and roar as likes them, uncontroll'd 
Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. 
Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude 
Within the confines of their wild domain : 
The lion tells him — 1 am monarch here ! 
And, if he spare him. spares him on the terms 
Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn 
To rend a victim trembling at his foot. 
In measure, as by force of instinct drawn. 



598 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Or by necessity constraint, they live 

Dependent upon man ; those in his fields. 

These at his crib; and some beneath his roof; 

They prove too often at how dear a rate 

He sells protection. Witness at his foot 

The spaniel dying for some venial fault, 

Under dissection of the knotted scourge ; 

Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells 

Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs, 

To madness ; while the savage at his heels 

Laughs at the sufferer's fury, spent 

Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. 

He too is witness, ' noblest of the train 

That wait on man, the flight performing horse : 

With unsuspecting readiness he takes 

His murderer on his back, and, push'd all day, 

With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for 

life, 
To the far distant goal, arrives and dies. 
So little mercy shows who needs so much ! 
Does law, so jealous in the cause of man, 
Denounce no doom on the delinquent 1 None. 
He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts 
(As if barbarity were high desert) 
The inglorious feat, and clamorous in praise 
Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose 
The honors of his matchless horse his own. 
But many a crime deem'd innocent on earth 
Is register'd in heaven ; and these no doubt 
Have each their record, with a curse annex'd. 
Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, 
But Goi will never. When he charged the Jew 
To assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise ; 
And when the bush-exploring boy that seized 
The young, to let the parent bird go free ; 
Proved he not plainly that his meaner works 
Are yet his care, and have an interest all, 
All, in the universal Father's love 1 
On Noah, and in him on all mankind, 
The charter was conferr'd, by which we hold 
The flesh of animals in fee. and claim 
O'er all we feed on power of life and death. 
But read the instrument, and mark it well : 
The oppression of a tyrannous control 
Can find no warrant there. Feed thf-n, and yield 
Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin 
Feed on the slain, but spare the living bmtc ! 

The Governor of all himself to all 
So bountiful in whose attentive ear 
The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp 
Plead not. in vain for pity on the pangs 
Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed 
Not seldom, his avenging arm. to smite 
The injurious trampler upon Nature's law, 
That claims forbearance even for a brute. 
He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart; 
And. prophet as he was. he might not strike 
The blameless animal, without rebuke, 
On which he rode. Her opportune offence 
Saved him or the unrelenting seer had died. 
He sees that human equity is slack 
To interfere, though in so just a cause ; 
And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumb 
And helpless victims with a sense so keen 
Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength. 
And such sagacity to take revenge, 
That oft the beast has seem'd to judge the man. 
An ancient, not a legendary tale. 
By one of sound intelligence rehearsed, 
(If such who plead for Providence may seem 
In modern eyes.) shall make the doctrine clear. 

Where England, stretch'd towards the setting 



Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, 
Dwelt young Misagathus ; a scorner he 
Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, 
Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. 
He journey'd ; and his chance was as he went 
To join a traveller, of far different note, , 
Evander, famed for piety, ibr years 
Deserving honor, but for wisdom more. 
Fame had not left the venerable man 
A stranger to the manners 'of the youth, 
Whose face too was familiar to his view. 
Their way was on the margin of the land, 
O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base 
Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard st 

high. 
The charity that warm'd his heart was moved 
At sight of the man monster. With a smile 
Gentle, and affable, and full of grace, 
As fearful of offending whom he wish'd 
Much to persuade he plied his ear with truths 
Not harshly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd, 
But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet 
11 And dost thou dream." the impenetrable man 
Exclaimed • that me the lullabies of age, 
And fantasies of dotards such as thou, 
Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in mel 
Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave 
Need no such aids as superstition lends, 
To steel their hearts against the dread of death.' 
He spoke, and to the precipice at hand 
Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks 
And the blood thrills and curdles at the though 
Of such a gulf as he design'd his grave. 
But though the felon on his back could dare 
The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed 
Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly roundj 
Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge 
Baffled his rider, saved against his will. 
The frenzy of the brain may be redrass'd 
By medicine well applied, but without grace 
The heart's insanity admits no cure. 
Enraged the more by what might have reform'c 
His horrible intent again he sought 
Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy 'd, 
With sound ing whip, and rowels dyed in blood. 
But still in vain. The Providence that meant 
A longer date to the far nobler beast, 
Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake. 
And now. his prowess proved, and his sincere 
Incurable obduracy evinced, [earn'd 

His rage grew cool ; and pleased perhaps to have 
So cheaply the renown of that attempt. 
With looks of some complacence he resumed 
His road, deriding much the blank amaze 
Of good Evander. still where he was left 
Fix'd motionless, and petrified with dread. 
So on they fared. Discourse on other themes 
Ensuing seem'd to obliterate the past; 
And tamer far for so much fury shown, 
(As is the course of rash and fiery men.) 
The rude companion smiled, as if transform'd. 
But 'twas a transient cakn. A storm was neai 
An unsuspected storm. His hour was oome. 
The impious challenger of power divine [wrath 
Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow U 
Is never with impunity defied. 
His horse, as he had caught kis master's mood, 
Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, 
Unbidden, and not now to be controll'd, 
Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'd it, stood 
At once the shock unseated him : he flew 
Sheer o'er the craggy barrier ; and, immersed 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



59 



Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, 
The death he had deservec, and died alone. 
So God wrought double justice ; made the fool 
The victim of his own tremendous choice, 
And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. 

I would not enter on my list of friends [sense, 
(Though graced with polish'd manners and fine 
Yet wanting sensibility) the man » 

Who needlessly sets toot upon a worm. / 
An inadveiitmt step may crush the snail 
That crawls at evening in the public path: 
But he that has humanity, forewarn'd, 
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 
The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. 
And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, 
A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 
Sacred to neatness, and repose, the alcove, 
The chamber, or refectory, may die : 
A necessary act incurs no blame. 
Not so when, held within their proper bounds, 
And guiltle'ss of offence, they range the air. 
Or take their pastime in the spacious field : 
There they are privileged ; and he that hunts 
Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, 
Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, 
Who. when she form'd. design'd them an abode. 
The sum is this. If man's convenience, health, 
Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. 
Else they are all — the meanest things that are, 
As free to live, and to enjoy that life, 
As God was free to form them at the first, 
Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. 
Ye therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
To love it too. The spring-time of our years 
Is soon dishonor'd and denied in most, 
By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
To check them. But, alas ! none sooner shoots, 
If unrestrain'd , into luxuriant growth, 
Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. 
Mercy to him that shows it is the rule 
And righteous limitation of its act, 
3y which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man ; 
And he that shows none, being ripe i;i years, 
And conscious of the outrage he commits, 
Shall seek it, and not find it in his turn. 

Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more 
By our capacity of grace divine, 
From creatures that exist but for our sake, 
Which, having served us, perish, we are held 
Accountable ; and Gcd, some future day, 
V /ill reckon with us roundly for the abuse 
Of what he deeins no mean or trivial trust. 
Superior as we are, they yet depend 
Not more on human help than we on theirs. 
Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given 
In aid of our defects. In some are found 
Such teachable and apprehensive parts. 
That man's attainments in his own • wu^rns, 
Match'd with the expertness of th brutes in 

theirs, 
Are ofttimes vanquish'd and thrown far behind. 
Some sbow that nice sagacity of smell. 
And read with such discernment, in the port 
And figure of the man, his secret aim, 
That oft we owe our safety to a skill 
We could not teach, and must despair to learn 
But learn we might if not too proud to stoop 
To quadruped instructors, many a good 
And useful quality, and virtue too, 
Rarely exemplified among ourselves — 
detachment never to be wean'd or changed 



By any change of fortune ; proof alike 
Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; 
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat 
Can move or warp ; and gratitude for small, 
And trivial favors, lasting as the life 
And glistening even in the dying eye. 

Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms 
Wins public honor ; and ten thousand sit 
Patiently present at a sacred song, 
Commemoration-mad ; content to hear r 

(O wonderful effect of music's power !) 
Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake. 
But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve— « 
(For was it less, what heathen would have dare* 
To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath, 



And han<r it up in honor of 



Much less might serve, when all that we design 

It but to gratify an itching ear, 

And give~the day to a musician's praise. 

Remember Handel 1 Who, that was not born 

Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, 

Or can, the more than Homer of his age 1 

Yes — we remember him ; and while we praise 

A talent so divine, remember too 

That His most holy book, from whom it came, 

Was never meant, was never used before, 

To bu< kram out the memory of a man. 

But iitish ! — the muse perhaps is too severe; 

And. with a gravity beyond the size 

And measure of the offence rebukes a deed' 

Let- impious than absurd and owing more 

To,want of judgment than to wrong design. 

So in the chapel of old Ely House, [third, 

When wandering Charles, who meant to be the 

Had fled from William, and the news was iresh, 

The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, 

And eke did rear right merrily, two staves, 

Sung to the praise and glory of King George ! 

— Man praises man ; and Garrick's memory next, 

When time hath somewhat mel.Dw'd it, and made 

The idol of our worship while he lived 

The god of our idolatry once more, 

Shall have its altar ; and the world shall go 

In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. 

The theatre, too small, shall suffoea'e 

it3 squeezed contents, and more ifrm it admits 

Shell sigh at their exclusion, and return 

Umrratiued : for there some noble lord [bunch, 

Shall stuff his shoulders with king Richard's 

Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, [stare, 

And strut, and s'^rin. and straddle, stamp, and 

To show the world how Garrick did not act — 

For Garrick was a worshipper himself; 

He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites 

And solemn ceremonial of the day, 

And call'd the world to worship on the banks 

Of Avon, famed in song. Ah, pleasant proof 

That piety had still in human hearts 

Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. 

The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming 

wreaths ; 
Tho mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance ; 
The mulberry-tree was bymn'd with dulcet airs; 
And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree 
Supplied such relics as devotion holds 
Still sacred, and preserves with pious care. 
So 'twas a hallow'd time : decorum reign'd, 
And mirth without offence. No few return'd, 
Doubtless much edified, and all refresh'd. 
— Man praises man. The rabble all alive, 
From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, 
Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day 



600 



COW^RN WORKS. 



A pompous and sIcv-ir^'Tig' ragean , comes. 
Some . Lou* hin , .anc seme hang upon his car, 
To gaze in his eye f , and bless him. Maidens 

wa^'e 
I'heit kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy ; 
While others, not so satisfied, unhorse 
The o 'ev. equipage, and turning loose 
His steeds, isurp a place they well deserve. 
Why! what has charm'd them ! Hath lie saved 

the state ! 
No. Doth he purpose its salvation ! No. 
Enchanting novelty, that moon at full 
"^na* finds out every crevice of the head 
That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs 
Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near 
And his' own cattle must suffice him soon. 
Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, 
And dedicate a tribute in its use 
And just direction sacred, to a thing 
Doom'd to the dust, or lodged already there. 
Encomium in old time was poet's work ; 
But poets, having lavishly long since 
Exhausted all materials of the art, 
The task now falls into the public hand ; 
And I, contented with an bumble theme, 
Have pour'd my stream of panegyric down 
The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds 
Among her lovely works with a secure 
And unambitious course, reflecting clear, 
If not the virtues, yet the worth of brutes. 
/And I am recompensed, and deem the toils 
Of poetry not i -t, if verse of mine 
May stand between an animal and woe, 
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudgeA 

The groans of Nature in this nether world, 
Which heaven has heard for ages, have an end. 
Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, 
Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, 
The time of rest, the promised sabbath, comes. 
Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh 
FulfiU'd their tardy and disastrous course 
Over a sinful world ; and what remains 
Of this tempestuous state of human things 
Is merely as the working of a/sea 
Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest ; 
For He, whose car the winds are, and 

clouds 
The dust that waits upon his sultry march, 
When sin hath moved him, and his wrath i: 
Shall visit earth in mercy ; shall descend 
Propitious in his chariot paved with love ; 
And what his storms have blasted and defaced 
For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. • 

Sweet is the harp of prophecy ; too sweet 
Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch : 
Nor can the wonders it records be sung 
To meaner music, and not suffer loss. 
But when a poet, or when one like me, 
Happy to rove among poetic flowers, 
Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last 
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair. 
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels : 
To give it praise proportion'd to its worth. 
That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems 
The labor, were a task more arduous still. 
O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, 
Scenes of accomplish ; d bliss ! which who can see. 
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel 
His soul ref'resh'd with foretaste of the joy! 
Rivers of gladness water all the earth. 
And clothe all climes with beauty ; the reproach 
Of tarrenness is past. The fruitful field [lean, 
' -igbs with abundance; and the land, once 



the 



hot, 



Or fertile only in its own disgrace, 

Exults to see its thistly curse repeal'd. 

The various seasons woven into one, 

And that one season an eternal spring, 

The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, 

For there is none to covet, all are full. 

The lion, and the libbard, and the bear 

Graze with the fearless flocks ; all bask at noon 

Together, or all gambol in the shade 

Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. 

Antipathies are none. No foe to man 

Lurks in the serpent now : the mother sees, 

And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand 

Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, 

To stroke his azure neck, or co receive 

The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. 

All creatures worship man, and all mankind 

One Lord, one Father. Error has no place ; 

That creeping pestilence is driven away ; 

The breath of heaven has chased it. In the 

heart 
No passion touches a discordant string, 
But all is harmony and love. Disease 
Is not : the pure uncontaminate blood 
Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age, 
One song employs all nations : and all cry, 
" Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us ! " 
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
Shout to each other, and the mountain tops 
From distant mountains catch the flying joy ; 
Till, nation after nation taught the strain, 
Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. 
Behold the measure of the promise fill'd ; 
See Salem built, the labor of a God ; 
Bright as a sun, the sacred city shines ; 
All kingdoms and all princes of the earth 
Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands 
Flows into her ; unbounded is her joy, 
And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, 
Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there ;* 
The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, 
And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there. 
Praise is in all her gates : upon her walls, 
And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, 
Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 
Kneels with the native of the farthest west ; 
And ^Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand, 
And worships. Her report has travell'd forth 
Into all lands. From every clime they come 
To see thy beauty, and to share thy joys, 
Sion ! an assembly such as earth 
Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. 
Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were 

once 
Perfect, and all must be at length restored. 
So God has greatly purposed ; who would else 
In his dishonor'd works himself endure 
Dishonor, and be wrong'd without redress. 
Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world, 
Ye slow-revolving seasons ! we would see 
(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) 
A world that does not dread and hate his law 
And suffer for its crime ; would learn how fair 
The creature is that God pronounces good, 
How pleasant in itself what pleases him. 
Here every drop of honey hides a sting ; 
Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flow 

ers ; 
And e'en the joy that haply some poor heart 
Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, 
Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint 

* Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and pro 
genitors of the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture her* 
alluded to, may be reasonably considered as repreatnU 
Uvea of the Gentiles at large. 



THE TASK.-THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



GOl 



Prom touch of human lips, at best impure. 
for a world in principle a6 chaste 
As this is gross and selfish ' over which 
Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, 
That govern all things here, shouldering aside 
The meek and modest Truth, and farcing her 
To seek a refuge from the tongue of Strife 
[n nooks obscure, far from the ways of men : 
Where Violence shall never lift the swA'd. 
Nor Cunning justify the proud man's wrong, 
Leaving the poor no remedy but tears: 
Where he. time hi!.- an office, shall esteem 
The occasion it presents of doing good [speak 
More tflfen the perquisite : where Law shall 
Seldom, and never but as Wisdom prompts 
And Equity ; not jealous more to guard 
A worthless form than to decide aright: — 
Where Fashion shall not sanctity abuse. 
Nor smooth Good-breeding (supplemental grace^ 
With lean performance ape the work of Love : 
Come then. and. added to thy many crowns, 
Receive yet one. the crown of all the earth. 
Thou who alone art worthy ! It was thine 
By ancient covenant, ere Nature's birth ; 
And thou hast made it thine by purchase since, 
And overpaid its value with thy blood, [hearts 
Thy saints proclu'.ir. thee king; and in their 
Thy title :3 engraven with a pen 
Dipp'd in the fountain of eternal love. 
Thy saints proclaim thee kin/;; and thy delay 
Gives courage to their foes, who. cuuld they see 
The dawn of thy last advent, long desired, 
Would creep into the bowels of the hills, 
And flee for safety to the falling rocks. 
The very spirit of the world is tire 1 
Of its own taunting question, a\k'<! so long, 
" Where is the promise of your L, rd's approach ?" 
The infidel has shot hi.; bolts away, 
Till, his exhausted <; f.ver yielding none, 
He gleans the blunted charts that have recoil : d, 
And aims them at the shield of Truth acram. 
The veil is rent, rent too by pricsiiy h^nds, 
That hides divinity from mortal eyes ; 
And all the mysteries to faith proposed, 
Insulted and traduced, are cast aside. 
As useless, to the moles and to the bats, [praised; 
They now are deem'd the faithful, and are 
Who, constant only in rejecting thee. . 
Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal. 
And quit their office for their error's sake. 
Blind, and in love with darkness! yet e'en these 
Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel 
Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man ! 
So fares thy church. But how thy church may 
fare [preach. 

The world takes little thought. Who will may 
And what the)' will. All pastors are alike 
To wandering sheep, resolved to follow none. 
Two gods di>Me them all — Pleasure and Gain: 
For these they five, they sacrifice to these, 
And in their service »-age perpetual war [hearts. 
With Conscience and with thee. Lust in their 
And mischief in their iiands. they roam the earth 
To prey upon each at her: stubborn, fierce, 
High-minded. foaiiHng out their own disgrace. 
Thy prophets speak of such ; and. noting down 
The features of the last degenerate times, 
Exhibit every lineament ofthese. 
Come then, and, added to thy munv crowns, 
Reoeive yet one, as radiant as tLn ivst 
D le to thy last and most effectual work, 
Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world ! 



He is the happy man whose life e'en now 
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come ; 
Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, 
Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, 
Would make his fate his choice ; whom peace, 

the fruit 
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, 
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one 
Content indeed to sojourn while he must 
Below the skies, but having there his home. 
The world o'erlooks him in her busy search 
Of objects, more illustrious in her view : 
And, occupied as earnestly as she, 
I Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. 
! She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them 

not ; 
I He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. 
He cannot skim the ground like summer birds 
' Pursuing gilded flies ; and such be deems 
j Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. 
. Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss, 
Whose power is such, that whom she lifts froa 

earth 
I She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, 
j And shows him glories yet to be revealed. 
Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, 
And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams 
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird 
That flutters least is longest on the wing. 
Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, 
Or what achievements of immortal fame 
He purposes, and he shall answer — None 
His warfare is within. There unfatigued 
His fervent spirit labors. There he fights, 
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, 
And never-withering wreaths, compared with 

which 
The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. 
Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, 
That as she sweeps him with her whistling 

silks 
Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, 
Deems him a cypher in the works of God, 
Receives advantage from nis noiseless hours, 
Of which she little dreams Perhaps she owes 
Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring 
And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he 

makes, 
When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint 
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide, 
And thinks on her, who thinks not for herself 
Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns 
Of little worth, an idler in the best, 
If, author of no mischief and some good, 
He seek his proper happiness by means 
That may advance, but cannot hinder, 

thine. 
Nor, though he thread the secret path of life, 
Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, 
Account him an encumbrance on the state, 
Receiving benefits, and rendering none. 
His sphere, though humble, if that humble 

sphere 
Shin* with his fair example, and though small 
His influence, if that influence all be spent 
In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, 
In aiding helpless indigence, in works 
From which at least a grateful few derive 
Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, 
Then let the supercilious great confess 
He serves his country, recompenses well 
The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine 
He sits secure, and in the s^ale of life 
Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. 
The man, whose virtues are more felt than 
seen 



502 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ; 
But he may boast, what few that win it can, 
That, if his country stand not by his skill. 
At least his follies have not wrought her fall. 
Polite Refinement offers him in vain 
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world 
Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, 
The neat conveyance hiding all the oflfence. 
Net that he peevishly rejects a mode 
Because that world adopts it. If it bear 
The stamp and clear impression of good sense, 
And be not costly more than of true worth, 
He puts it on. and. for decorum sake. 
Uan wear it e'en as gracefully as she. 
She judges of refinement by the eye. 
He by the test of conscience, and a heart 
Not soon deceived ; aware that what is base 
No polish can make sterling ; and that vice, 
Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd, 
Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flowers 
Is but a garnish ! d nuisance, fitter far 
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. 
So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, 
Move golden than that age of fabled gold 
Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care 
Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved 
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. 



So glide my life away ! and so. at last, 

My share of duties decently fulfill'd. 

May some disease, not tardy to perform 

Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, 

Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, 

Beneath the turf that I have often trod. 

It shall not grieve me then that once, when call'c 

To dre? c n Sofa with the flowers of verse, 

I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair. 

With that light task; but soon, to please hei 

more, 
Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, 
Let fall the unfinish'd wrr ath, and rovUl fo* 
fruit : [true. 

Roved far. and gather'd much : some harsh, 'tia 
Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof, 
But wholesome, well-digested ; grateful some 
To palates that can taste immortal truth; 
Insipid else, and sure to be despised. 
But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek. 
In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, 
If he regard not, though divine the theme. 
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime 
And idle tinckling of a minstrel's lyre, 
To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart ; 
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain. 
Whose approbation — prosper even mine. 



AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 



Dear Joseph — five-and-twenty years ago — 
Aias. how time escape ' — 'tis even so — 
With frequent intercoms, and always sweet, 
And always friendly, we' vvere wont to cheat 
A tedious hour — and now we never meet ! 
As some grave gentleman in Terence says, 
£Twas therefore much th'j same in ancient dt ys,) 
Good lack, we know not w hat to-morrow brings— 
Strange fluctuation of all human things ! 
True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, 
But distance only cannot change the heart : 
And were I call'd to prove the assertion true, 
One proof should serve — a reference to you. 

Whence comes it then. that, in the wane of life, 
Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, 
Wft find the friends we fancied we had won. 
Though numerous onct, reduced to few or none 1 
Can gold grow worthless that has sf >od the 

touch % 
No ; gold they seem'd. but they were never such. 

Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, 
Swinging the parlor door upon its hinge, 
Dreading a negative, and overawed • 

Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. 
Go, fellow ! — whithei I — turning short about — 
Nay — stay at home — you're always going out. 
'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end. — 
For what 1 — An please you, sir, to see a friend. — 
A friend ! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start — 
Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. 
And fetch my cloak ; for though the night be raw, 
PH see him too — the first I ever saw. 



i 1 knew the man, and a new his nature mild, 
! And was his playtl.ing often when a child ; 
i But somewhat at thai .a-tniont pinch'd him close, 
| Else he was seldom bitter or morose. 
I Perhaps his confidence, just then betray'd, [made, 
His grief might prompt him with the speech ha 
Perhaps 'twas mere good humor gave it birth, 
The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth, 
Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, 
Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. 

But nol to moralize too much, and strain 
To prove an evil of which all complain ; 
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun ;) 
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
Once on a time an emperor, a wise man, 
No matter where, in China or Japan, 
Decreed that whosoever should offend 
Against the well-known duties of a friend, 
Convicted once, should ever after wear 
But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
The punishment importing this, no doubt, 
That all was naught within, and all lbund ou» 

Oh. happy Britain ! we have not to fear 
Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 
Else, could a law like that which I relate * 
Once have the sanction of our triple state, 
Some few, that I have known in days of old, 
Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold 
While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow 
Might traverse England safely to and fro, 
An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, 
Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within. 



TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS 



Ke<pa\aiov 6rj naiSeias opBrj rpoipri. — Plato. 

Ajj^tj wo^ireias airaarn vecjv r'poipa. — Diog. Lakrt. 



To the Rev. William Uawthorne Unwin, Rector of Stock 
in Essex, the tutor of his two sons, the following poem, 
recommending private tuition in preference to an edu- 
cation at school, is inscribed by his affectionate friend, 
William Cowpkr. 

olney, Nov. 6, 1784. 



It is not from his form, in which we trace 
Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, 
That man. the master of this globe, derives 
His right of empire over all that lives. 
That form, indeed, the associate of a mind 
Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, 
That form, the labor of Almighty skill, 
Framed for the service of a free born will, 
Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, 
But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. 
Hers is the state, the splendor, and the throne, 
An intellectual kingdom all her own. 
For her the memory fills her ample page 
With truths pour'd down from every distant age ; 
For her amasses an unbounded store, 
The wisdom of great nations, now no more ; 
Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil; 
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil ; 
When copiously supplied, then most enlarged ; 
Still to be fed. and not to be surcharged. 
For her the Fancy, roving unconfined, 
The present muse of every pensive mind, 
Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue 
To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew. 
At her command winds rise and waters roar, 
Again she lays them slumbering on the shore; 
With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies, 
Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. 
For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife {life, 
That Grace and Nature have to wage through 
Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, 
Appointed sage preceptor to the Will, 
Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice 
Guides t!«e decision of a doubtful choice. 

Why did the fiat of a God give birth 
To yon fair Sun, and his attendant Earth 1 
And, when descending he resigns the skies, 
Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise. 
Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves, 
And owns her power on every shore he laves 1 
Why do the seasons still enrich the year, 
Fruitful and young as in their first career 1 
Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, 
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; 
Summer in haste the thriving charge receives 
Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, 
Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews 
Dye them at last in all their glowing hues. — 



I 'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, 
Power misemploy'd, munificence misplaced 

I Had not its Author dignified the plan, 

! And crown'd it with the majesty of man. 

J Thus form'd, thus placed, intelligent, and ta'igLt 
Look where he will, the wonders God Lav 
wrought, 

J The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws, 
Finds in a sober moment time to pause, 
To press the important question on his heart, 
"Why form'd at all. and wherefore as thou art?' 
If man be what he seems, this hour a slave, 
The next mere dust and ashes in the grave ; 
Endued with reason only to descry 
His crimes and follies with an aching eye ; 

i With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, 

| The force he spends against their fury vain ; 

j And if. soon after having burnt, by turns, 
With every lust with which frail Nature burns, 
His being end where death dissolves the bond, 
The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond ; 
Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth, 
Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth 
And, useless while he lives, and when he dies, 
Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. 
Truths that the learn'd pursue with eage 
thought 
Are not important always as dear-bought, 
Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, 
A childish waste of philosophic pains ; 
But truths on which depend our main concern. 
That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn 
Shine by the side of every path we tread 
With such a lustre, he that runs may read 
'Tis true that, if to trifle fife away 
Down to the sunset of their latest day, 
Then perish on futurity's wide shore 

I Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, 
Were all that Heaven required of human kind, 
And all the plan their destiny design'd. [blame, 
What none could reverence all might justly 
And man would breathe but for his Maker'? 

shame. 
But reason heard, and nature well perused, 
At once the dreaming mind is disabused. 
If all we find possessing earth, sea, air, 
Reflect His attributes who placed them there, 
Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd 
Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing mind, 
"Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to inves 
With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, 
Received his nobler nature, and was made 
Fit for the power in which he stands arrayed; 
That first, or last, hereafter, if not here, 
He too night make his author's wisdom clear, 



604 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb, 
Suffer his justice in a world to come. 
This once believed, 'twere logic misapplied 
To prove a consequence by none denied, 
That we are bound to cast the minds of youth 
Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth, 
That taught of God they may indeed be wise, 
Nur ignorantly wandering miss the skies. 

In early days the conscience has in most 
A. quickness, which in later life is lost : 
Preserved from guilt by salutary fears, 
Or guilty soon relenting into tears. 
Too careless often, as our years proceed, [read, 
What friends we sort with, or what books we 
Our parents yet exert a prudent care 
To feed our infant minds with proper fare ; 
And wisely store the nursery by degrees [ease. 
With wholesome learning, yet acquired with 
Neatly secured from being soil'd or torn 
Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, 
A book (to please us at a tender age 
Tis call'd a book, though but a single page) 
Presents the prayer the Saviour deign'd to teach. 
Which children use, and parsons — when they 
Lisping our syllables, we scramble next [preach. 
Through moral narrative, or sacred text ; 
And learn with wonder how this world began, 
Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd 
man : [plain, 

Points which, unless the Scripture made them 
The wisest heads might agitate in vain. 
Oh thou. whom, borne on fancy's eager wing 
Back to the season of life's happy spring, 
I pleased remember, and, while memory yet 
Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget ; 
Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale 
Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail : 
Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple 

st yle> 

May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
Witty, and well employed, and, like thy Lord, 
Speaking in parables his slighted word ; 
I name thee not, lest so despised a name 
Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame ; 
Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, 
That mingles all my brown with sober grey, 
Revere the man whose Pilgrim marks the road, 
And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 
'Twere well with most, if books that could engage 
Their childhood pleased them at a riper age ; 
The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, 
Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy, 
And not with curses on his heart, who stole 
The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. 
The stamp of artless piety impress'd 
By kind tuition on his yielding breast, 
The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw, 
Regards with scorn, though once received with 
And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies, [awe ; 
That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise, 
Blasphemes his creod, as founded on a plan 
Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. 
Touch but. his nature in its ailing part, 
Assert the native evil of his heart, 
His pride resents the charge, although the proof* 
Rise in his forehead, and seem rank enough 
Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross 
fs God's expedient to retrieve his loss, 
The young apostate sickens at the view, 
Ani hates it with the malice of a Jew. 

* See 2 Chron. xxvi. 19. 



How weak the barrier of mere nature prove* 
Opposed against the pleasures nature loves ! 
While sell'betray'd, and wilfully undone, 
She longs to yield, no sooner wooed than won. 
Try now the merits of this blest exchange 
Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range. 
Time was, he closed as he began the day, 
With decent duty, not ashamed to pi"<y ; 
The practice was a bond upon his heaii, 
A pledge he gave for a consistent part. ; 
Nor could he dare presumptuously displease 
A power confess'd so lately on his knees. 
But now farewell all legendary tales, 
The shadows fly, philosophy prevails ; 
Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves ; 
Religion makes the free by nature slaves. 
Priests have invented, and the world admired 
What knavish priests promulgate as inspired ; 
Till Reason, now no longer overawed, [fraud, 
Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy 
And, common sense diffusing real day, 
The meteor of the Gospel dies away. 
Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth 
Learn from expert inquirers after truth ; 
W T hose only care, might truth presume to speak. 
Is not to find what they profess to seek. 
And thus, well tutor'd only while we share 
A mother's lectures and a nurse's care ; 
And taught at schools much mythologic stuff,* 
But sound religion sparingly enough ; 
Our early notices of truth disgraced, 
Soon lose their credit, and are all effaced. 
Would you your son should be a sot or dunce 
Lascivious, headstrong or all these at once ; 
That in good time the stripling's finish'd taste 
For loose expense and fashionable waste 
Should prove your ruin, and his own at last ; 
Train him in public with a mob of boys, 
Childish in mischief only and in noise, 
Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten. 
In infidelity and lewdness men. 
There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, 
That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold-, 
That pedantry is all that schools impart, 
But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart ; 
There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays, 
Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise 
His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove, 
And some stieet-pacing harlot his first love. 
Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong, 
Detain their adolescent charge too long ; 
The management of tiros of eighteen 
Is difficult, their punishment obscene. 
The stout tall captain, whose superior size 
The minor heroes view with envious eyes, 
Becomes their pattern upon whom they fix 
Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. 
His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit, 
With them is courage ; his effrontery wit. 
His wild excursions, window-breaking feats, 
Robbery of gardens quarrels in the streets, 
His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring 
scherr.es, ['.hemes. 

Transport them, and are made their favorite 
In little bosoms such achievements strike 
A kindred spark : they burn to do the like. 

* The author begs leave to explain.— Sensible that, 
without such knowledge, neither the ancient poets nor 
historians can be tasted, or indeed understood, he doe» 
not mean to censure the pains that are taken to instruct 
a schoolboy in the religion of the heathen, b-it merely 
that neglect of Christian culture which leaves aim shame' 
fully ignorant of his own. 



TIROCINIUM. 



oO£ 



Thus, half accomplish 'd ere he yet begin 

To show the peeping down upon his chin , 

And, as maturity of years comes on, 

Made just the adept that you design'd your son ; 

To ensure the perseverance of his course, 

And give your monstrous project all its force, 

Send him to college. If he there be tamed, 

Or in one article of vice reclaim'd, 

Where no regard of ordinance is shown 

Or look'd for now, the fault must be his own. 

Some sneaking virtue lurks in him no doubt, 

Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking 

bout, 
Nor gambling practices can find it out. 
Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too, 
Ye nurseries of our boys, we owe to you : 
Though from ourselves the mischief more pro 

ceeds, 
For public schools 'tis public folly feeds. 
The slaves of custom and establish'd mode, 
With packhorse constancy we keep the road, 
Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, 
True to the jingling of, our leader's bells. 
To follow foolish precedents, and wink 
With both our eyes, is easier than to think : 
And such an age as ours balks no expense, 
Except of caution and of common sense ; 
Else sure notorious fact, and proof so plain, 
Would turn our steps into a wiser train. 
I blame not those who, with what care they can, 
O'erwatch the numerous and unruly clan ; 
Or, if I blame, 'tis only that they dare 
Promise a work of which they must despair 
Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole, 
A ubiquarian presence and control, 
Elisha's eyi>, *hat, when Gehazi stray'd, 
Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd ? 
Yes — ye are conscious ; and on all the shelves 
Your pupils strike upon have struck yourselves. 
Or if, by nature sober, ye had then, 
Boys, as ye were, the gravity of men, 
Ye knew at least, by constant proofs address'd 
To ears and eyes,, the vices of the rest. 
But ye connive at what ye cannot cure, 
And evils not to be endured endure. 
Lest power exerted, but without success. 
Should make the little ye retain still less. 
Ye once were justly famed lor bringing forth 
Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth ; 
And in the firmament of fame still shines 
A glory, bright as that of all the signs 
Of poets raised by you. and statesmen and divines' 
Peace to thorn all ! those brilliant times are fled, 
And no such lights are kindling in their stead. 
Our striplings shine indeed, but with such rays 
As set the midnight riot in a blaze ; 
And seem, if judged by their expressive looks. 
Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. 

Say. muse, (for education made the song, 
No muse can hesitate or linger long ) 
What causes move us knowing, as we must, 
That these menageries all fail their trust 
To send our sons to scout and scamper tin re 
While colts and puppies cost us so much care 1 

Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise. 
We love the play-place of our early days ; 
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone 
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. 
The wall on which we tried our graving skill 
The very name we carved subsisting still ; 
The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd. 
Though mangleil, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet 
destroy 'd ; 



The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot. 
Playing our games, and on the very spot ; 
As nappy as we once, to kneel and draw 
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; 
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, 
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat ; 
The pleasing spectacle at once excites 
Such recollection of our own delights, 
That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain 
Our innocent sweet simple years again. 
This fond attachment to the well-known place, 
Whence first we started into life's long race, 
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, 
W T e feel it e'en in age. and at our latest, day. 
Hark ! how the sire of chits, whose future shara 
Of classic food begins to be his care, 
With his own likeness placed on either knee, 
Indulges all a father's heartfelt glee ; 
And tells them as he strokes their silver locks 
That they must soon learn Latin, and to bos ,- 
Then turning, he regales his listening wife 
With all the adventures of his early life ; 
His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise. 
In bilkinjr tavern-bills, and spouting plays; 
What shifts he used, detected in a scrape, 
How he was flogg'd, or had the luck to escape ; 
What sums he lost at play, and how he sold 
Watch, seals, and all — till all his pranks are told, 
Retracing thus his frolics, ('tis a name 
That palliates deeds of folly and of shame,) 
He gives the local bias all its sway ; 
Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall plaj 
And destines their bright genius to be shown 
Just in the scene where he display'd his own. 
The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught 
To be as bold and forward as he ought ; 
The rude will scuffle through with ease enough 
Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. 
Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, 
The event is sure ; expect it. and rejoice ! 
Soon see your wish fulfill'"*! in either child, 
The pert made perter and the tame made wild. 

The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth, 
Excused the incumbrance of more solid worth, 
Are best disposed of where with most success 
Tb ev may acquire that confident address, 
T.K^se habits of profuse and lewd expense, 
That scorn of all delights but those of sense, 
Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn. 
With so much reason, all expect from them. 
But families of less illustrious fame, 
Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, 
Whose heirs, their honors none, their incomj 
Must shine by true desert, or not at all. [small, 
W T hat dream they of. that, with so little care 
They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure 

there 1 
They dream of little Charles or AVilliam graced 
With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist ; 
They see the attentive crowds his talents draw, 
They hear him speak — the oracle of law. 
The father, who designs his babe a priest, 
Dreams him episcopally such at least ; 
' And, while the playful jockey scours the room 
i Briskly astride upon the parlor broom, 
, In fancy sees him more superbly ride 
In coach with purple lined, and mitres on ita 

side. 
Events improbable and strange as these, 
Which only a parental eye forsees, 
A public school shall bring to pass with ease. 
But how 1 resides such virtue in that air, 
As must create an appetite for prayer 1 



606 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



And will it breathe into him all the zeal 
That candidates for such a prize should feel. 
To take the lead and be the foremost still 
In all true worth and literary skill 1 
" Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught 
The knowledge of the World, and dull of thought ! 
Church ladders are not always mounted best 
By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd. 
The exalted prize demands an upward look, 
Not to be found by poring on a book. 
Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek. 
Is more than adequate to all I seek. 
Let erudition grace him, or not grace, 
I give the bauble but the second place ; 
His wealth, fame, honors, all that I intend, 
Subsist and centre in one point — a friend. 
A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects, 
Shall give him consequence, heal all defects 
His intercourse with peers and sons of peers — 
There dawns the splendor of his future years: 
In that bright quarter his propitious skies 
Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. 
Your Lordship, and Your Grace ! what school 

can teach 
A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech ? 
What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose, 
Sweet interjections ! if he learn but those 1 
Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke, 
Who starve upon a dog's ear'd Pentateuch, 
The parson knows enough who knows a duke." 
Egregious purpose ! worthily begun 
In barbarous prostitution of your son ; 
Press'd on his part by means that would dis- 
grace 
A scrivener's clerk, or footman out of place, 
And ending, if at last its end be gain'd, 
In sacrilege, in God's own house profaned. 
It may succeed : and if his sins should call 
For more than common punishment, it. shall ; 
The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on 

earth 
Least qualified in honor, learning, worth, 
To occupy a sacred, awful post, 
In which the best and worthiest tremble most. 
The royal letters are a thing of course, 
A king, that would, might recommend his horse ; 
And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one 

voice, 
As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. 
Behold your bishop ! well he plays his part, 
Christian in name, and infidel in heart, 
Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, 
A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. 
Dumb as a senator, and as a priest 
A piece of mere church furniture at best ; 
To live estranged from God bis total scope, 
And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope. 
But, fair although and feasible it seem, 
Depend not much upon your golden dream ; 
For Providence, that seems concern'd to exempt 
The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt, 
In spite of all the wrigglers into place, 
Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace ; 
And therefore 'tis, that, though the sight be 

rare, 
We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot ther^e. 
Besides, school friendships are not always found, 
Though fair in promise, permanent and sound ; 
The most disinterested and virtuous minds, 
In early years connected, time unbinds ; 
New situations give a different cast 
Of habit, inclination, temper, taste ; 
An I he, that seem'd our counterpart at first, 
Scon shows the strong similitude reversed. 



Young heads are giddy, and young hearts eat 

warm. 
And make mistakes for manhood to refoim. 
Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown, 
Whose scent and hues are rather gue&s'd tha a 

known; 
Each dreams that each is just what he appears, 
But learns his error in maturer years, 
When disposition like a sail unfurl'd, 
Shows all its rents and patches to the world. 
If, therefore, e'en when honest in design, 
A boyish friendship may so soon decline, 
'Twere wiser sure to inspire a little heart 
With just abhorrence of so mean a part, 
Than set your son to work at a vile trade 
For wages so unlikely to be paid. 

Our public hives of puerile resort, 
That are of chief and most approved report, 
To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul, 
Owe their repute in part but not the whole. 
A principle whose proud pretensions pass 
Unquestion'd. though the jewel be but glass — 
That with a world, not often over-nice, 
Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice ; 
Or rather a gross compound, justly tried, 
Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride — 
Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their 

farae ; 
And emulation is its specious name. 
Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal, 
Feel all the rage that female rivals feel; 
The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes 
Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize. 
The spirit of that competition burns 
With all varieties of ill by turns ; 
Each vainly magnifies his own success, 
Resents his follows, wishes it were less, 
Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, 
Deems his reward too great if he prevail, 
And labors to surpass him day and night, 
Less for improvement than to tickle spite. 
The spur is powerful, and I grant its force ; 
It pricks the genius forward in its course, 
Allows short time for play, and none for sloth; 
And, felt alike by each, advances both : 
But judge, where so much evil intervenes, 
The end, though plausible, not worth the means* 
Weigh, for a moment, classical desert 
Against a heart depraved and temper hurt: 
Hurt too perhaps for life ; for early wrong 
Done to the nobler part, affects it long; 
And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause 
If you can crown a discipline, that draws 
Such mischiefs after it. with much applause. 

Connexion t'orm'd for interest, and endear'd 
By selfish views, thus censured and cashier'd ; 
And emulation, as engendering hate, 
Doom'd to a no less ignominious fate ; 
The props of such proud seminaries fall, 
The Jacliin and the Boaz of them all. 
Great schools rejected then as those that swell 
Beyond a size that can be managed well, 
Shall royal institutions miss the bays. 
And small academies win all the praise 1 
Force not my drift beyond its just intent, 
I praise a school as Pope a government ; 
So take my judgment in his language dress'd. 
'• Whate'er is best adm:«nister"d is best." 
Few boys are born with talents that excel, 
But all' are capable of living well. ' 
Then ask not. whether limited or large 1 
But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge i 




[f anxious only that their boys may Icnrr 
While meals languish, a despised concern 
The great and small deserve one common blame, 
Different i*. size, but in effect the same. 
Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast. 
Though motives of mere lucre sway the most; 
Therefore in towns and cities they abound, 
For there the frame they seek is easiest found ; 
Though tin re, in spite of all that care can do, 
Traps to catch youth are most abundant too. 
[f shrewd, and if a well-constructed brain. 
Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain, 
Your son come forth a prodigy of skill ; 
As. wheresoever taught, so form'd, he will; 
The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, 
Claims more than half the praise as his due share. 
But if, with all his genius ho betray, 
Not more intelligent than loose and gay, 
Such vicious habits as disgrace his name. 
Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame ; 
Though want of due restraint alone have bred 
The symptoms that you see with so much dread ; 
Unenvie*d there, he may sustain alone 
The whole reproach, the fault was all his own. 

Oh ! 'tis a sight to be with joy perused, 
By all whom sentiment has not abused ; 
New-fangled sentiment the boasted grace 
Of those who never feel in the right place ; 
A sight surpassd by none that we can show, 
Though Vestris on one leg still shine below ; 
A father blest with an ingenuous son. 
Father and friend, and tutor, all in one. 
How ! — turn again to tales long since forgot, 
iEsop and Phaedrus, and the restl — Why notl 
He will not blush, that has a father's heart, 
To take in childish plays a childish part ; 
But bends his sturdy back to any toy 
That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy : 
Then why resign into a stranger's hand 
A task as much within your own command, 
That God and nature, and your interest too, 
Seem with one voice to delegate to you "? 
Why hire a lodging in a house unknown 
For one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round 

your own ] 
This second weaning, needless as it is, 
How does it lacerate both your heart and his ! 
The indented stick, that loses day by day, 
Notch after notch, till all are smooth'd away, 
Bears witness long ere his dismission come, 
With what intense desire he wants his home. 
But, though the joys he hopes beneath your 

roof 
Bid fair enough to answer in the proof. 
Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are, 
A disappointment waits him even there : 
Arrived, he feels an unexpected change ; 
He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange, 
No longer takes as once, with fearless ease, 
His favorite stand between his father's knees, 
But seeks the corner of some distant seat, 
And eyes the door, and watches a retreat. 
And, least familiar where he should be most, 
Feels all his happiest privileges lost. 
Alas, poor boy ! — the natural effect 
Of love by absence chill'd into respect. 
Say, what accomplishments, at school acquired. 
Brings he. to sweeten fruits so undesired ] 
Thou well deserv'st an aliens ted son. 
Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge — none; 
None that, in thy domestic snug recess. 
He had not made his own wiih more address. 



Though some, perhaps, that shock thy feeling 
And better never learn'd, cr lell behind. [mind, 
Add too that, thus estranged, thou canst btain 
By no kind arts his confidence again.; 
That here begins with most that long complaint 
Of filial frankness lost, and love grown faint, 
Which, oft neglected, in life's waning years 
A parent pours into regardless ears. 

Like caterpillars 'dandling under trees 
By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze, 
Which filthily bewray and sore disgrace 
The boughs in which are bred the unseemly r ice 
While every worm industriously weaves 
And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves ; 
So numerous are the follies that annoy 
The mind and heart of every sprightly boy; 
Imaginations noxious and perverse. 
Which admonition can alone disperse. 
The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand ; 
Patient, affectionate, of high command, 
To check the procreation of a breed 
Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed. 
'Tis not enough that Greek r Roman page, 
At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage* 
E'en in his pastimes he requires a friend 
To warn, and teach him safely to unbend ; 
O'er all his pleasures gently to preside. 
Watch his emotions, and control their tide ; 
And levying thus, and with an easy sway, 
A tax of profit from his very play, 
To impress a value, not to be erased, [waste. 
On moments sqander'd else, and running all tc 
And seems it nothing in a father's eye 
That unimproved those many moments fly 1 
And is he well content his son should find 
No nourishment to feed his growing mind, 
But conjugated verbs and nouns declined 1 
For such is all the mental food purvey'd 
By public hackneys in the 'schooling trade, 
Who feed a pupil's intellect with store 
Of syntax, truly, but with little more ; 
Dismiss their cares when they dismiss their flock, 
Machines themselves, and govern'd by a clock. 
Perhaps a father, blest with any brains, 
Would deem it no abuse, or waste of* pains, 
To improve this diet, at no great expense, 
With savory truth and wholesome commor 

sense ; 
To lead his son, for prospects of delight, 
To some not steep, though philosophic, height, 
Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyes 
Yon circling worlds, their distance, and their size 
The moons of Jove, and Saturn's belted ball, 
And the harmonious order of them all ; 
To show him in an insect or a flower 
Such microscopic proof of skill and power, 
As, hid from ages past. God now displays 
To combat atheists with in modern days ; 
To spread the earth before him and commend, 
With designation of the finger's end. 
Its various parts to his attentive note, 
Thus bringing home to him the most remote ; 
To teach his heart to glow with generous flame, 
Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame; 
And, more than all, with commendation duo 
To set some living worthy in his view, 
Whose fair example may at once inspire 
A wish to copy what he must admire. [pears, 
Such knowledge, gaind betimes, and which ap 
Though solid, not too weighty for his years, 
Sweet in itself and not forbidding sport. 
When health demands it, of athletic sort, 



608 



COUT* R'S WORKS. 



Would make him — what some lovely boys have 
been, 

And more than one perhaps that I have seen — 

An evidence and reprehension both 

Of the mere schoolboy's lean and tardy growth. 
Art thou a man professionally tied, 

With all thy faculties elsewhere applied, 

Too busy to intend a meaner care 

Than how to enrich thyself, arid next thine heir ; 

Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art) 

But poor in knowledge, having none to impart : — 

Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad ; 

His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad ; 

Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then 

Heard to articulate like other men ; 

No jester, and yet lively in discourse, 

His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force ; 

And his address, if not quite French in ease, 

Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to 
please ; 

Low in the world, because he scorns its arts ; 

A man of letters, manners, morals, parts ; 

TJnpatronized, and therefore little known ; 

Wise for himself and his few friends alone — 

In him thy well-appointed proxy see, 

Arm'd for a work too difficult for thee ; 

Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth, 

To form thy son, to strike his genius forth ; 

Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye, to prove . 

The force of discipline when back'd by love ; 

To double all thy pleasure in thy child. 

His mind in form'd. his morals undefiled. 

Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show 

No spots contracted among grooms below; 

Nor taint his speech with meannesses, design'd 

By footman Tom for witty and refined. 

There, in his commerce, with the liveried herd, 

Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear'd ; 

For since (so fashion dictates) all. who claim 

A higher than a mere plebeian fame, 

Find it expedient, come what mischief may, 

To entertain a thief or two in pay, 

(And they that can afford the expense of more, 

Some haif a dozen, and some half a score,) 

Great cause occurs to save him from a band 

So sure to spoil him. and so near at hand; 

A point secured, if once he be supplied ^ 

With some such Mentor always at his side. 

Are such men rare 1 perhaps they would abound 

Were occupation easier to be found. 

Were education else so sure to fail 

Conducted on a manageable scale. 

And schools, that have outlived all just esteem, 

Exchanged for the secure domestic scheme. — 

But, having found him, be thou duke or earl. 

Show thou hast sense enough to prize the pearl, 

And, as thou wouldst the advancement of thine 

In all good faculties beneath his care, [heir 

Respect, as is but rational and just. 

A man dcenv'd worthy of so dear a trust. 

Despised by thee, what more can he expect 

From youthful folly than the same neglect % 

A flat and fatal negative obtains 

That instant upon all his future pains ; 

His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend, 

And all the instructions of thy son's best friend 

Are a stream choked or trickling to no end. 

Doom him not then to solitary meals; 

But recollect that he has sense, and feels ; 

And that, possessor of a soul refined, 

An upright heart, and cultivated mind, 

His post not mean, his talents not unknown, 

He deems it hard to vegetate alone. 



And, if admitted at thy board he sit, 
Account him no just mark for idle wit ; 
Offend not him whom modesty restrains 
From reparte, with jokes that he disdains ; 
Much less transfix his feelings with an oath ; 
Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth. — 
And, trust me, his utility may reach 
To more than he is hired, or bound to teach ; 
Much trash unutter'd, and some ills undone, 
Through reverence of the censor of thy son. 

But. if th}' table be indeed jnclean. 
Foul with excess, and with discourse obscene, 
And thou a wretch, whom following her old plan 
The world accounts an honorable man, 
Because forsooth thy courage has been tried, 
And stood the test, perhaps on the wrong side ; 
Though thou hadst never grace enough to prove 
That anything but vice could win thy love ; — 
Or hast thou a polite, card-playing wife, 
Chain'd to the routs that she frequents for life ; 
Who. just when industry begins to snore, [door; 
Flies, wing'd with joy, to some coach-crowdec 
And thrice in every winter throngs thine own 
With half the chariots and sedans in town, 
Thyself meanwhile e'en shifting as thou mayst; 
Not very sober though, nor very chaste ; 
Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank, 
If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank, 
And thou at best, and in thy soberest mood, 
A trifler vain and empty of all good ; — 
Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none ; 
Hear Nature plead, show mercy to thy son. 
Saved from his home, where every (lav brmgi 

forth 
Some mischief fatal to his future worth, 
Find him a better in a distant spot, 
Within some pious pastor's humble cot. 
Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean, 
The most seducing, and the oftenest seen) 
May never more be stamp'd upon his breads. 
Not yet perhaps incurably impress'd : 
Where early rest makes early rising sure. 
Disease or comes not. or finds easy cure, 
Prevented much by diei ner.t and plain; 
I Or if it enter, soon .starved out again : 
I Where all the attention of his faithful bos», 
! Discreetly limited fo two at most, 
j May raise such fruits as shall reward his care 
| And not at last evaporate in air: 
I Where stillness aiding study, and his mind 

Serene, and to his duties much inclined, 
! Not occupied in day dreams, as at home, 
j Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come, 
j His virtuous toil may terminate at last 
; In settled habit and decided taste. — 
But whom do I advise 1 the fashion-led, 
The incorrigibly wrong the deaf, the dead ! 
Whom care and cool deliberation suit 
Not better much than spectacles a brute ; 
Who. if their sons some slight tuition share, 
Deem it of no great moment whose, or where; 
Too proud to adopt the thoughts of one un- 
known, 
And much too gay to have any of their own. 
But courage man ! methought the Muse replied 
Mankind are various, and the world is wide : 
The ostrich, silliest of the feather'd kind, 
And form'd of God without a parent's mind, 
Commits her eggs, incautious to the dust. 
Forgetful that the foot may crush the trust ; 
And. while on public nurseries they rely, 
Not knowing, and too oft not caring, why, 



TIROCINIUM. 



609 



Irrational In what they thus prefer, 
No few, that would seem wise, resemble her. 
But all are not alike. Thy warning voice 
May here and there prevent erroneous choice ; 
And some, perhaps, who. busy*as they are, 
Yet ma';e their progeny their dearest care, 
(Whose hearts will ache, once told what ill 

may reach 
Their offspring, left upon so wild a beach,) 
Will need no stress of argument to enforce 
The ex;> dienee of a less adventurous course: 
The re*-', will slight thy counsel, or condemn ; 
But they have human feelings — turn to them. 
To you, then, tenants of life's middle state, 
Securely placed between the small and great. 
Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains 
Two-thirds of all the virtue that remains, 
Who, wise yourselves, desir: your sc-s should 

learn 
Your wisdom and your ways — to you I turn. 
Look round you on a World perversely blind ; 
See what contempt is fallen on huma . kind ; 
See wealth abused, and dignities nn&piaced, 
Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced, 
Long lines of ancestry, renown'd of old, 
Their noble qualities all quench'd and cold ; 
See Bedlam's closeted and handcuff d charge 
Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large : 
See great commanders making war a trade, 
Great lawyers, lawyers without study made ; 
Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ 
Is odious, and their wages all their joy, 
Who. far enough from furnishing their shelves 
With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves ; « 
See womanhood despised, and manhood shamed 
With infamy too nauseous to be named, 
Fops at all corners, ladylike jj> o^icn, 
Civited fellows, smelt ere they are seen, 
Else coarse and rude in manners, and their 

tongue 
On fire with curses, and with nonsense hung 
Now flush'd with drunkenness, now with wii-vc- 

dom pale, 
Their breath a sample of last night's rsgale . 
See volunteers in all the vilest arts, 
Men well endow'd, of honorable parts, 
Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools; 
All these, and more like, these, were bred at 

schools. 
And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will, 
That though school-bred the boy be virtuous 

still ; 
Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark. 
Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark . 
As here and there a twinkling star descried 
Serves but to show how black is all beside. 
Now look on him, whose very voice in tone 
Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own. 
And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red, 
And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head, 
And say, My boy. the unwelcome hour is come, 
When thou, transplanted from thy genial home., 
Must find a colder soil and bleaker air. 
And trust for safety to a stranger's care; 
What character, what turn thou wih assume 
From constant converse with I know not whom; 
Who there will court thy friendship, with what 

> views, 
And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose ; 



depends on what thy choioe 



thy 



Though much 

shall be, 
Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me, 
Canst thou, the tear just trembling on 

lids, 

And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids ; 
Free too, and under no constraining force, 
Unless the sway of custom warp thy course ; 
Lay such a stake upon the losing side, 
Merely to gratify so blind a guide 1 
Thou canst not ! Nature, pulling at thine heart, 
Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part. 
Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest 

plea, 
Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea, 
Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay 
A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way ; 
Then, only govern'd by the self-same rule 
Of natural pity, send him not to school. 
No — guard him better. Is he not thine own, 
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thv bone 1 
And hopest thou not, ('tis every father's hope,) 
That, since thy strength must with thy year* 

elope, 
And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage 
Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age, 
That then, in recompense of all thy cares, 
Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs, 
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft, 
And give thy life its only cordial left 1 
Aware then how much danger intervenes, 
To compass that good end, forecast the means. 
His heart, now passive, yields to thy command ; 
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand ; 
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide, 
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide, 
Complain not if attachments lewd and base 
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place. 
But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure, 
From vicious inmates, and delights impure^ 
Either his gratitude shall hold him fast, 
And keep him warm and filial to the last ; 
Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say 
But, being man, and therefore frail, he may 1) 
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, 
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. 
Oh, barbarous ! wouldst thou with a Gothia 

hand ¥ 

Pull down the schools — what ! — all the school* 

i' th' land , 
Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms, 
Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms 1 
A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,) 
Deserves an answer similar, or none. 
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ 
(Apprised that he is such) a careless boy, 
And feed him well, and give him handsome 

pay, 

Merely to sleep, and let them run astray 1 

Survey our schools and colleges, and see 

A sight not much unlike my simile. 

From education, as the leading cause, 

The.pubrc character its color draws ; 

Thence tiie prevailing manners take their cast, 

Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. 

And though I would not advertise them yet, 

Nor write on each — Thin Building to be Let, 

Unless the world were all prepared to embraoe 

A plan well worthy to supply their place ; 

Yet, backward as they are, and long have boon, 

To cultivate and keep the Morals clean, 

(Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess, 

Or better managed, or encouraged less. 

39 



CIO 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING 
TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX. 

Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman, complaining 
of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed 
lor receiving the Dues at the Parsonage. 

Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, 

To laugh it would be wrong, 
rhe troubles of a worthy priest, 

The burden of my song. 

rhe priest he merry is and blithe 

Three quarters of a year ; 
But oh ! it cuts him like a scythe, 

When tithing time draws near. 

He then is full of fright and fears, 

As one at point to die, 
And long before the day appears, 

He heaves up many a sigh. 

For then the farmers come jog, jog, 

Along the miry road, 
Each heart as heavy as a log, 

To make their payments good. 

In sooth the sorrow of such days 

Is not to be express'd, 
When he that takes and he that pays 

Are both alike distress'd. 

Now all unwelcome at his gates 
The clumsy swains alight, 

With rueful faces and bald pates- 
He trembles at the sight. 

And well he may, for well he knows 

Each bumpkin of the clan, 
Instead of paying what he owes, 

Will cheat him if he can. 

So in they come — each makes his leg, 

And flings his head before, 
And looks as if he came to beg, 

And not to quit a score. 

«' And how does miss and madam do, 

The tittle boy and all? " 
" All tight and well. And how do you, 

Good Mr. What-d'ye-call 1 " 

The dinner comes, and down they sit, 

Were e'er such hungry folk ? 
There's little talking, and no wit ; 

It is no time to joke. 

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, 

One spits upon the floor, 
Yet not to give offence or grieve, 

Holds up the cloth before. 

The punch goes round and they are dull 

And lumpish still a; ever ; 
Like barrels with their bellies full, 

They only weigh the heavier. 

At length the busy time begins. 

" Come, neighbors, we must wag "— 
The money t^aks, down drop their chins, 

Each lugging out his bag. 

One valks of mildew and of frost, 

And one of storms of hail, 
And one of pigs that he has lost 

By maggots at the ta il 



^Q,uoth one, " A rarer man than you 

In pulpit none shall hear : 
But yet, methinks. to tell you true, 

You sell it plaguy dear." 

O why are fanners made so coarse, 

Or clergy made so fine 1 
A kick, that scarce would move a horse, 

May kill a sound divine. 

Then let the boobies stay at home ; 

'Twould cost him, I dare say, 
Less trouble taking twice the sum 

Without the clowns that pay. 



SONNET, 

• ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. 

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Der 
fence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords. 

Cowper, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes 
hard, 
Legends prolix delivers in the ears [peers, 
(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's 

Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. 

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, 
Expending late on all that length of plea 
Thy generous powers, but silence honor'd thee, 

Mute its e'er gazed on orator or bard. 

Thou art not voice alone, but bast beside [sweet 
Both heart and head ; and touldst with music 
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, 
Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide 
Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet 
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. 



LINES ADDRESSED TG DR. DARWiN 

AUTHOR OF " THE BOTANIC GaRDEN " 

Two Poets.* (poets, by report, 

Not oft so well agree,) 
Sweet harmonist of Flora's court ! 

Conspire to honor thee. 

They best can judge a poet's worth, 
Who oft themselves have known 

The pangs of a poetic birth 
By labors of their own. 

We therefore pleased extol thy song, 

Though various, ; et complete, 
Rich in embellishment as strong, 

And learned as 'tis sweet. 

No envy mingles with our praise 
Though could orr hearts repine 

At any poet's happier lays, 

They would— they must at thine 

But we, in mutual bondage knit 

Of f iendship's closest tie, 
Can p:.zc on even Darwin'? wit 

Witr. n u» jam: diced eye ; 

* Alluding t- T p pwm, by Mr. Hayloy, Wnicn accom 
panied tb^se line?. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



61 



And deem the bard, whoe'er he he, 

And howsoever known. 
Who would not twine a wreath for thee, 

Unworthy of his own. 



VTRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS. 

Thk birds put off their every hue 
To dress a room for Montagu. 

The peacock sends his heavenly dyes, 
His rainbows and his starry eyes, 
The pheasant plumes, which round enfold 
His mantling neck with downy gold, 
The cock his arch'd tail's azure show; 
And, river-blanch'd. the swan his snow. 
All tribes beside of Indian name, 
That glossy shine, or vivid flame, 
Where rises, and where sets the day, . 
W T hate'er they boast ot' rich and gay, 
Contribute to the gorgeous plan, 
Proud to advance it all they can. 
This plumage neither dashing shower, 
Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower, 
Shall drench again or discompose, 
But. screen r d from every storm that blows, 
It boasts a splendor ever new 
Safe with protecting Montagu. 

To the same patroness resort, 
Secure of favor at her court. 
Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought 
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, 
Which, though new-born, with vigor move, 
Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove — 
Imagination scattering round 
Wild roses over fufrow'd ground, 
Which Labor of his frown beguile, 
And teach Philosophy a smile — 
Wit flashing on Religion's side. 
Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, 
The gem. though luminous before, 
Obtrude on human notice more, 
Like sunbeams on the golden height 
Of some tall temple plnying bright — 
Well tutor'd Learning, from his books 
Dismissal with grave, not haughty. Lcks, 
Their order on his shelves exact. 
Not more harmonious or compact 
Than that to which he keeps confined 
The various treasures of his mind — 
All these to Montagus repair, 
Ambitious of a shelter there. 
There Genius. Learning. Fancy, W T it, 
Their ruffled plumage calm refit. 
(For stormy troubles loudest roar 
Around their flight who highest soar.) 
And in her eye. and by her aid 
Shine safe, without a tear to fade. 

She thus maintains divided sway 
With yon bright regent of the day ; 
The Plume and Poet both we know 
Their lustre to his influence owe ; 
And she the works of Phoebus aiding, 
Both Poet saves and Plume from fading. 



r— 



YERSES, 



Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during 
his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez. 

I am monarch of all I survey. 
My right there is none to dispute ; 



From the centre all round tc the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brut . 

Solitude ! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face 1 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach. 

I must finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech, 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts, thai roam over the plain, 

My form with indifference see; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
O, had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth, 
Might learn from the wisdom of age. 

And be cheer'd by the sallies of "youth. 

R-ligion ! what treasure untold 

liesides in that heavenly word! 
Mori precious than silver and gold, 

Ov rail that this earth can afford. 
Bu ; the sound of the church-going bell 

Tbi.se. valleys and rocks never heard. 
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell. 

Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd 

Ye winds that have made me yaur sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Som~. cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
My friends, do they now and then send 

A wi- K or a thought, after me 1 
O te'i .n ; 1 yet have a friend, 

Thougu a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is the glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, - 

And the swiil-winged arrows of light. 
When 1 think of my own native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there; 
But alas! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea- fowl is cronr to h(r nest, 

The beast is laM vwn in his lair; 
Even here is ... season of rest, 

And I to wy cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place, 

And mercy, encouraging thought! 
Gives even affliction a grace, 

And reconciles man to his lot. 



OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE 
NOTE . 

RKCORDF.n IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNIC* 

On. fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
In vain recorded in historic page, 
They court the notice of a future age: 
Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land 
Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand 




-lethsan gulfs receive them as they fall, 
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them alL 

So when a child, as playful children use, 
Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news, 
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire — 
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, 
There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark ! 
4nd there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk ! 



REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, 

NOT TO BE POUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. 

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 

The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the 
cause [learning; 

With a great deal of skill and a wig full of 
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws. 

So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 
And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly 
find, [wear. 

That the Nose has had spectacles always in 
Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 

Then holding the spectacles up to the court — 
Your lordship observes they are made with a 
straddle, 

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
Design'd to sit close to it, just like a ?uadle. 

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be 
again) 
Tnat the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles 
then! 

On the whole it appears, and my argument 
shows, [demn, 

With a reasoning' the court will never con- 
That the spectacles plainly were made for the 
Nose, , [them. 

And the Nose was as plainly intended for 

Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,) 
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; 

But what were his arguments few people know, 
For the court did not think they were equally 
wise. 

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but — 

That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 
By daylight or candlelight — Eyes should be 
shut! 



ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD 
THURLOW, ESQ., 

ro THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OP ENGLiND. 

Round Thurlow's head in early youth, 

And in his sportive days, 
Fair Science pour'd the light of truth, 

And Genius shed his rays. 



See ! with united wonder cried 
The experienced and the sage, 

Ambition in a boy supplied 
With all the skill of age ! 

Discernment, eloquence, and grace, 

Proclaim him born to sway 
The balance in the highest place, 

And bear the palm away. 

The praise bestow'd was just and wise , 

He sprang impetuous forth, 
Secure of conquest, where the prize 

Attends superior worth. 

So the best courser on the plain 

Ere yet he starts is known. 
And does but at the goal obtain 

What all had deem'd his own. 



ODE TO PEACE. 

Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! 
Return, and make thy downy nest 

Once more in this sad heart : 
Nor riches I nor power pursue, 
Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 

We therefore need not part. 

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, 
From avarice and ambition free, 

And pleasure's fatal wiles'? 
For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
The sweets that I was wont to share, 

The banquet of thy smiles 1 

The great, the gay, shall they partake 
The heaven that thou alone canst make? 

And wilt thou quit the stream 
That murmurs through the dewy mead. 
The -grove and the sequester'd shed, 

To be a guest with them ! 

For thee I panted, ti ee I prized, 
For thee I gladly sacrificed 

Whate'er I loved before ; 
And shall I see thee start away, 
And helpless, hopeless, hoar thee say — 

Farewell ! we meet no more ! 



HUMAN FRAILTY. 

Weak and irresolute is man ; 

The purpose of to-day, 
Woven with pains into his plan, 

To-morrow rends away. 

The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 

Vice seems already slain ; 
But Passion rudely snaps the string, 

And it revives again. 

Some foe to his upright intent 

Finds out his weaker part ; 
Virtue engages his assent. 

But Pleasure wins his heart. 

'Tis here the folly of the wise 
Through all his art we view ; 

And. while his tongue the charge denies, 
His conscience owns it true. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



61S 



Bound on a voyage of awful length 

And dangers little known, 
A stranger to superior strength, 

Man vainly trusts his own. 

But oars alone can ne'er prevail 

To reach the distant coast; 
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, 

Or all the toil is lost. 



THE MODERN PATRIOT. 

Rebellion is my theme all day; 

I only wish 'twould come 
(As who knows but perhaps it may ?) 

A little nearer home. 

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight 

On t'other side the Atlantic, 
I always held them in the right, 

But most so when most frantic. 

When lawless mobs insult the court, 
That man shall be my toast, 

If breaking windows be the sport, 
Who bravely breaks the most. 

But O ! for him my fancy culls 
The choicest flowers she bears, 

Who constitutionally pulls 
Your house about your ears. 

Such civil broils are my delight, 

Though some iblks can't endure them, 

Who say the mob are mad outright, 
And that a rope must cure them. 

A rope ! I wish we patriots had 

Such strings for all who need 'em — 

What ! hang a man for going mad ! 
Then farewell British freedom. 



BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S 
LIBRARY, 

K)GETHER WITH HIS MSS., BY THE MOB, IN THE 
MONTH OF JUNE, 1780. 

So then — the Vandals of our isle, 

Sworn foes to sense and law. 
Have burnt to dust a nobler pile 

Than ever Roman saw ! 

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift, 

And many a treasure more, 
The well-judged purchase, and the gift 

That graced his l'etter'd store. 

Their pages mangled, burnt, and ten, 

The loss was his alone ; 
But ages yet to come shall mourn 

The burning of his own. 



ON THE SAME. 

When wit and genius meet their doom 

In all devouring flame, 
They tell us of the fate of Rome, 

And bid us fear the same. 



O'er Murray's loss the muses wept. 

They felt the rude alarm, 
Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept 

His sacred head from harm. 

There Memory, like the bee that's fed 

From Flora's balmy store, 
The quintessence of all he read 

Had treasured up before. 

The lawless herd, with fury blind, 
Have done him cruel wrong; 

The flowers are gone — but still we find 
The honey on nis tongue. 



THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; 

or, hypocrisy detected.* 

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, 
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork ; 
There is a part in every swine 
No friend or follower of mine 
May taste, whate'er his inclination, 
On pain of excommunication. 
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, 
And thus he left the point at large. 
Had he the sinful part express'd, 
They might with safety eat the rest; 
But for one piece they thought it hard 
From the whole hog to be debarr'd ; 
And set their wit at work to find 
What joint the prophet had in mind. 
Much controversy straight arose, 
These choose the back, the belly those , 
By some 'tis confidently said 
He meant not to forbid the head ; 
While others at that doctrine rail, 
And piously prefer the tail. 
Thus, conscience freed from every clog, 
Mahometans eat up the hog. 

You laugh — 'tis well — the tale applied 
May make you laugh on t'other side. 
Renounce the world — the preacher cries. 
We do — a multitude replies. 
While one as innocent regards 
A snug and friendly game at cards; 
And one. whatever you may say. 
Can sec no, evil in a play ; 
Some love a concert, or a race : 
And others shooting, and the chase. 
Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd, 
Thus, bit by bit the world is swallow'd; 
Each thinks his neighbor makes too free, 
Yet likes a slice as well as he : 
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, 
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. 



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) 
THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH. 

Ye nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red 
With tears o'er hapless favorites shed, 
O share Maria's grief! 

* It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piec« 
has already appeared in print, having found its way, 
though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown 
hand, into the Leeds Journal, without the author's 
privity 



H4 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Her favorite, even in his cage, 
(What will not hunger's cruel rage 1) 
Assassin'd by a thief. 

Where Rhenus strays his vines among, 
The egg was laid from which he sprung ; 

And. though by nature mute, 
Or only with a whistb blest. 
Well taught he all th rounds express'd 

Of flageolet or lhAc 

The honors of his ebon poll 

Were brighter than the sleekest mole, 

His I g-.' /m of the hue 
With which Aurora decks the skies, 
When pipi'V^ vlr-da shall soon arise, 

To sweep away the dew. 

Above, below, in all ihe house, 
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse 

No cat had leave to dwell ; 
And Bully's cage supported stood 
On props of smoothest shaven wood, 

Large built, and latticed well. 

Well latticed — but the grate, alas ! 
Not rough with wire of steel or brass, 

For Bully's plumage sake, 
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, 
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried, 

The swains their baskets make. 

Night veil'd the pole : all seem'd secure : 
When, led by instinct sharp and sure, 

Subsistence to provide, 
A beast forth sallied on the scout, 
Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout, 

And badger-color'd hide. 

He, entering at the study door, 
Its ample area 'gan explore ; 

And something in the wind 
Conjectured, sniffing round and round, 
Better than all the books he found, 

Food chiefly for the mind. 

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, 
A dream disturb'd poor Bully rest, 

In sleep he seem'd to view 
A rat fast clinging to the cage, 
And, screaming at tl.*' sad presage, 

Awoke and found it true. 

For, aided both by ear and scent, 
Right to his mark the monster went — 

Ah. muse ! forbear to speak 
Minute the horrors that ensued ; 
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood — 

He left poor Bully's beak. 

O had he made that too his prey ; 
That beak, whence issued many a lay 

Of such mellifluous tone, 
Might have repaid him well I. wote, 
For silencing so sweet a throat. 

Fast stuck within his own. 

Maria weeps -the Muses mourn — 
So when, by Bacchanalians torn, 

On Thracian Hebrus' side 
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, 
His head alone remain'd to tell 

The cruel c^ath he died. 



THE ROSE. 

The rose had been wash'd, just washed in t 
shower, 

Which Mary to Anna convey'd ; 
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 

And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were al 
wet, 

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, 
To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, 

On the flourishing bush where it grew. 

I hastily seized it. unfit as it was, 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaim'd. is the pitiless part 

Some act by the delicate mind. 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 

Already to sorrow resign'd. 

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less. 

Might have bloouvd with its owner awhile; 
And the tear, that is vvip'd with a little adthresa 

May be followed perhaps by a smile. 



THE DOVES. 

Rkasoning at every step he treads, 

Man yet mistakes his way 
While meaner things, whom instinct leads 

Are rarely known to stray. 

One silent eve I wander'd late, 

And heard the voice of love ; 
The turtle thus address'd her mate, 

And soothed the listening dove : 

Our mutual bond of faith and truth 

No time shall disengage, 
Those blessings of our early youth 

Shall cheer our latest age : 

While innocence without disguise, 

And constancy sincere. 
Shall fill the circles of those eyes, 

And mine can read them there; 

Those ills, that wait on all below, 

Shall ne'er be felt by me, 
Or gently felt, and only so. 

As being shared with thee. 

When lightnings flash among the treea, 

Or kites are hovering near, 
I fear lest thee alone they seize, 

And know no other fear. 

: Tis then I feel myself a wife, 

And press thy wedded side. 
Resolved a union form'd for life 

Death never shall divide. 

But oh ! if. fickle and unchaste, 
(Forgive a transient thought,) 

Thou couldst become unkind at last, 
And scorn thy present lot, 

No need of lightnings from on high, 
Or kites with cruel be* k ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



51ft 



Denied the endearments of thine eye, 
This widow'd heart would break. 

Thus sang the sweet sequ ester 'd bird 

Soft as the passing wind, 
And I recorded what I heard, 

A lesson for mankind. 



A FABLE. 

A raven, while with glossy breast 

Hei new-laid eggs she fondly press'd. 

And, on her wicker-work high mounted, 

Her chickens prematurely counted, 

(A fault philosophers might blame, 

If quite exempted from the same,) 

Enjoy'd at ease the genial day; 

'Twas April, as the bumpkins say, 

The legislature call'd it May. * 

But suddenly a wind, as high 

As ever swept a winter sky, 

Shook the young leaves about her ears, 

And fill'd her with a thousand fears, 

Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, 

And spread her golden hopes below. 

Rut just at eve the blowing weather 

And all her fears were hush'd together : 

And now. quotli poor unthinking Ralph, 

'Tis over, and the brood is safe ; 

(For ravens, though, as birds of omen, 

They teach both conjurors and old women 

To tell us what is to befall 

Can't prophesy themselves at all.) 

The morning came, when neighbor Hodge, 

Who long had mark'd her airy lodge, 

And destined all the treasure there 

A. gift to his expecting fair. 

Jlimb'd like a squirrel to his dray, 

And bore the worthless prize away. 



ris Providence alone secures 
Ln every change both mine and yours : 
Safety consists not in escape 
From dangers of a frightful shape ; 
An earthquake may be bid to spare 
The man that's strangled by a hair. 
Fate steals along with silent tread. 
Found oft'nest in what least we dread, 
Frowns in the storm with angry brow, 
But in the sunshine strikes the blow. 



ODE TO APOLLO 

••N AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. 

Patron of all those luckless brains, 
That, to the wrong side leaning, 

Indite much melre with much pains, 
And little or no meaning ; 

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, 

That water all the nations, 
P?y tribute to thy glorious beams, 

By constant exhalations ; 

Why, stooping from the noon of day, 

Too covetous of drink, 
ipollo, hast thou stolen away 

A poet's drop of ink 1 



Upborne into the viewless air, 

It floats a va A cr now, 
Impell'd through regions dense and rare 

By all the winds that blow. 

Ordain'd perl : s, ere summer flies, 
Combined with millions more, 

To form an iris in the skies. 
Though black and foul before. 

Illustrious drop ! and happy then 

Beyond tne happiest lot, 
Of all that ever pass'd my pen, 

So soon to be forgot ! 

Phoebus, if such be thy design, 

To place it in thy bow, 
Give wit. that what is left may shine 

With equal grace below. 



A COMPARISON. 

The lapse of time and rivers is the same, 
Both speed their journey with a restlesa s' r eain, 
The silent pace, with which they steal ,t.y. 
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade :o stay 
Alike irrevocable both when past, 
And a wide ocean swallows both at last. 
Though each resemble each in every part, 

j A difference strikes at length the mveing heart ; 

! Streams never flow in vain ; where stream, 
abound, [crown'd . 

How laughs the land with various plentj 
But tune, that should enrich the nobler mind, 
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind. 



ANOTHER. 

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 

Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade 

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — 

Silent and chaste she steals along, 

Far from the world's gay busy thronj ; 

With gentle yet prevailing force, 

Intent upon her destined course; 

Graceful and useful all she does, 

Blessing and blest where'er she >*oe3. 

Pure-bosoind as that watery gl vs, 

And heaven reflected in her face. 



THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT, 

TO MRS. (now lady) throckmovton. 

Maria ! I have every good 

For thee wish'd many a time, 
Both sad. and in a cheerful mood, 

But never yet in rhyme. 

To wish thee fairer is no need. 

More prudent, cr more sprightly, 
Or more ingenious, or more freed 

From temper-flaws unsightly. 

What favor then not yet possess'd 

Can I for thee require. 
In wedded love already blest, 

To thy whole heart's desire ? 



<16 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



None here is happy but in part ; 

Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
There dwells some wish in every heart, 

And doubtless one in thine. 

That wish on some fair future day, 
Which fate shall brightly gild, 

('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) 
I wish it all fulfill'd. 



PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 



I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau* 

If birds confabulate or no ; 

'Tis clear, that they were always able 

To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 

And e'en the child who knows no better 

Than to interpret, by the letter, 

A story of a cock and bull, 

Must have a most uncommon skull . 

It chanced then on a winter's day, 
But warm, and bright, and calm as May, 
The birds, conceiving a a design 
To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
In many an orchard, copse, and grove, 
Assembled on a fairs of love, 
And with mu<j ! i twitter and much chatter 
Began to agitate the matter. 
At length a bullfinch, who could boast 
More years and wisdom than the most, 
Entreated, opening wide his beak, 
A moment's liberty to speak ; 
And, silence publicly enjoin'd, 
Deliver'd briefly thus his mind : 

My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
The subject upon which we meet ; 
I fear we shall have winter yet. 

A finch, whose tongue knew no control, 
With golden wing and satin poll, 
A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 
What marriage means, thus pert replied : 

Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, 
Opposite in the apple tree, 
By his good will would keep us single 
Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, 
Or (which is likely to befall) 
Till death exterminate us all. 
I marry without more ado, 
My dear Dick Redcap, what say you t 

Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, 
Turning short round, strutting and sideling, 
Attested, glad, his approbation 
Of an immediate conjugation. 
Their sentiments so well express'd 
Influenced mightily the rest, 
All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. 

But, though the birds were thus in haste, 
The leaves came on not quite so fast, 
And destiny, that sometimes bears 
An aspeot stern on man's affairs, 
Not altogether smiled on theirs. 
The wind, of late breathed gently forth, 
Now shifted east, and east by north ; 

* It was one of the whimsical speculations of this phi 
losopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech 
to animals should be withheld from children, as being 
only vehicles of deception. But wha f . child was ever 
deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his 
»enses? 



Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, 

Could shelter them from rain or snow. 

Stepping into their nests, they paddled, 

Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled 

Soon every father bird and mother 

Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, 

Parted without the least regret, 

Except that they had ever met, 

And learn'd in future to be wiser, 

Than to neglect a good adviser. 



Misses ! the tale that I relate 

This lesson seems to carry- 
Choose not alone a proper mate, 
But proper time to marry. 



THE DOG AND THE WATER IJLY. 



The noon was shady, and soft airs 

Swept Ouse's silent tide, 
When, 'scaped from literary cares, 

I wander'd on his side. 

My spaniel, prettiest of his race, 

And high in pedigree, 
(Two nymphs* adorn'd with every grace 

That spaniel found for me,) 

NTow wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, 

Now starting into sight, 
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads 

With scarce a slower flight. 

It was the time when Ouse display'd 

His lilies newly blown ; 
Their beauties I intent survey'd, 

And one I wish'd my own. 

With cane extended far I sought 

To steer it close to land ; 
But still the prize, though nearly cauga 

Escaped my eager hand. 

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains 

With lix'd considerate face, 
And puzzling set his puppy brains 

To comprehend the case. 

But with a cherup clear and strong 

Dispersing all his dream, 
I thSnce withdrew, and follow'd long 

The windings of the stream. 

My ramble ended, I return'd ; 

Beau trotting far before, 
The floating wreath again discern'd, 

And plunging, left the shore. 

I saw him with that lily cropp'd 

Impatient swim to meet 
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd 

The treausure at my feet. 

Charm'd with the sight, the world. I cried, 

Shall hear of this thy deed : 
My dog shall mortify the pride 

Of man's superior breed : 

* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



61' 



But chief myself I will enjoin, 

Awake at duty's call. 
To show a love as prompt as thine, 

To Him who gives me all. 



THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 

• 

What Nature, alas ! has denied 

To the delicate growth of our isle, 
Art has in a measure supplied, 

And winter is deck'd with a smile. 
See, Mary, what beauties i bring 

From the shelter of that sunny shed, 
Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, 

Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 

'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets, 

Where Flora is still in her prime, 
A fortress to which she retreats. 

From the cruel assaults of the clime. 
While earth wears a mantle of snow, 

These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
As the fairest and sweetest that blow 

On the beautiful bosom of May. 

^ee how they have safely survived 

The frowns of a sky so severe ; 
Such Mary's true love, that has lived 

Through many a turbulent year. 
The charms of* the late-blowing rose 

Seem graced with a livelier hue, 
And the winter of sorrow best shows 

The truth of a friend such as you. 



tHE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSI- 
SITIVE PLANT. 

An Oyster, cast upon the shore, 
Was heard, though never heard before, 
Complaining in a speech well worded, 
And worthy thus to be recorded : — 

Ah. hapless wretch ! condemn'd to dwell 
Forever in my native shell ; 
Ordain'd to move when others please, 
Not for my own content or ease ; 
But toss'd and buffeted about, 
' Now in the water, and now out. 
'Twere better to be born a stone, 
Of ruder shape, and feeling none, 
Than with a tenderness like mine, 
And sensibilities so fine I 
I envy that unfeeling shrub, 
Fast rooted against every rub. 
The plant he meant grew not far off. 
And felt the sneer with scorn enough : 
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified. 
And with asperity replied : 

(When, cry the botanists, and stare, 
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there 1 
No matter when — a poet's muse is 
To make them grow just where she chooses) 

You shapeless nothing in a dish, 
You that are but almost a fish, 
I scorn your coarse insinuation, 
And have most plentiful occasion 
To wish myself the rock I view, 
Or such another dolt as you : 
For many a grave, and learned clerk 
And many a gay unletter'd spark, 



With curious touch examines me, 

If I can feel as well as he ; 

And when I bend, retire, and shrink, 

Says — Well, tis more than one would thinK 1 

Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't) 

In being touch'd,' and cryinor — Don't! 

A poet, in his evening w ilk, 
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk. 
And your fine sense, he said, and yours 
Whatever evil it endures, 
Deserves not, if so soon offended, 
Much to be pitied or commended. 
Disputes, though short, are far too long, 
Where both alike are in the wrong ; 
Your feelings in their full amount 
Are all upon your own account. 

You, in your grotto-work enclosed, 
Complain of being thus exposed ; 
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat 
Save when the knife is at your throat, 
Wherever driven by wind or tide, 
Exempt from every ill beside. 

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, 
Who reckon every touch a blemish, 
If all the plants, that can be found 
Embellishing the scene around, 
Should droop and wither where they grow 
You would not feel at all— not you. 
The noblest minds their virtue prove 
By pity, sympathy, and love : 
These, these are feelings truly fine, 
And prove their owner half divine. 

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it 
And each by shrinking show'd t e felt it. 



THE SHRUBBERY. 

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. 

Oh, happy shades— to me unblest ! 

Friendly to peace, but not to me ! 
How ill the scene that offers rest, 

And heart that cannot rest, agree ! 

This glassy stream, that spreading pine, 
Those alders, quivering to the breeze, 

Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, 
And please, if anything could please. 

But fix'd unalterable Care 
Foregoes not what she feels within, 

Shows the same sadness everywner ., 
And slights the season and the scene. 

For all that, pleased in wood or lawn, 
While Peace possess'd these silent bowers 

Her animating smile withdrawn, 
Has lost its beauties and its powers. 

The saint or moralist should tread 
This moss-grown alley musing, slow ; 

They seek like me the secret shade, 
But not like me to nourish woe ! 

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste 

Alike admonish not to roam ; 
These tell me of enjoyments past, 

And those of sorrows yet to come. 



:18 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



MUTUAL FORBEARANCE 

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED 

STATE. 

The lady thus addiess'd her spouse — 
What a mere dungeon is this house ; 
By no means h-rge enough ; and was it, 
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, 
Those hangings with their worn-out graces, 
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, 
Are such an antiquated scene, 
They overwhelm me with the spleen. 
i?ir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, 
Makes answer quite beside the mark : 
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, 
Engaged myself to be at home, 
And snail expect him at the door 
Precisely when the clock strikes four. 

You are so deaf, the lady cried, 
(And raised her voice, and frown'd beside,) 
Y ia are so sadly deaf, my dear, 
What shall I do to make you hear 1 

Dismiss poor Harry ! he replies ; 
3 >me people are more nice than wise : 
For one slight trespass all this stir 1 
What if he did ride whip and spur, 
Twas but a mile — your favorite horse 
Will never look one hair the worse. 

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing — 
Child ! I am rather hard of hearing — 
Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl : 
T tell you, you can't hear at all ! 
Then, with a voice exceeding low, 
No matter if you hear or no. v 

Alas ! and is domestic strife, 
That sorest ill of human life, 
A plague so little to be fear'd, 
As to be wantonly incurr'd, 
To gratify a fretful passion, 
On every trivial provocation 1 ■ 
The kindest and the happiest pair 
Will find occasion to forbear ; 
And something every day they live 
To pity, and perhaps forgive. 
But if infirmities, that fall 
In common to the lot of all, 
A blemish or a sense impair'd, 
Are crimes so little to be spared. 
Ther farewell all that must create 
The comfort of the wedded state ; 
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, 
Ana tumult, and intestine war. 

The love that cheers life's latest stage 
Proof against sickness and old age, 
Preserved by virtue from declension, 
Becomes not weary of attention ; 
But lives, when that exterior grace, 
Which first inspired the flame, decays. 
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, 
To faults compassionate or blind, 
And will with sympathy endure 
Those evils it would gladly cure : 
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, 
Shows love to be a mere profession ; 
Proves that the heart is none of his, 
Or soon expels him if it is. 



THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 

Forced from home and all its pleasures, 
Afric's coast I left forlorn ; 



To increase a stranger's treasures, 
O'er the raging billows borne. 

Men from England bought and sold me, 
Paid my price in paltry gold ; 

But, though slave they have enrolFd me 
Minds are never to be sold. 

Still in thought as free as ever, 

What are England's rights, I ask, * 
Me from my delights to sever, 

Me to "torture, me to task % 
Fleecy locks and black complexion 

Cannot forfeit nature's claim; 
Skins may differ, but affection 

Dwells in white and black the same. 

Why did all-creating Nature 

Make the plant for which we toil 1 
Sighs must fan it, tears must water, 

Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
Think, ye masters iron-hearted, 

Lolling at your jovial boards, 
Think how many backs have smarted 

For the sweets your cane affords. 

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, 

Is there One who reigns on high ? 
Has he bid you buy and sell us, 

Speaking from his throne, the skyl 
Ask him, if your knotted scourges, 

Matches, blood-extorting screws, 
Are the means that duty urges 

Agents of his will to use 1 

Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes, 

Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; 
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 

Are the voice with which he speaks. 
He, foreseeing what vexations 

Afric's sons should undergo, 
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 

Where his whirlwinds answer — no. 

By our blood in Afric wasted, 

Ere our necks received the chain ; 
By the miseries that we tasted, 

Crossing in your barks the main , 
By our sufferings, since ye brought us 

To the man-degrading mart, 
All sustain'd by patience, taught us 

Only by a broken heart ; 

Deem our nation brutes no longer, 

Till some reason ye shall find 
Worthier of regard, and stronger 

Than the color of ur kind. 
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 

Tarnish all your boasted powers, 
Prove that you have human feelings, 

Ere you proudly question ours ! 



PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. 

Video meliora proboque, 
Deteriora sequor. 

I own I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves. 
And fear those who buy them and sell them are 
knaves ; [and groans, 

What I hear of their hardships, their tortures 
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. 

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, 

For how could we do without sugar and rum 1 



JOHN GILPIN. 



<JJ9 



Especially r gar, so needful we see 1 

What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea ! 

Besides, if we do, ihe French, Dutch, and Danes 
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains ; 
If we do not bay the poor creatures, they will, 
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still. 

If f:re*gners likewise would give up the trade, 
Much more in behalf of your wish might be 

said: 
But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, 
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks ] 

Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind 
A story so pat, you may think it is coin'd, 
On purpose to answer you, out of my mint ; 
But I can assure you I saw it in print. 

A youngstei at school, more sedate than the rest, 
Had once hi3 integrity put to the test ; 
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, 
And ask'd him to go and assist in the job. 

He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd, 
" Oh no ! [go ; 

What ! rob our good neighbor ! I pray you don't 
Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, 
Then think of his children, for they must be fed." 

"You speak very fine, and you look very grave, 
But apples we want, and apples we'll have; 
If you will go with us. you shall have a share, 
if, not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." 

They spoke, and Tom pondered — " I see they 

will go ; 
Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could, 
But staying behind will do him no good. 

" If the matter depended alone upon me. 

His apples might hang till they dropp'd from 

the tree ; 
But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too, 
He will lose none by me. though I get a few." 

His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease 
And went with his comrades the apples to seize 
He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan 
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. 



THE MORNING DREAM. 

'Twas in the glad season of spring, 

Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
I dream'd what I cannot but sing, 

So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
I dream'd that on ocean afloat. 

Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
While the billows high lifted the boat, 

And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. 

In the steerage a woman I saw, 

Such at least was the form that she wore, 
Whose beauty impressed me with awe, 

Ne'er taught me by woman before: 
She sat, and a shield at her side 

Shed light like a sun on the waves, 
And smiling divinely, she cried — 

" I go to make freemen of slaves." 



Then, raising her voice to a strain 

The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
She sung of the slave's broken chain 

Wherever her glory appear'd. 
Some clouds which had over us hung 

Fled, chas'd by her melody clear, 
And methought, while she liberty sung, 

'Twas liberty only to hear. 

Thus swiftly dividing the flood, 

To a slave-cultured island we came 
Where a demon, her enemy, stood- 

Oppression his terrible name. 
In his hand, as a sign of his sway, 

A scourge hung with lashes he bor«» 
And stood looking out for his prey 

From Africa's uonowful shore. 

Hut soon as, approaching the land, 

That goddcss-iike woman he view'd, 
The scourge he let fall from his hand, 

With blood of his subjects imbrued. 
I saw him both sicken and die, 

And. the moment the monster expir'd t 
Heard shouts that ascended the sky, 

From thousands with rapture inspir'd. 

Awaking, how could I but muse 

At what such a dream should betide, 
But soon my ear caught the glad news, 

Which serv'd my weak thought for a guide 
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves, 

For the hatred she ever has shown 
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, 

Resolves to have none of her own. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOKA 
GILPIN ; 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE 
INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A trainband captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear : 

Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious yean?, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding-Jay, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

My sister, and my sister's child, 

Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

On horseback after we. 

He soon replied, I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

I am a linendraper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 
.\nd my good friend the calendrer 

Will lend kis horse to go. 



6:0 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



luoth Mrs. Gilpin, that's well said ; 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish'd with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear. 

ohn Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 
O'erjoyed was he to find, 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wneels, 

Were never folk so glad, 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again ; 

For saddletree scarce reach'd had he, 

His journey to begin, 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind, 
When Betty screaming cam - down stairs, 

" The wine is left behind i' ; 

Good lack ! quoth he — yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise. 

Now mistress Gilpin ("careful soul !^ 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling enr, 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side, 
T >> make his balance true. 

Tl en over all, that he might be 

Equipp'd from top to toe, 
I is long red cloak, well brush'd £_nd neat, 

He manfully did throw. 

is .-w see him" mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 
fbe snorting beast began to trot 

Which gall'd him in his seat. 



So, fair and softly, John he -vied, 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop eoon, 

In spite of curb and reir.. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before, 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought , 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
, Like streamer long and gay, 
Till, loop and button failing both, 
At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 

Up flew the windows all ; 
And every soul cried out, Well done 1 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around, 
He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound ! 

And still, as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view, 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low, 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shatter'd at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton, his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 



JOHN GILPIN. 



63 



Stop, stop. John Gilpin !— Here's the house ! 

They all at once did cry ; 
The dinner waits, and we are tired : 

Said Gilpin — So am I ! 

But ye< his horse was not a whit 

Incli.ied to tarry there ; 
For why 1 — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend the calendrer's 

The horse at last stood still. 

The calendrer. amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

What news 1 what news ? your tidings tell ; 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all 1 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke ! 
And thus unto the calendrer 

In merry guise he spoke : 

* came because your horse would come, 

And, if I well forebode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here, 

They are upon the road. 

The calendrer, right glad to find. 

His friend in merry pin, 
Return'd him not a single word, 

But to the house went in ; 

Whence straight came he with hat and wig ; 

A wig that flow'd behind, 
A. hat not much the worse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus show'd his ready wit : 
My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

But let me scrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you mi f 

Be in a hungry case. 

Said John, It is my wedding-day, 

And all the world would star--, 
[f wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware. 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

I am in haste to dine ; 
Twas for ypur pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine. 

4h luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sinff most loud and clear ; 



Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And gallop 'd off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why 1 — they were too big. 

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pull'd out half-a-crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said, 
That drove them to the Bell, 

This shall be yours, when you bring bacx 
My husband safe and well. 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain ; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 

By catching at his rein ; 

But, not performing what he meant, 
And gladly would have done, 

The frighted steed he frighted mora. 
And made hiin faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went postboy at his heels, 
The postboy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels 

Six gentlemen upon the road 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
With postboy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry : 

Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman i 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that pass'd that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space ; 
The toll-men thinking as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so did he, and won it too, 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, long live the king, 

And Gilpin long live he ; 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM 

A nightingale, that all day long 
Had cheer'd the village with his song, 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 
Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
Began to feel, as well he might, 
The keen demands of appetite ; 
When, looking eagerly around, 
He spied far off, upon the ground, 
A something shining in the dark, 
And knew the glowworm by his spark , 



522 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



So stooping down from hawthorn top, 
He thought to put him it, his crop. 
The worm, aware of his intent, 
Harangued him thus rig.ut eloquent— 

Did you admire my lamp, quoth he 
As much as I your minstrelsy, 
You would abhor to "do me wrong 
As much as I to spoil your song ; 
For 'twas the self-same Power divine 
Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; 
That you with music, I with light, 
Might beautify and cheer the night. 
The songster heard his short oration, 
And, warbling out his approbation, 
Released him, as my story tells, 
And found a supper somewhere else. 

Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
Their real interest to discern ; 
That brother should not war with brother, 
And worry and devour each other ; 
But sing and shine by sweet consent, 
Till life's poor transient night is spent, 
Respecting in each other's case 
The gifts of nature and of grace. 

Those Christians best deserve the name 
Who studiously make peace their aim ; 
Peace both the duty and the prize 
Of him that creeps and him that flies. 



/LN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PROTEST- 
ANT LADY IN FRANCE. 

Madam, 

A stranger's purpose in these lays 
Is to congratulate, and not to praise. 
To give the creature the Creator's due 
Were sin in me, and an offence to you. 
From man to man, or e'en to woman paid, 
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, 
A coin by craft for folly's use design'd, 
Spurious, and only current with the blind. 

The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; 
Ne traveller ever reach 'd that blest abode, 
Who found not thorns and briers in his road. 
The world may dance along the flowery plain, 
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, 
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread, 
With unshod feet they yet securely tread, 
Admonish 'd, scorn the caution and the friend, 
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
But he, who knew what human hearts would 

prove, 
How slow to learn the dictates of his love, 
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, 
A life of ease would make them harder still, 
In pity to the souls his grace design'd 
To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, 
And said, " Go spend them in the vale of 

tears." 
balmy gales of soul-reviving air ! 

salutary streams, that murmur there ! 
These flowing from the fount of grace above, 
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love. 
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys ; 
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing 

joys ; 
An envious world will interpose its frown, 

1 mar delights superior to its own ; 

And many a pang, experienced still within, 
Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin : 



But ills of every shape and every name, 
Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim : 
And every moment's calm, that soothes the brea«t 
Is given in earnest of eternal rest. 

Ah, be not i,ad. although thy lot be cast 
Far from the nock, and in a boundless waste ! 
No shepherd's tcnt-s vithin thy view appear, 
But the chief Shep-if.; i even there is near; 
Thy tender sorrows :u; ! thy plaintive strain 
Flow in a foreign laud but not in vain; 
Thy tears all issue from a source divine, 
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine— 
So once s.\ ^^in's lieece the dews were found 
And draught on ail the drooping herbs around. 



TO THE REV. W. CAVVTHORNE UNWIN 

Unwin, I should but ill repay 

The kindness of a friend, 
Whose worth deserves as warm a 'ay 

As ever friendship penn'd, 
Thy name omitted in a page 
That would reclaim a vicious age. , 

A union form'd. as mine with thee. 

Not rashly, or in sport, 
May be as fervent in degree 

And faithful in its sort, 
And may as rich in comfort prove, 
As that of true fraternal love. 

The bud inserted in the rind, 

The bud of peach or rose, 
Adorns, though differing in its kind, 

The stock whereon it grows. 
With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, 
As if produced by nature there. 

Not rich, I render what I may, 

I seize thy name in haste, 
And place it in this first essay, 

Lest this should prove the last. 
'Tis where it should be — in a plan 
That holds in view the good of mail. 

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, 

Should be the poet's heart; 
Affection lights a brighter flamb 

Than ever blazed by art. 
No muses on these lines attend, 
I sink the poet in the friend. 



TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON 

AN INV STATION 'NTO THE COUNTRY. 

The swallows in their torpid state 
Coaipose their useless wing, 

And bees in hives as idly wait 
The call of early Spring. 

The keenest frost that binds the stream 
The wildest wind that blows, 

Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, 
Secure of their repose. 

But man, all feeling and awake, 

The gloomy scene surveys ; 
With present ills his heart must ache, 

And pant for brighter days. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



K2i 



Old Winter halting o'er the mead, 
Bids me and Mary mourn ; 

But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, 
And whispers your -eturn. 

Then April with her sister May, 
Shall chase him from the bowers, 

And weave fresh garlands every day, 
To crown the smiling hours. 

And if a tear that speaks regret 

Of happier* times appear, 
A glimpse of joy, that we have met, 

Shall shine and dry the tear. 



CATHARINA. 

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, 
(NOW MRS. COURTNEY.) 

She came — she is gone — we have met — 

And meet perhaps never again ; 
The sun of that moment is set. 

And seems to have risen in vain. 
Catharina has fled like a dream — 

(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) 
But has left a regret and esteem 

That will not so suddenly pass. 

The last evening ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, and I, 
Our progress was often delay'd 

By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
We paused under many a tree, 

And much she was charm'd with a tone, 
Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witness'd her own. 

My numbers that day she'had sung. 

And gave them a grace so divine, 
As only her musical tongue 

Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
The longer I heanl, I esteemd 

The work of my fancy the more, 
And e'en to myself never seem'd 

So tuneful a poet before. 

Though the pleasures of London exceed 

In number the days of the year, 
Catharina, did nothing impede, 

Would feel herself happier here ; 
For the close-woven arches of limes 

On the banks of our river, I know, 
Are sweeter to her many times 

Than aught that the city can show. 

So it is when the mind is endued 

With a well-j udging taste from above, 
Then, whether cmbellish'd or rude, 

'Tis nature abne that we love. 
The achievements of art may amuse, 

May even our wonder excite ; 
Bit groves, hills, and valleys diffuse 

A lasting, a sacred delight. 

Since then in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice, 
May it still be her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice ! 
To inhabit a mansion remote 

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
And by Philomel's annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 



With her book, and her voice, and her ljrre 

To wing all her moments at home ; 
And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 

As ott as it suits her to roam ; 
She will have just the life she prefers, 

With little to hope or to fear, 
And ours would be pleasant as hers, 

Might we view her enjoying it here. 



THE MORALIZER CORRECTED 



A hermit, (or if 'chance you hold 

That title now too trite and old,) 

A man. once young, who lived retired 

As hermit could have well desired, 

His hours of study closed at last, 

And finish'd his concise repast, 

Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book, 

Within its customary nook, 

And. staff in hand, set forth to share 

The sober cordial of sweet air, 

Like Isaac, with a mind applied 

To serious thought at evening-tide. 

Autumnal rains had made it chill, 

And from the trees, that fringed his hill. 

Shades slanting at the close of day, 

Chill'd more hij else delightful way. 

Distant a little mile he spied 

A western bank's still sunny side, 

And right toward the favor'd place 

Proceeding with his nimblest pace, 

In hope to bask a little yet, 

Just reach'd it when the sun was set. 

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs ! 
Learns something from whate'er occurs- 
And hence, he said, my mind computes 
The real worth of man's pursuits. 
His object chosen, wealth or fame, 
Or other sublunary game, 
Imagination to his view 
Presents it deck'd with every hue 
That can seduce him not to spare 
His powers of best exertion there, 
But youth, health, vigor to expend 
On so desirable an end. 
Ere long approach life's evening shades 
The glow that fancy gave it fades ; 
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace 
That first engaged him in the chase. 

True, answer'd an angelic guide, 
Attendant at the senior's side — 
But whether o.ll the time it cost, 
To urge the fruitless chase be lost, 
Must be decided by the worth 
Of that which call'd his ardor forth. 
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event, 
Must cause him shame or discontent; 
A vicious object still is worse, 
Successful there, he wins a curse ; 
But he, whom e'en in life's last stag* 
Endeavors laudable engage. 
Is paid at least in peace of mind, 
And sense of having well design u; 
And if, ere he attain hia end, 
His sun precipitate descend, 
A brighter prize than that he meant 
Shall recompense his mere intent. 
Nj virtuous wish can bear a dati 
Either too early or too late. 



6U 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



THE FAITHFUL BIRD. 

The greenhouse is my summer seat; 
My shrubs displaced from that recreat 

Enjoy 'd the open air; 
Two goldfinches, whose s lightly sou«; 
Had been their mutual solace iong, 

Lived happy prisoners there. 

They sang as blithe as finches sing, 
That flutter loose on golden wing, 

And frolic where they list ; 
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, 
But that delight they never knew, 

And therefore never miss'd. 

But nature works in every breast. 
With force not easily suppress'd; 

And Dick felt some desires, 
That, after many an effort vain, 
Instructed him at. length to gain 

A pass between his wires. 

The open windows seem'd to invite 
The freeman to a farewell flight ; 

But Tom was still confined ; 
And Dick, although his way was clear, 
Was„much too generous and sincere 

To leave his friend behind. 

So settling on his cage, by play, 
And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say 

You must not live alone — 
Nor would he quit that chosen stand 
Till I, with slow and cautious hand, 

Return'd him to his own. 

O ye, who never taste the joys 
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, 

Fandango, ball, and rout ! 
Blush, when I tell you how a bird, 
A prison with a friend preferr'd 

To liberty without. 



THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 



There is a field, through which I often pass, 
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, 
Aijoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, 
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, 
Reserved to solace many a neighboring squire, 
That he may follow them through brake and brier, 
Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine, 
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. 
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd, 
Runs in a bottom and divides the field ; 
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, 
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; 
AnJ where the bind slopes to its watery bourn 
Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn ; , 
Bricks lin. the sides, but r.hiver'd long ago, 
And horrid brambles intertwine below ; 
A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time. 
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. 

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, 
With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed, 
Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray, 
With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away, 
But corn was hf used, and beans were in the stack, 
Vow therefore issued forth the spotted pack, 



With tails high mounted, ears hung low, anu 

throats 
With a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes, 
For which, alas ! my destiny severe, 
Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. 

The sun, accomplishing his early march, 
His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch, 
When, exercise and air my only aim, 
And heedless whither, to that field I came, 
Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound 
Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found 
Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang 
All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry* rang, [press'd 

Sheep grazed the field ; some with soft bosom 
The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest 
Nor noise was heard, but of the hasty brook, 
Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. 
All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'4 
To me their peace by kind contagion spread. 

But when the huntsman, with distended cheek 
'Gan make his instrument of music speak* 
And from within the wood that crash was heard, 
Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd, 
The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed, 
All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed, 
Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, 
Then coursed the field around, and coursed it 

round again ; 
But recollecting, with a sudden thought, [nought, 
That flight in circles urged advanced them 
They gather'd close around the old pit's brink, 
And thought again — but knew not what to think 

The man to solitude accustom'd long, 
Perceives in everything that lives a tongue ; 
Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees 
Have speech for him, and understood with ease ; 
After long drought, when rains abundant fall, 
He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all ; 
Knows' what the freshness of their hue implies, 
How glad they Latch the largess of the skies; 
But, with precision nicer still, the mind 
He scans of every u>comotive kind ; 
Birds of all feather, beasts of every name ; 
That serve mankind, or shur. thtfl>, wild or tame 
The looks and gestures "of tneir grieib and fears 
Have all articulation in his ears ; 
He spells them true by intuition's light, 
And needs no glossary to set him right. 

This truth premised was needful as a text, 
To win due credence to what follows next. 

Awhile they mused ; surveying every face, 
Thou hadst supposed them of superior race ; 
Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, 
Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of 

mind. 
That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt 
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzled out ; 
Or academic tutors, teaching youths, 
Sure ne'er to wantHhem, mathematic truths ; 
When thus a mutton statelier than the rest, 
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd. 

Friends ! we have lived too long. I nevel 
heard 
Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. 
Could I believe, that winds for ages pent 
In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent 
And from their prison-house below arise, 
With all these hideous howlings to the skies, 
I could be much composed, nor should appear, 
For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. 

* Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq, 



BO ADICE A.— HEROISM. 



625 



Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders 
All night, me resting quiet in the fold. [roll'd 
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, 
I could expound the melancholy tone ; 
Should deem it by our old companion made, 
The ass ; for he. we know, has lately stray'd, 
And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide, 
Might be supposed to clamor for a guide. 
But ah ! those dreadful yells, what soul can hear, 
That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear 1 
Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd 
And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad ; 
I hold it therefore wisest and most fit 
That. life to save, we leap into the pit. 

Him answer'd then his loving mate and true, 
But more discreet than he. a Cambrian ewe. 

How ! leap into the pit cur life to save 1 
To save our life leap all into the grave 1 
For can we find it less 1 Contemplate first 
The depth how awful ! falling there, we burst : 
Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall 
in part abate, that happiness were small ; 
For with a race like theirs, no chance I see 
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. 
Meantime noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, 
Or be it not. or be it whose it may, [tongues 

And rush those other sounds, that seem by 
Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs. 
Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear, 
We have at least commodious standing here. 
Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast 
From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. 

While thus she spake, I fainter heard the 
For Reynard, close attended at his heels [peals, 
By panting dog. tired man, and spatter'd horse, 
Through mere good fortune, took a different 

course. 
The flock grew calm again, and I, the road 
Following, that led me to my own abode, 
Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found 
Such cause of terror in an empty sound, 
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. 

MORAL. 

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, 
Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away. 



BOADICEA. 



When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought with an indignant mein, 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage, and full of grief. 

Princess ! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
"Tis because resentment ties 

All trie terrors of our tongues. 

Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt ; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 



Rome, for empire far renown'd, 
Tramples on a thousand states ; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 

Other Romans shall arise, 
Heedless of a soldier's name ; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize ; 
Harmony the path to fame. 

Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land, 

Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they. 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire, 

Bending as h'e swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride, 
Felt them in her bosom glow : 

Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. 

Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due; 
Empire is on us bestowed, 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 



HEROISM. 

There was a time when ./Etna's silent fire 
Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire; 
When, conscious of no danger from below, 
She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. 
No thunders shook with deep intestine sound 
The blooming groves that girdled her around. 
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines 
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines) 
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, 
In peace upon her sloping sides matured. 
When on a day. like that of the last doom, 
A conflagration laboring in her womb. 
She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth, 
That shook the circling seas and solid earth. 
Dark and voluminous the vapors rise. 
And hang their horrors in the neighboring skiea, 
While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, 
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. 
But oh ! what muse, and in what powers of song, 
Can trace the torrent as it burns along 1 
Havoc and devastation in the van, 
It man-aes o'er the prostrate works of man; 
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, 
And all the charms of a Sicilian year. 

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, 
See it an uninform'd and idle mass ; 
Without a soil to invite the tiller's care, 
Or blade that might redeem it from despair. 
Yet time at length (what will not time achieve t \ 
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce lrtel 
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, 
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. 
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, 
O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets ' 
40 



626 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance 

round 
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound : 
Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, 
Again pours ruin on the vale below. 
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, 
That only future ages can restore. 

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honor draws, 
Who write, in blood the merits of your cause. 
Who strike the blow, then plead your own 

defence, 
Glory your aim : but justice your pretence ; 
Behold in iEtna's emblematic fires 
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires ! 

Fast by the stream that bounds your just 
domain, 
And tells you where you have a right to reign, 
A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, 
Studious of peace, their neighbor's and their own. 
Ill-fated race ! how deeply must they rue 
Their only crime, vicinity to you ! 
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, 
Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road.; 
At every step beneath their feet they tread 
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread ! 
Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress 
Before them, and behind a wilderness. 
Famine, and pestilence, her firstborn son, 
Attend to finish what the sword begun ; 
And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, 
And folly pays resound at your return. 
A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train 
Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again : 
And years of pining indigence must show 
What scourges are the gods that rule below. 

Yet man, laborious man. by slow degrees, 
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,) 
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, 
Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, 
Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, 
And the sun gilds the shining spires again. 

Increasing commerce and reviving art 
Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; 
And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, 
That wealth within is ruin at the door. 
What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, 
But iEtnas of the suffering world ye sway 1 
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, 
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ; 
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, 
To prove you there destroyers as ye are. 

O place me in some heaven-protected isle, 
Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; 
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood. 
No crested warrior dips his plume in blood ; 
Where Power secures what Industry has won ; 
Where to succeed is not to be undone ; 
A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, 
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign. 



ON THE 

RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 

OUT OF NORFOLK, 
THE «IFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. 

O that those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me 5 



Voice only fails, else h.m dis* <ict they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chV.e al 1 thy fears away !' 
The meek intelligence o r those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it) here sbines on me Kill the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here : 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother bst so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
Shall steep me in Flysian reverie, 
A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou waj 

dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun 1 
Perhaps thou gaVst me, though unfelt, a kissj 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such 1 — It was. — Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled, 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learn'd at last submission to my lot, 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 

more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coadh, and wrapp'd 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 
'Tis now become a history little known, 
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, [laid ; 
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit or confectionary plum ; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 

glow'd : 
All this, and more endearing still than all, ' 
Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, 
Ne'er roughen 'd by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here 




Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the 

hours, 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and 

smile.) 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 

here % 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) 
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the 

shore, 
'• Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"* 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass 

lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant fromi a prosperous course. 
But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help t not sought in vain, 
L seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free, 
A.nd I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 



FRIENDSHIP. 

What virtue, or what mental grace 
But men unqualified and base 

Will boast it their possession 1 
Profusion apes the noble part 
Of liberality of heart, 

And dullness of discretion. 

If every polish'd gem we find, 
Illuminating heart or mind, 

Provoke to imitation ; 
No wonder friendship does the same, 
That jewel of the purest flame, 

Or rather constellation. 

* Garth. 



No knave but boldly will pretend 
The requisites that tbrm a friend, 

A real and a sound one ; 
Nor any fool, he would deceive, 
But prove as ready to believe, 

And dream that he had found one. 

Candid, and generous, and just, 
Boys care but little whom they trust, 

An error soon corrected; — 
For who but learns in riper years 
That man : when smoothest he appears, 

Is most to be suspected 1 

But here again a danger lies, 
Lest, having misapplied our eyes, 

\nd taken trash for treasure, 
We should unwarily conclude 
Friendship a false ideal good, 

A mere Utopian pleasure. 

An acquisition rather rare 
Is yet no subject of despair ; 

Nor is it wise complaining, 
If, either on forbidden ground, 
Or where it was not to be found, 

We sought without attaining. 

No friendship will abide the test, 
That stands on sordid interest, 

Or mean self-love erected ; 
Nor such as may awhile subsist 
Between the sot and sensualist, 

For vicious ends connected. 

Who seek a friend should come disposed 
To exhibit in full bloom disclosed, 

The graces and the beauties 
That form the character he seeks, 
For 'tis a union that bespeaks 

Reciprocated duties. 

Mutual attention is implied, 
And equal truth on either side, 

And constantly supported ; 
'Tis senseless arrogance to accuse 
Another of sinister views. 

Our own as much distorted. 

But will sincerity suffice 1 
It is indeed above all price, 

And must be made the basis; 
But every virtue of the soul 
Must constitute the charming whole, 

All shining in their places. 

A fretful temper will divide 

The closest knot that may be tied, 

By ceaseless sharp corrosion ; 
A temper passionate and fierce 
May suddenly your joys disperse 

At one immense explosion 

In vain the talkative unite 

In hopes of permanent delight — 

The secret just committed, 
Forgetting its important weight, 
They drop through mere desire to prate, 

And by themselves outwitted. 

How bright soe'er the prospect seems, 
All thoughts of friendship are but dceam* 

If envy chance to creep in ; 
An envious man, if you succeed, 
May prove an envious foe indeed, 

But not a friend worth keeping. 



628 COWPER S WORKS. 


As envy pines at good possess'd, 
So jealousy looks forth distress'd 

On good that seems approaching ; 
And if success his steps attend, 
Discerns a rival in a friend, 

And hates him for encroaching. 


Sometimes the fault is all our own, 
Some blemish in due time made known 

By trespass or omission ; 
Sometimes occasion brings to light 
Our friend's defect, long hid from sight, 

And even from suspicion. 


Hence authors of illustrious name 
Unless belied by common fame, 

Are sadly prone to quarrel, 
To deem the wit a friend displays 
A tax upon their own just praise, 

And pluck each other's laurel. 


Then judge yourself, and prove your man 
As circumspectly as you can, 

And. having made election, 
Beware no negligence of yours, 
Such as a friend but ill endures, 

Enfeeble his affection. 


A man renown'd for repartee 
Will seldom scruple to make free 

With friendship's finest feeling, 
Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 
And say he wounded you in jest, 

By way of balm for healing. 


That secrets are a sacred trust, 

That friends should be sincere and just, 

That constancy befits them, 
Are observations on the case, 
That savor much of common place, 

And all the world admits them. 


Whoever keeps an open ear 
For tattlers will be sure to hear 

The trumpet of contention ; 
Aspersion is the babbler's trade, 
To listen is to lend him aid, 

And rush into dissension. 


But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, 
An architect requires alone 
• To finish a fine building — 
The palace were but half complete, 
If he could possibly forget 
The carving and the gilding. 


A friendship that in frequent fits 
Of controversial rage emits 

The sparks of disputation, 
Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates, 
Most unavoidably creates 

The thought of conflagration. 


The man that hails you Tom or Jack, 
And proves by thumps upon your back 

How he esteems your merit, 
Is such a friend that one had need 
Be very much his friend indeed 

To pardon or to bear it. 


Some fickle creatures boast a soul 
True as a needle to the pole, 

Their humor yet so various — 
They manifest their whole life through 
The needle's deviation too, 

Their love is so precarious. 


As similarity of mind, 

Or something not to be defined, 

First fixes our attention ; 
So manners decent and polite, 
The same we practised at first sight, 

Must save it from declension. 


The great and small but rarely meet 
On terms of amity complete ; 

Plebeians must surrender, 
And yield so much to noble folk, 
It is combining fire with smoke, 

Obscurity with splendor. 


Some act upon this prudent plan, 
" Say little, and hear all you can." 

Safe policy, but hateful — 
So barren sands imbibe the shower 
But render neither fruit nor flower 

Unpleasant and ungrateful. 


Some are so placid and serene 
(As Irish bogs are always green) 

They sleep secure from waking j 
And are indeed a bog that bears 
Your unparticipated cares 

Unmoved and without quaking. 


The man I trust, if shy to me, 
Shall find me as reserved as he, 

No subterfuge or pleading 
Shall win my confidence again ; 
I will by no means entertain 

A spy on my proceeding. 


Courtier and patriot cannot mix 
Their heterogeneous politics 

Without an effervescence. 
Like that of salts with lemon juice, 
Which does not yet like that produce 

A friendly coalescence. 


These samples — for alas ! at last 
These are but samples, and a taste 

Of evils yet unmention'd — 
May prove the task a task indeed, 
In which 'tis much if we succeed, 

However well intention'd. 


Religion should extinguish strife, 
And make a calm of human life ; 

But friends that chance to differ 
On points which God has left at large, 
How freely will they meet and charge- 
No combatants are stiffer. 


Pursue the search, and you will find 
Good sense and knowledge of mankind 

To be at least expedient, 
And, after summing all the rest, 
Religion ruling in the breast 

A principal ingredient. 


To prove at last my main intent 
Needs no expense of argument, 

No cutting and contriving — 
Seeking a real friend we seem 
To adopt the chemist's golden dream, 

With still less hope of thriving. 


The noblest Friendship ever shown 
Tie Saviour's history makes known, 

Though some have turn'd and turn'd it; 
And, whether being crazed or blind, 
Or seeking with a biass'd mind, 

Have not, it seems, discern'd it. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



629 



O Friendship ! if my soul forego 
Thy dear delights while here below 

To mortify and grieve me, 
May I myself at last appear, 
Unworthy, base and insincere, 

Or may my friend deceive me 1 



ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL, 

which the owner of him sold at the 
author's instance. 

Go — thou art all unfit to share 

The pleasures of this place 
With such as its old tenants are, 

Creatures of gentler race. 

The squirrel here his hoard provides, 

Aware of wintry storms, 
And woodpeckers explore the sides 

Of rugged oaks for worms. 

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn 

With frictions of her fleece ; 
And here I wander eve and morn, 

Like her, a friend to peace. 

Ah ! — I could pity thee exiled 

From this secure retreat — 
I would not lose it to be styled 

The happiest of the great. 

But thou canst taste no calm delight; 

Thy pleasure is to show 
Thy magnanimity in fight, 

Thy prowess — therefore, go — 

I care not whether east or north, 

So I no more may find thee ; 
The angry muse thus sings thee forth, 

And claps the gate behind thee. 



ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789. 

rRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY' 
HAPPY RECOVERY. 

I ransack'd for a theme of song, 

Much ancient chronicle, and long ; 

I read of bright embattled fields, 

Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields, 

Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast 

Prowess to dissipate a host ; 

Through tomes of fable and of dream 

I sought an eligible theme, 

But none I found, or found them shared 

Already by some happier bard. 

To modern times, with truth to guide 
My busy search, I next applied ; 
Here cities won. and fleets dispersed, 
Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed, 
Deeds of unperishing renown, 
Our fathers' triumphs and our own. 

Thus as the bee from bank to bower, 
Assiduous sips at every flower, 
But rests on none till that be found 
Where most nectareous sweets abound, 
So I, from theme to theme display'd 
In many a page historic, stray'd, 
Siege after siege, fight after fight, 
Contemplating with small delight, 



(For feats of sanguinary hue 
Not always glitter in my view,) 
Till, settling on the current year, 
I found the far-sought treasure near, 
A theme for poetry divine, 
A theme to ennoble even mine, 
In memorable eighty-nine. 

The spring of eighty-nine shall be 
An sera cherish'd long by me, 
Which joyful I will oil record, 
And thankful at my frugal board ; 
For then the clouds of eighty-eight, 
That threaten'd England s trembling state 
With loss of what she least could spare, 
Her sovereign's tutelary care, 
One breath of heaven, that cried — Restore > 
Chased, never to assemble more: 
And for the richest crown on earth, 
If valued by its wearer's worth, 
The symbol of a righteous reign 
Sat fast on George's brows again. 

Then peace and joy again possess'd 
Our Queen's long-agitated breast ; 
Such joy and peace as can be known 
By sufferers like herself alone, 
Who losing, or supposing lost, 
The good on earth they valued most, 
For that dear sorrow's sake forego 
All hope of happiness below, 
Then suddenly regain the prize, 
- And flash thanksgivings to the skies ! 

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles ! 
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles 
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine 
With joy not unallied to thine ; 
Transports not chargeable with art 
Illume the land's remotest part, 
And strangers to the air of courts, 
Both in their toils and at their sports 
The happiness of answer'd prayers, 
That gilds thy features, show in theirs. 

If they who on thy state attend, 
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, 
'Tis but the natural effect 
Of grandeur that ensures respect ; 
But she is something more than queen 
Who is beloved where never seen. , 



HYMN, 

FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEt 

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, 

In heaven thy dwelling place, 
From infants made the public care, 

And taught to seek thy face. 

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, 

And grant us, we implore, 
Never to waste in sinful play 

Thy holy sabbaths more. 

Thanks that we hear, — but O impart 

To each desires sincere, 
That we may listen with our heart, 

And learn as well as hear. 

For if vain thoughts the minds engage 

Of older far than we, 
What hope, that, at our heedless age, 

Our minds should e'ei be free 1 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Much hope, if thou our spirits take 

Under thy gracious sway, 
Who canst the wisest wiser make, 

And babes as wise as they. 

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, 

A sun that ne'er declines, 
And be thy mercies shower' d on those 

Who placed us where it shines. 



STANZAS. 

iUBJOINfiD TO THE YEARLY BILL OP MORTALITY OP 
THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,* 

ANNO DOMINI 1787. 

4 

Palida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, 
Regumque turres. — Horace. 

Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door 
Of royal halls and hovels of the poor. 

While thirteen moons saw smoothly run 

The Nen's barge-laden wave, 
All these, life's rambling journey done, 

Have found their home, the grave. 

Was man (frail always) made more frail 

Than in foregoing years 1 
Did famine or did plague prevail, 

That so much death appears 1 

No ; these were vigorous as their sires, 

Nor plague nor famine came ; 
This annual tribute Death requires, 

And never waives his claim. 

Like crowded forest trees we stand, 

And some are mark'd to fall ; 
The axe will smite at God's command, 

And soon shall smite us all. 

Green as the bay tree, ever green, 

With its new foliage on, 
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, 

I pass'd — and they were gone. 

Read, ye that run, the awful truth 

With which I charge my page ; 
A worm is in the bud of youth, 

And at the root of age. 

No present health can health ensure 

For yet an hour to come ; 
No medicine, though it oft can cure, 

Can always balk the tomb. 

And ! that humble as my lot, 

And scorn'd as is my strain, 
These truths, though known, too much forgot 

I may not teach in vain. 

So prays your clerk with all his heart, 

And, ere he quits the pen, 
Begs you for once to take his part, 

And answer all — Amen ! 



* Composed for John Cox, pariah clerk of North- 
tmpton. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

FOR THE YEAR 1788. 

Quod adest, memento 
Componere aequus. Caetera numinis 
Ritu feruntur.— Horace. 

Improve the present hour, for all beside 
Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide. 

Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage 
To whom the rising year shall prove his last, 
As I can number in my punctual page, 
And item down the victims of the past ; 

How each would trembling wait the mournfu 

sheet, 
On which the press might stamp him next to die 
And, reading here his sentence, how replete 
With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye 

Time then would seem more precious than the 

joys 
In which he sports away the treasure now ; 
And prayer more seasonable than the noise 
Of drunkards, or the music-drawing .bow. 

Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink 
Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, 
Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, 
Told that his setting sun must rise no more. 

Ah self-deceived ! Could I prophetic say 
Who next is fated, and who next to fall, 
The rest might then seem privileged to play ; 
But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to all. 

Observe the dappled foresters, how light 
They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade — 
One falls — the rest, wide scatter'd with affright, 
Vanish at once into the darkest shade. 

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, 
Still need repeated warnings, and at last, 
A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd, 
Die self-accused of life run all to waste 1 

Sad waste ! for which no after-thrift atones. 
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin ; 
Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones 
But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within. 

Learn then, ye living ! by the mouths be taught 
Of all these sepulchres, instructors true, 
That, soon or late, death also is your lot, 
And the next opening grave may yawn for you 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

FOR THE YEAR 1789. 

— Placidaque ibi demum morte quievit— Virg. 
There calm at length he breathed his soul away. 

"O most delightful hour by man 

Experienced here below, 
The hour that terminates his span, 

His folly and his woe ! 

" Worlds should not bribe me back to tread 

Again life's dreary waste, 
To see again my day o'erspread 

With all the gloomy past. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



63J 



" My home henceforth is in the skies, 

Earth, seas, and sun, adieu ! 
All heaven unfolded to my eyes, 

I have no sight for you." 

So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd 

Of faith's supporting rod, 
Then breathed his soul into its rest; 

The bosom of his God. 

He was a man among the few- 
Sincere on virtue's side ; 

And all his strength from Scripture drew, 
To hourly use applied. 

That rule he prized, by that he fear'd, 

He hated, hoped, and loved ; 
Nor ever frown'd. or sad appear'd, 

But when his heart had roved. 

For he was frail as thou or I, 

And evil felt within ; 
But when he felt it, t aaved a sigh, 

And loathed the thought of sin. 

Such lived Aspasio ; and at last 
Call'd up from earth to heaven, 

The gulf of death triumphant pass'd, 
By gales of blessing driven. 

His joys be mine, each reader cries, 

When my last hour arrives : 
They shall be yours, my verse replies, 

Such only be your fives. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

FOR THE YEAR 1790. 

Ne cominonentem recta sperne.— Buchanak 
Despise not my good counsel. 

He who sits from day to day 
Where the prison'd lark is hung, 

Heedless of his loudest lay, 

Hardly knows that he has sung. 

Where the watchman in his round 
Nightly lifts his voice on high, 

None, accustom'd to the sound, 
Wakes the sooner for his cry. 

So your verse-man I, and clerk, 

Yearly in my song proclaim 
Death at hand — yourselves his mark — 

And the foe's unerring aim. 

Duly at my time I come, 

Publishing to all aloud — 
Soon the grave must be your home, 

And your only suit, a shroud. 

But the monitory strain, 

Oft repeated in your ears, 
Seems to sound too much in vain, 

Wins no notice, wakes no fears. 

Can a truth, by all confess'd 
Of such magnitude and weight, 

Grow, by being oft impress'd, 
Trivial as a parrot's prate. 



Pleasure's call attention wins, 

Hear it often as we may ; 
New as ever seem our sins, 

Though committed every day. 

Death and judgment, heaven and hell- 
These alone, so often heard, 

No more move us than the bell 
When some stranger is interr'd. 

O then, ere the turf or tomb 

Cove* us from every eye, 
Spirit of instruction, come, 

Make us learn that we must die. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 

FOR THE YEAR 1792. 

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, 
99 Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum 
99 Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari 

Vino. 

Happy the mortal who has traced effects 
69 To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet, 

And death and roaring hell's voracious fires ! 

Thankless for favors from on high, 
Man thinks he fades too soon : 

Though 'tis his privilege to die, 
Would he improve the boon. 

But he, not wise enough to scan 

His blest concerns aright, 
Would gladly stretch life's little span 

To ages, if he might. 

To ages in a world of pain, 

To ages where he goes 
Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain, 

And hopeless of repose. 

Strange fondness of the human heart, 

Enamor'd of its harm ! 
Strange world, that costs it so much smart, 

And still has power to charm. 

Whence has the world her magic power ? 

Why deem we death a foe 1 
Recoil from weary life's best hour, 

And covet longer woe 1 

The cause is Conscience — Conscience oft 

Her tale of guilt renews : 
Her voice is terrible though soft, 

And dread of death ensues. 

Then anxious to be longer spared 
Man mourns his fleeting breath : 

All evils then seem light, compared 
With the approach of death. 

'Tis judgment shakes him : there's the feai 
That prompts the wish to stay : 

He has incurr'd a long arrear, 
And must despair to pay. 

Pay ! follow Christ, and all is paid ; 

His death your peace ensures ; 
Think on the grave where he was laid, 

And calm descend to yours. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

FOR THE YEAR 1793. 

De sacris autem haec sit una sententia, ut conserventur. 

Cic. de Leg. 
But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things 
«acred be inviolate. 

He lives who lives to God alone, 

And all are dead beside ; 
For other source than God is none 

Whence life can be supplied. 

To live to God is to requite 

His love as best we may : 
To make his precepts our delight, 

His promises our stay. 

But life, within a narrow ring 

Of giddy joys comprised, 
Is falsely named, and no such thing, 

But rather death disguised. 

Can life in them deserve the name, 

Who only live to prove 
For what poor toys they can disclaim 

An endless life above % 

Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel; 

Much menaced, nothing dread ; 
Have wounds, which only God can heal. 

Yet never ask his aid % 

Who deem iiis house a useless place, 

Faith, want of common sense; 
And ardor in the Christian race, 

A hypocrite's pretence 1 

Who trample order ; and the day 

Which God asserts his own 
Dishonor with unhallow'd play, 

And worship chance alone % 

If scorn of God's commands, impress'd 

On word and deed, imply 
The better part of man unbless'd 

With life that cannot die ; 

Such want it, and that want uncured 

Till man resigns his breath, 
Speaks him a criminal, assured 

Of everlasting death. 

Sad period to a pleasant course ! 

Yet so will God repay 
Sabbaths profaned without remorse, 

And mercy cast away. 



ON A GOLDFINCH, 

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE, 

Time was when I was free as air, 
The thistle's downy seed my fare, 

My drink the morning dew ; 
I perch 'd at will on every spray, 
My form genteel, my plumage gay, 

My strains forever new. 

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
And fcrm genteel were all in vain, 

And of a transient di te ; 
For, caught and caged, an^ starved to death, 
In dying sighs my little breath 

Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 



Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
And thanks for this effectual close 

And cure of every ill ! 
More cruelty could none express ; 
And I, if you had shown me less, 

Had been your prisoner still. 



THE PINE- APPLE AND THE BEE. 

The pine-apples, in triple row, 
Were basking hot. and all in blow ; 
A bee of most discerning taste 
Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd, 
On eager wing the spoiler came, 
And search'd for crannies in the frame, 
Urged his attempt on every side, 
To every pane his trunk applied ; 
But still in vain, the frame was tight, 
And only pervious to the light : 
Thus having wasted half the day, 
He trimm'd his flight another way. 

Methinks, I said, in thee I find 
The sin and madness of mankind. 
To joys forbidden man aspires, 
Consumes his soul with vain desires; 
Folly the spring of his pursuit, 
And disappointment all the fruit. 
While Cynthio ogles, as she passes, 
The nymph between two chariot glasses 
She is the pine-apple, and he 
The silly unsuccessful bee. 
The maid who views with pensive air 
The show-glass fraught with glittering warej 
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets, 
But sigjis at thought of empty pockets 
Like thine, her appetite is keen, 
But ah, the cruel glass between ! 

Our dear delights are often such, 
Exposed to view, but not to touch ; 
The sight our foolish heart inflames, 
We long for pine- apples in frames ; 
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers \ 
One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers ; 
But they whom truth and wisdom lead 
Can gather honey from a weed. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FIND. 
ING THE HEEL OF A SHOE. 

Fortune ! I thank thee : gentle goddess! thanks 
Not that my muse, though bashful shall deny 
She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thoq 

cast 
A treasure in her way ; for neither meed 
Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, 
And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, 
Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast, 
Hopes she from this — presumptuous, though, 

perhaps 
The cobbler, leather-carving artist ! might. 
Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon, 
Whatever ; not as erst the fabled cock, 
Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, 
Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Where 

fore, ah ! 
Why not on me that favor, (worthier sure !) 
Conferr'dst thou, goddess ! Thou art blind tho* 

say'st : 
Enough ! — thy blindness shall excuse the deed. 



Nor does my muse no benefit exhale 
From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here 
Hints worthy sage philosophy are found ; 
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song ! 
This ponderous heel of perforated hide 
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, 
Haply (Tor such its massy form bespeaks) 
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
Upbore : on this, supported oft, he stretch'd, 
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, 
Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time 
(What will not cruel time 1) or a wry step 
Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! 
He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, 
Pursue his destined way with symmetry, 
And some proportion form'd, now on one side 
Curtail'd and maim'd. the sport of vagrant boys, 
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! 
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. 
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet 
Of humble villager — the statesman thus, 
Up the steep road where proud ambition leads, 
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds 
His prosperous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
While policy prevails, and friends prove true ; 
But, that support soon failing, by him left 
On whom he most depended, basely left, • 
Betray 'd, deserted ; from his airy height 
Headlong he falls ; and through the rest of life 
Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 
1748. 



AN ODE, 

ON READING RICHARDSON'S HISTORY OP SIR 
CHARLES GRANDISON. 

Say, ye apostate and profane, 
Wretches, who blush not to disdain 

Allegiance to your God, — 
Did e'er your idly wasted love* 
Of virtue for her sake remove 

And lift you from the crowd 1 

Would you the race of glory run, 
Know, the devout, and they alone, 

Are equal to the task : 
The labors of the illustrious course 
Far other than the unaided force 

Of human vigor ask. 

To arm against reputed ill 

The patient heart too brave to feel 

The tortures of despair : 
Nor safer yet high-crested pride, 
When wealth flows in with every tide 

To gain admittance there. 

To r« icue from the tyrant's sword 

The oppress'd ; unseen and unimplored, 

To cheer the face of woe ; 
From lawless insult to defend 
An orphan's right — a fallen friend, 

And a forgiven foe ; 

These, these distinguish from the crowd, 
And these alone, the great and good, 

The guardians of mankind ; 
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
with what matchless speed tkcy .'iave 

The multitude behind ! 



Then ask ye from what cause on earth 
Virtues like these derive their birth 1 

Derived from Heaven alone, 
Full on that favor'd breast they shine, 
Where faith and resignation join 

To call the blessing down. 

Such is that heart : — but while the muse 
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues, 

Her feeble spirits faint : 
She cannot reach, and would not wrong, 
The subject for an angel's song, 

The hero, and the saint ! 
1753. 



AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ 

'Tis not that I design to rob 

Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob, 

For thou art born sole heir and single 

Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle ; 

Not that I mean, while thus I knit 

My threadbare sentiments together, 

To show my genius or my wit, 

When God and you know I have neither ; 

Or such as might be better shown 

By letting poetry alone. 

'Tis not with either of these views 

That I presumed ,to address the muse : 

But to divert a fierce banditti. 

(Sworn foes to everything that's witty !) 

That, with a black, infernal train, 

Make cruel inroads in my brain, 

And daily threaten to drive thence 

My little garrison of, sense ; 

The fierce banditti which I mean 

Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen. 

Then there's another reason yet, 

Which is, that I may fairly quit 

The debt, which justly became due 

The moment when I heard from you ; 

And you might grumble, crony mine, 

If paid in any other coin ; 

Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows, 

(I would say twenty sheets of prose,) 

Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much 

As one of gold, and yours was such. 

Thus, the preliminaries settled, 

I fairly find myself pitchkettled,* 

And cannot see, though few see better, 

How I shall hammer out a letter. 

First, for a thought — since all agree — 
A thought— I have it— let me see — 
"Tis gone again — plague on't ! I thought 
I had it — but I have it not. 
Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, 
That useful thing, her needle, gone ! 
Rake well the cinders — sweep the floor, 
And sift the dust behind the door ; 
While eager Hodge beholds the prize 
In old grimalkin's glaring eyes : 
And Gammer finds it, on her knees, 
In every shining straw she sees. 
This simile were apt enough ; 
But I've another, critic-proof! 
The virtuoso thus, at noon, 
Broiling beneath a- July sun, 

* Pitchkettled, a favorite phrase at the time when thit 
Epistle was written, expressive of being puzzled, or whal 
in the Spectator's time would have been caHed bam- 
boozled. 



634 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The gilded butterfly pursues, 

O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews : 

And. after many a vain essay, 

To captivate the tempting prey, 

Gives him at length the lucky pat, 

And has him safe beneath his hat : 

Then lifts it gently from the ground ; 

But, ah ! 'tis lost as soon as found ; 

Culprit his liberty regains, 

Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. 

The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit 

With simile to illustrate it ; 

But as too much obscures the sight, 

As often as too little light, 

We have our similes cut short, 

For matters of more grave import. 

That Matthew's numbers run with ease, 

Each man of common sense agrees ! 

All men of common sense allow 

That Robert's lines are easy too : 

Where then the preference shall we place, 

Dr how do justice in this case 1 

Matthew (says Fame,) with endless pains 

Smooth'd and refined the meanest strains; 

Nor suffer 'd one ill-chosen rhyme 

To escape him at the idlest time ; 

And thus o'er all a lustre cast, 

That while the language lives shall last. 

A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,) 

For 'tis my business to reply ; 

Sure so much labor, so much toil, 

Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : 

Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed, 

Who both write well, and write full speed ! 

Who throw their Helicon about 

As freely as a conduit spout ! 

Friend Robert, thus like chien savant 

Lets fall a poem en passant, 

Nor needs his genuine ore refine — 

Tis ready polish'd from the mine. 



A TALE, FOUNDED ON A FACT, 

WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779. 

Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream 
There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blas- 
pheme ; 
In subterraneous caves his life he led, 
Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread. 
When on a day, emerging from the deep, 
A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep !) 
The wages of his weekly toil he bore 
To buy a cock— whose blood might winhim more ; 
As if the noblest of the feather'd kind 
Were but for battle and for death design'd ; 
As if the consecrated hours were meant 
For sport to minds on cruelty intent ; 
It chanced (such chances Providence obey) 
He met a fellow laborer on the way, 
Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed ; 
But now the savage temper was reclaim'd, 
Persuasion on his lips had taken place ; 
For all plead well who plead the cause of grace. 
His iron heart with scripture he assail'd, 
Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. 
His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew, 
Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew. 
He wept ; he trembled ; cast his eyes around, 
To find a worse than he ; but none he found. 



He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel. 
Grace made the wound, and grace alone should 

heal. 
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies 
He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize. 
That holy day was wash'd with many a tear, 
Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear. 
The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine 
Learn'd, by his alter'd speech, the change divine ! 
Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore 

the day 
Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they. 
" No," said the penitent, ; 'sucii words shall sharo 
This breath no more ; devoted now to prayer. 
O ! if thou seest (thine eye the future sees) 
That I shall yet again blaspheme like these ; 
Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel, 
Ere yet this heart relapses into steel ; 
Now take me to that heaven I once defied, 
Thy presence, thy embrace !" — He spoke, and 

died. 



TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, ON HIS 
RETURN FROM RAMS GATE. 

That ocean you have late survey'd, 

Those rocks I too have seen ; 
But I, afflicted and dismay'd, 

You, tranquil and serene. 

You from the flood-controlling steep 
Saw stretch'd before your view, 

With conscious joy, the threatening deep, 
No longer such to you. 

To me the waves, that ceaseless broke 

Upon the dangerous coast, 
Hoarsely and ominously spoke 

Of all my treasure lost. 

Your sea of troubles you have past, 

And found the peaceful shore ; 
I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last, 

Come home to port no more. 
Oct., 1780. 

LOVE ABUSED. 

What is there in the vale of life 
Half so delightful as a wife, 
When friendship, love, and peace combine 
To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? 
The stream of pure and genuine love 
Derives its current from above ; 
And earth a second Eden shows 
Where'er the healing water flows : 
But ah, if from the dykes and drains 
Of sensual nature's feverish veins, 
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood, 
Impregnated with ooze and mud, 
Descending fast on every side, 
Once mingles with the sacred tide. 
Farewell the soul-enlivening scene ! 
The banks that wore a smiling green, 
With rank defilement overspread, 
Bewail their flowery beauties dead. 
The stream polluted, dark, and dull, 
Diffused into a Stygian pool, 
Through life's last melancholy years 
Is fed with overflowing tears : 
Complaints supply the zephyr's part, 
And sighs that heave a breaking heart. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



635 



A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY 
AUSTEN. 

Dear Anna — between friend and friend 
Prose answers every common end ; 
Serves, in a plain and homely way, 
To express the occurrence of the day ; 
Our health, the weather, and the news; 
What walks we take, what books we choose ; 
And all the floating thoughts we find 
Upon the surface of the mind. 

But when a poet takes the pen, • 
Far more alive than other men. 
He feels a gentle tingling come 
Down to his finger and his thumb, 
Derived from nature's noblest part, 
The centre of a glowing heart : 
And this is what the world, who knows 
No flights above the pitch of prose, 
His more sublime vagaries slighting, 
Denomii ates an itch for writing. 
No wonder I. who scribble rhyme 
To catch the triflers of the time, 
And tell them truths divine and clear, 
Which, couch'd in prose they will not hear ; 
Who labor hard to allure and draw 
The loiterers I never saw, 
Should feel that itching and that tingling, 
With all my purpose intermingling, 
To your intrinsic merit true, 
When call'd to address myself to you. 

Mysterious are His ways whose power 
Brings forth that unexpected hour, 
When minds, that never met before, 
Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
It is the allotment of the skies, 
The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
That guides and governs our affections, 
And plans and orders our connexions : 
Directs us in our distant road, 
And marks the bounds of our abode. 
Thus we were settled when you found us, 
Peasants and children all around us, 
Not dreaming of so dear a friend, 
Deep <n the abyss of Silver End.* 
Thus Martha, e'en against her will, 
Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
And you, though you must needs prefer 
The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre.f 
Are come from distant Loire, to choose 
A cottage on the banks of Ouse: 
This page of Providence quite new, 
And now just opening to our view, 
Employs our present thoughts and pains 
To guess and spell what it contains : 
But day by day, and year by year, 
Will make the dark enigma clear ; 
And furnish us. perhaps, at last, 
Like other scenes already past, 
With proof, that we, and our affairs, 
Are part of a Jehovah's cares; 
For God unfolds by slow degrees 
The purport of his deep decrees ; 
Sheds every hour a clearer light 
In aid of our defective sight; 
And spreads, at length, before the soul, 
A beautiful and perfect whole, 
Which busy man's inventive brain • 

Toils to anticipate in vain. 

* An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence 
It Cowper, which faced the market-place. 
t Lady Austen's residence in France. 



Say, Anna, had you never known 
The beauties of a rose full blown, 
Could you, though luminous your eye, 
By looking on the bud descry, 
Or guess with a prophetic power, 
The future splendor of the flower "? 
Just so the Omnipotent, who turns 
The system of a world's concerns, 
From mere minutiae can educe 
Events of most important use ; 
And bid a dawning sky display 
The blaze of a meridian day. 
The works of man tend, one and all, 
As needs they must, from great to small; 
And vanity absorbs at length 
The monuments of human strength. 
But who can tell how vast the plan 
Which this day's incident began 1 
Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion 
For our dim-sighted observation ; 
It pass'd unnoticed, as the bird 
That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 
And yet may prove, when understood, 
A harbinger of endless good. 

Not that I deem, or mean to call 
Friendship a blessing cheap or small : 
But merely to remark, that ours, 
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, 
Rose from a seed of tiny size 
That seem'd to promise no such prize; 
A transient visit intervening, 
And made almost without a meaning, 
(Hardly the effect of inclination, 
Much less of pleasing expectation.) 
Produced a friendship, then begun, 
That has cemented us in one ; 
And placed it in our power to prove, 
By long fidelity and love, 
That Solomon has wisely spoken ; 
" A threefold cord is not soon broken." 

Dec, 1781. 



THE COLUBRIAD. 

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast 

Three kittens sat ; each kitten look'd aghast. 

I, passing swift and inattentive by, 

At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; 

Not much concern'd to know what they did there; 

Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 

But presently a loud ami furious hiss [this I" 

Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, " What's 

When lo ! upon the threshold met my view, ' 

With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 

A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. 

Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws 

Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; 

Who, having never seen, in field or house, 

The like, sat still and silent as a mouse ; 

Only projecting, with attention due, [you 1 ?'' 

Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who an 

On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, 

But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe : 

With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot, 

To find the viper, but I found him not. 

And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 

Found only that he was not to be found. 

But still the kittens, sitting as before, 

Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 

',' I hope," said I, " the villain I would kill 

Has shpp'd between the door and the door-sill 



636 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



And if I make dispatch, and follow hard, 
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard :" 
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 
'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat, 
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat ; 
As curious as the kittens erst had been 
To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 
Fill'd with heroic ardor at the sight, 
And fearing every moment he would bite, 
And rob our household of our only cat 
That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door, 
And taught him never to come there no more. 
1782. 



SONG. ON PEACE. 

UTritten In the summer of 1783, at the request of Lady 
Austen, who gave the sentiment. 

AlR — " My fond Shepherds of late." 

No longer I follow a sound ; 
No longer a dream I pursue ; 

happiness ! not to be found, 
Unattainable treasure, adieu ! 

1 have sought thee in splendor and dress, 

In the regions of pleasure and taste ; . 

I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess^ 

But have proved thee a vision at last. 

An humble ambition and hope 

The voice of true wisdom inspires ; 

'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope, 
And the summit of all our desires. 

Peace may be the lot of the mind 
That seeks it in meekness and love ; 

But rapture and bliss are confined 
To the glorified spirits above. 



SONG. 



Also written at the request of Lady Austen. 
AlR—" The Lass of Pattie>s Mill." 

When all within is peace, 

How nature seems to smile ! 
Delights that never cease 

The livelong day beguile. 
From morn to dev«y eve 

With open hand she showers 
Fresh blessings, to deceive 

And soothe the silent hours. 

It is content of heart 

Gives Nature power to please ; 
The mind that feels no smart 

Enlivens all it sees ; 
Can make a wintry sky 

Seem bright as smiling May, 
And evening's closing eye 

As peep of early day. 

The vast majestic globe. 

So beauteously array'd 
In Nature's various robe, 

With wondrous skill display'd, 
Is to a mourner's heart 

A dreary wild at best ; 
It flutters to depart, 

And longs to be at rest. 



VERSES 

selected from an occasional poem entitlei 

"VALEDICTION." 

Oh Friendship ! cordial of the human breast i 
So attle felt, so fervently profess'd ! 
Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years ; 
The promise of delicious fruit appears : 
We hug the hopes of constancy and truth, 
Such is the folly of our dreaming youth ; 
But soon, alas ! detect the rash mistake 
That sanguine inexperience loves to make ; 
And view with tears the expected harvest lost 
Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost. 
Whoever undertakes a friend's great part 
Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart, 
Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove 
A thousand ways the force of genuine love. 
He may be call'd to give up health and gain, 
To exchange content for trouble, ease for pain, 
To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan, 
And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own. 
The heart of man. for such a task too frail, 
When most relied on is most sure to fail ; 
And, summon'd to partake its fellow's woe, 
Starts from its office like a broken boW. 

Votaries of business and of pleasure prove 
Faithless alike in friendship and in love. 
Retired from all the circles of the gay, 
And all the crowds that bustle life away, 
To scenes where competition, envy, strife, 
Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life, 
Let me, the charge of some good angel, find 
One who has known, and has escaped mankind j 
Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away 
The manners, not the morals, of the day : 
With him, perhaps with her (for men have known 
No firmer friendships than the fair have shown,} 
Let me enjoy, in some unthought-of spot, 
All former friends forgiven and forgot, 
Down to the close of life's fast fading scene, 
Union of hearts without a flaw between. 
'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise, 
If God give health, that sunshine of our days ! 
And if he add a blessing shared by few, 
Content of heart, more praises still are due — 
But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd 
Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest ; 
And giving one, whose heart is in the skies, 
Born from above and made divinely wise, 
He gives, what bankrupt nature never can, 
Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man, 
Gold, purer fai than Ophir ever knew, 
A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true. 
Nov., 1783. 



EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON. 

Here Johnson lies — a sage by all allow'd, 
Whom to have bred may well make England 

proud, 
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, 
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought ; 
Whose verse may claim — grave, masculine, and 

strong — 
Superior praise to the mere poet's song ; 
Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd, 
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. 
O man, immortal by a double prize, 
By fame on earth — by glory in the skies ! 
Jan, 1785. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



63> 



TO MISS C- 



ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



How many between east and west 
Disgrace their parent earth, 

Whose deeds constrain us to detest 
The day that gave them birth ! 

Not so when Stella's natal morn 
Revolving months restore, 

We can rejoice that she was born, 

- And wish her born once more ! 
1786. 



GRATITUDE. ' 

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. 

This cap, that so stately appears, 

With ribbon-bound tassel on high, 
Which seems by the crest that it rears 

Ambitious of brushing the sky : 
This cap to my cousin I owe, 

She gave it, and gave me beside, 
Wreath'd into an elegant bow, 

The ribbon with which it is tied. 

This wheel- footed studying chair, 

Contrived both for toil and repose, 
Wide-elbow'd. and wadded with hair, 

In which I both scribble and dose, 
Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, 

And rival in lustre of that 
In which, or astronomy lies, 

Fair Cassiopeia sat : 

These carpets so soft to the foot, 

Caledonia's traffic and pride ! 
Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot, 

Escaped from a cross-country ride ! 
This table, and mirror within, 

Secure from collision and dust, 
At which I oft shave cheek and chin 

And periwig nicely adjust : 

This moveable structure of shelves, 

For its beauty admired and its use, 
And charged with octavos and twelves, 

The gayest I had to produce ; 
Where : flaming in scarlet and gold, 

My poems enchanted I view, 
And hope in due time to behold 

My Iliad and Odyssey too : 

This china, that decks the alcove, 

Which here people call a buffet, 
But what the gods call it above 

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet : 
These curtains that keep the room warm 

Or cool, as the season demands, 
Those stoves that for pattern and form 

Seem the labor of Mulciber's hands: 

All these are not half that I owe 

To one, from our earliest youth, 
To me ever ready to show 

Benignity, friendship, and truth ; 
For time, the destroyer declared 

And foe of our perishing kind, 
If even her face he has spared, 

Much less could he alter her mind. 

Thus compass'd about with the goods 
And chattels of leisure and ease, 

I indulge my poetical moods 
In many such fancies as these ; 



And fancies I fear they will seem — 
Poets' goods are not often so fine ; 

The poets will swear that I dream 
When I sing of the splendor of mine. 
1786. 



LINES COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL 
OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ., 

IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS 
NEPHEW WILLIAM OF WESTON. 

Farewell ! endued with all that could engage 
All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age I 
In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd 
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old ; 

In life's last stage. (O blessings rarely found h 
Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown d 
Through every period of this changeful state 
Unchanged thyself— wise, good, affectionate ! 

Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem 
O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, 
Although thy worth be more than half supprest 
Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. 
June, 1788. 



ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, 

THE NIGHT OF THE SEVENTEENTH OF MARCH,1789. 

When, long sequester'd from his throne, 

George took his seat again, . 
By right of worth, not blood alone, 

Entitled here to reign, 

• 
Then loyalty, with all his lamps 

New trimm'd, a gallant show ! 
Chasing the darkness and the damps, 

Set London in a glow. 

'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares 
Which form'd the chief display, 

These most resembling cluster'd stars, 
Those the long milky way. 

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, 

And rockets flew, self-driven, 
To hang their momentary fires 

Amid the vault of heaven. 

So, fire with water to compare, 

The ocean serves, on high 
Up-spouted by a whale in air, 

To express unwieldy joy. 

Had all the pageants of the world 

In one procession join'd. 
And all the banners been unfurl'd 

That heralds e'er design'd, 

For no such sight had England's queen 

Forsaken her retreat, 
Where George, recover'd, made a scene 

Sweet always, doubly sweet. 

Yet glad she came that night to prove, 

A witness undescried, 
How much the object of her love 

Was loved by all beside. 



838 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



Darkness the skies had mantled o'er 

In aid of her design — 
Darkness, O Queen ! ne'er call'd before 

To veil a deed of thine ! 

On borrow'd wheels away she flies, 

Resolved to be unknown, 
And gratify no curious eyes 

That night except her own. 

Arrived, a night like noon she sees, 
And hears the million hum ; 

As all by instinct, like the bees, 
Had known their sovereign come. 

Pleased she beheld, aloft portray'd 

On many a splendid wall, 
Emblems of health and heavenly aid, 

And George the theme of all. 

Unlike the enigmatic line, 

So difficult to spell, 
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine 

The night his city fell. 

Soon watery grew her eyes and dim, 

But with a joyful tear, 
None else, except in prayer for him, 

George ever drew from her. 

It was a scene in every part 

Like those in fable feign'd, 
And seem'd by some magician's art 

Created and sustain'd. 

But other magic there, she knew, 

Had been exerted none, 
To raise such wonders in her view, 

Save love of George alone. 

That cordial thought her spirit cheer d, 
And, through the cumbrous throng, 

Not else unworthy to be fear'd, 
Convey'd her calm along. 

So, ancient poets say, serene 
The sea-maid rides the waves, 

And fearless of the billowy scene 
Her peaceful bosom laves. 

With more than astronomic eyes 
She view'd the sparkling show ; 

One Georgian star adorns the skies, 
She myriads found below. 

Yet let the glories of a night 
Like that once seen, suffice, 

Heaven grant us no such future sight, 
Such previous woe the price ! 



THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.* 

Muse — hide his name of whom I sing, 
Lest his surviving house thou bring 
For his sake into scorn, 

* Written on reading the following in the obituary of 
the Gentleman's Magazine for April, 1789.— " At Totten- 
ham, John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, 
and in the splendor of his carriages and horses rivalled 
by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospi- 
tality, where, it may be said, he sacrificed too much to 
conviviality; but, if he had his foibles he had his merits 
also, that far outweighed them. Mr. A. was very fond of 
cork-fighting, and had a favorite cock, upon which he 
had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid 



Nor speak the school from which he drew 
The much or little that he knew, 
Nor place where he was born. 

That such a man once was, may seem 
Worthy of record (if the theme 

Perchance may credit win) 
For proof to man, what man may prove, 
If grace depart, and demons move 

The source of guilt within. 

This man (for since the howling wild 
Disclaims nim, man he must be styled^ 

Wanted no good below, 
Gentle he was, if gentle birth 
Could make him such, and he had worth, 

If wealth can worth bestow. 

In social talk and ready jest, 
He shone superior at the feast, 

And qualities of mind, 
Illustrious in the eyes of those 
Whose gay society he chose, 

Possess'd of every kind. 

Methinks I see him powder'd red, 
With bushy locks his well-dress'd head 

Wing'd broad on either side, 
The mossy rosebud not so sweet ; 
His steeds superb, his carriage neat, 

As luxury could provide. 

Can such be cruel 1 Such can be 
Cruel as hell, and so was he; 

A tyrant entertain 'd 
With barbarous sports, whose fell delight 
Was to encourage mortal fight 

'Twixt birds to battle train'd. 

One feather'd champion he possess'd, 
His darling far beyond the rest, 

Which never knew disgrace, 
Nor e'er had fought but he made flow 
The life-blood of his fiercest foe, 

The Caesar of his race. 

It chanced at last, when on a day, 
He push'd him to the desperate fray, 

His courage droop'd, he fled. 
The master storm'd, the prize was lost, 
And, instant, frantic at the cost. 

He doom'd his favorite dead. 

He seized him fast, and from the pit 
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit, 

And, Bring me cord, he cried ; 
The cord was brought and. at his word, 
To that dire implement the bird, 

Alive and struggling, tied. 

The horrid sequel asks a veil ; 
And all the terrors of the tale 

That can be shall be sunk — 
Led by the sufferer's screams aright 
His shock'd companions view the sight, 

And him with fury drunk. 

upon this cock he lost ; which so enraged him, that he 
had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large 
fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affect- 
ing, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to 
interfere, which so enraged Mr. A., that he seized a 
poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared, 
that he would kill the first man who interposed ; but, in 
the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down 
dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the cir- 
cumstances which attended the death of this great pillar 
of humanity." 



All, suppliant, beg a milder fate 
For the old warrior at the grate : 

He, deaf to pity's call, 
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel 
His culinary club of steel 

Death menacing on all. 

Bu venge. nee hung not far remote, 

For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat, 

And heaven and earth defied. 
Big with a curse too closely pent, 
That struggled vainly for a vent, 

He totter'd, reel'd, and died. 

Tis not for us, with rash surmise, 
To point the judgment of the skies ; 

But judgments plain as this, 
That, sent for man's instruction, bring 
A written label on their wing, 

'Tis hard to read amiss. 
May, 1789. 



TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. 

BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WEST- 
MINSTER. 

Hastings ! I knew thee young, and of a mind, 
While young, humane, conversable, and kind, 
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, 
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men. 
But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd 
And worried thee, as not themselves the best. 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, 

•N HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, 
" AD LIBRUM SUUM." 

Maria, could Horace have guess'd 

What honor awaited his ode 
To his own little volume address'd, 

The honor which you have bestow'd ; 
Who have traced it in characters here, 

So elegant, even, and neat, 
He had laugh 'd at the critical sneer 

Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 

And sneer, if you please, he had said, 

A nymph shall hereafter arise, 
Who shall give me, when you are all dead, 

The glory your malice denies ; 
Shall dignity give to my lay, 

Although but a mere bagatelle ; 
And even a poet shall say, 

Nothing ever was written so well. 
Feb., 1790. 



TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE 
HALIBUT, 

ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26 

1784. 

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued 
Thy pastime 1 when wast thou an egg new 

spawn'd, 
Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste 1 
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds 
That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast 

safe — 



And in thy minikin and embryo state, 
Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed, 
Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'o 
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark, 
And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. 
Indebted to no magnet and no chart, 
Nor under guidance of the polar fire, 
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, 
Grazing at large in meadows submarine, 
Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps 
Above the brine — where Caledonia's rocks 
Beat back the surge— and where Hibernia shoots 
Her wondrous causeway far into the main. 
— Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st, 
And I not more, that I should feed on thee. 
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much 

good fish, 
To him who sent thee ! and success, as oft 
As it descends into the billowy gulf, [well ! 

To the same drag that caught thee ! — Fare thee 
Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin [doom'd 
Would .envy, could they know that thou wast 
To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE, 

ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS 
AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD 

Esa, 1790. 

Other stones the era tell 
When some feeble mortal fell ; 
I stand here to date the birth 
Of these hardy sons of earth. 

Which shall longest brave the sky, 
Storm and frost — these oaks or I ] 
Pass an age or two away, 
I'must moulder and decay, 
But the years that crumble me 
Shall invigorate the tree, 
Spread its branch, dilate its size, 
Lift its summit to the skies. 

Cherish honor, virtue, truth, 
So shalt thou prolong thy youth. 
Wanting these, however fast 
Man be fix'd and form'd to last, 
He is lifeless even now, 
Stone at heart, and cannot grow. 
June, 1790. 



ANOTHER, 

FOR A STONE ERECTED ON A SIMILAR OCCASION 
AT THE SAME PLACE IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR. ^ 

Reader! behold a monument 

That asks no sigh or tear, 
Though it perpetuate the event 

Of a great burial here. 
June, 1790. Anno 1791 



TO MRS. KING, 

ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR, A PATCIfc 
WORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING 

The bard, if e'er he feel at all, 
Must sure be quicken 'd by a call 
Both on his heart and head, 



640 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



To pay with tuneful thanks the care 
And kindness of a lady fair, 
Who deigns to deck his bed. 

A bed like this, in ancient time, 
On Ida's barren top sublime, - 

(As Homer's epic shows) 
Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, 
Without the aid of sun or showers, 

For Jove and Juno rose. 

Less beautiful, however gay, 

Is that which in the scorching day, 

Receives the weary swain, 
Who, laying his long scythe aside, 
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, 

Till roused to toil again. 

What labors of the loom I see ! 

Looms numberless have groan'd for me ! 

Should every maiden come 
To scramble for the patch that bears 
The impress of the robe she wears, 

The bell would toll for some. 

And oh, what havoc would ensue ! 

This bright display of every hue 
All in a mement fled ! 

As if a Storm should strip the bowers 

Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers- 
Each pocketing a shred. 

Thanks then to every gentle fair 
Who will not come to peck me bare 

As bird of borrow'd feather, 
And thanks to one above them all, 
The gentle fair of Pertenhall, 

Who put the whole together. 

August, 1790. 



IN MEMORY - OF 

THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. 

?oets attempt the noblest task they can, 
Praising the author of all good in man. 
And, next, commemorating worthies lost, 
The dead in whom that good abounded most. 

Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more 
Famed for thy probity from shore to shore. 
Thee, Thornton ! worthy in some page to shine, 
As honest and more eloquent than mine, 
I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. 
Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; 
It were to weep that goodness has its meed, 
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, 
And glory for the virtuous when they die. 

What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard 
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford. 
Sweet as the privilege of healing woe 
By virtue suffer'd combating below 1 [means 
That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee 
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn 
As midnight, and despairing of a morn. 
Thou hadst an industry in doing good, 
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food ; 
Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth 
By rust unperishable or by stealth. 
And if the genuine worth of gold defend 
On application to its noblest end, 



Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven 
Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. 
And, though God made thee of a nature prone 
To distribution boundless of thy own, 
And still by motives of religious force 
Impell'd thee more to that heroic course, 
Yet was thy liberality discreet, 
Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat ; 
And, though in act unwearied, secret still, 
As in some solitude the summer rill 
Refreshes where it winds, the faded green, [seen 
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, un 

Such was thy charity : no sudden start, 
After long sleep of passion in the heart, 
But stedfast principle, and. in its kind, 
Of close relation to the Eternal Mind, 
Traced easily to its true source above, 
To him whose works bespeak his nature, love. 

Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; 
That the incredulous themselves may see 
Its use and power exemplified in thee. 
Nov., 1790. 



THE FOUR AGES. 

(a brief fragment of an extensive projected 

POEM.) 

" I could be well content, allowed the use 
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd 
From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such 
To recommence life's trial, in the hope 
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!" 

Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, anc 1 
call'd 
Fresh odors from the shrubbery at my side, 
Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused, 
And held accustom'd conference with my heart; 
When from within it thus a voice replied : 

" Couldst thou in truth % and art thou taught 
at length 
This wisdom, and but this, from all the past 1 
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, 
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse 
Of talents, judgment, mercies, better far 
Than opportunity vouchsafed to err 
With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect V 

I heard, and acquiesced : then to and fro 
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck, 
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind 
I pass'd, and next consider'd — what is man. 

Knows he his origin'? can he ascend 
By reminiscence to his earliest date ^ 
Slept he in Adam 1 And in those from him 
Through numerous generations, till he found 
At length his destined moment to be born 1 
Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb 1 
Deep mysteries both ! which schoolmen ma 

have toil'd 
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries stilL 

It is an evil incident to man, 
And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves 
Truths useful and attainable with ease, 
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies 
Not to be solved, and useless if it might. 
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest 
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, 
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean 
His manna from the ground, r r starve and die. 
May, 1791. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



641 



THE RETIRED CAT.* 

A poet's cat, sedate and grave, 

As poet well could wish to have, 

Was much addicted to inquire 

For no)ks to which she might retire, 

And where, secure as mouse in chink, 

She might repose, or sit and think. 

I know not where she caught the trick — 

Nature perhaps herself had cast her 
In such a mould philosophique, 

Or else she learn'd it of her master. 
Sometimes ascending, debonair, 
An apple tree, or lofty pear, 
Lodged with convenience in the fork, 
She watch'd the gardener at his work ; 
Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
In an old empty watering pot : 
There, wanting nothing save a fan, 
To seem some nymph in her sedan 
Apparell'd in exactest sort, 
And ready to be borne to court. 

But lo^ of change, it seems, has place 
Not only in our wiser race ; 
Cats also feel, as well as we, 
That passion's force, and so did she. 
Her climbing, she began to find, 
Exposed her too much to the wind, 
And the old utensil of tin 
Was cold and comfortless within : 
She therefore wish'd instead of those 
Some place of more serene repose, 
Where neither cold might come, nor air 
Too rudely wanton with her hair, 
And sought it in the likeliest mode 
Within her master's snug abode. 

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined 
With linen of the softest kind, 
With such as merchants introduce 
From India, for the ladies' use, 
A drawer impending o'er the rest, 
Half open in the topmost chest. 
Of depth enough, and none to spare, 
Invited her to slumber there ; 
Puss with delight beyond expression, 
Survey'd the scene and took possession. 
Recumbent at her ease, ere long, 
And lull'd by her own humdrum song. 
She left the cares of life behind, 

And slept as she would sleep her last, 
When in earns, housewifely inclined, 

The chambermaid, and shut it fast ; 
By no malignity impell'd, 
But all unconscious whom it held. 

Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss)* 
" Was ever cat attended thus 7 
The open drawer was left, I see, 
Merely to prove a nest for me, 
For soon as I was well composed, 
Then came the maid, and it was closed. 

* Cowper's partiality to animals is well known. Lady 
Hesketh,in one of her letters, states, " that he had, at one 
rtrae, five rabbits, three hares, two guinea-pigs, a mag- 
pie, a jay, and a starling ; besides two goldfinches, two 
canary birds, and two dogs. It is amazing how the three 
hares can find room to gambol and frolic (as they cer- 
tainly do) in his small parlor ;" and she adds, "I forgot 
to enumerate a squirrel, which he had at the same time, 
and which used to play with one of the hares continually. 
One evening, the cat giving one of the hares a sound box 
on the ear, the hare ran after her, and, having caught 
her, punished her by drumming on her back with her 
two feet as hard as drum-sticks, till the creature would 
have actually been killed, had not Mrs. Unwin rescued 
her." 



How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet 

what a delicate retreat ! 

1 will resign myself to rest 
Till. Sol, declining in the west, 
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, 
Susan will come and let me out." 

The evening came, the sun descended 
And Puss remain'd still unattended. 
The night roll'd tardily away, 
(With her indeed 'twas never day,) 
The sprightly morn her course renew'd, 
The evening grey again ensued. 
And puss came into mind no more 
Than if entomb'd the day before. 
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room. 
She now presaged approaching doom, 
Nor slept a wink or purr'd, 
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. 

That night, by chance, the poet watching, 
Heard an inexplicable scratching ; 
His noble heart went pit-a-pat, 
And to himself he said—" What's that V 
He drew the curtain at his side, 
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. 
Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd 
Something imprison'd in the chest, 
And doubtful what, with prudent care 
Resolved it should continue there. 
At length a voice which well he knew, 
A long and melancholy mew, 
Saluting his poetic ears, 
Consoled him and dispell'd his fears : 
He left his bed, he trod the floor, 
He 'gan in haste the drawers exoore, 
The lowest first, and without stop 
The rest in order to the top. 
For 'tis a truth well known to most, 
That whatsoever thing is lost, 
We seek it, ere it come to light, 
In every cranny but the right. 
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete 
As erst, with airy self-conceit, 
Nor in her own fond apprehension 
A theme for all the world's attention, 
But modest, sober, cured of all 
Her notions hyperbolical, 
And wishing for a place of rest 
Anything rather than a chest. 
Then stepp'd the poet into bed 
With this reflection in his head : 



Beware of too sublime a oenao 
Of your own worth and consequence : 
The man who dreams himself so great, 
And his importance of such weight, 
That all around, in all that's done, 
Must move and act for him alone, 
Will learn in school of tribulation 
The folly of his expectation. 
1791. 



THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 

Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, 
Of numerous charms possess'd, 

A warm dispute once chanced to wage, 
Whose temper was the best. 

The worth of each had been complete 
Had both alike been mild • 
41 



542 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



But one, although her smile was sweet, 
Frown 'd oflener than she smiled. 

And in her humor, when she frown'd, 
Would raise her voice and roar, 

And shake with fury to the ground 
The garland that she wore. 

The other was of gentler cast, 

From all such frenzy clear, 
Her frowns were seldom known to last, 

And never proved severe. 

To poets of renown in song 
The nymphs referr'd the cause, 

Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong, 
And gave misplaced applause. 

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, 

The flippant and the scold, 
And though she changed her mood so :>ft, 

That failing left untold. 

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad. 

Or so resolved to err — 
In short, the charms her sister had 

They lavish'd all on her. 

Then thus the god, whom fondly they 

Their great inspirer call, 
Was heard, one genial summer's day, 

To reprimand them all. 

" Since thus ye have combined," he said, 
" My favorite nymph to slight, 

Adorning May, that peevish maid, 
With June's undoubted right, 

" The minx shall for your folly's sake, 

Still prove herself a shrew, 
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 

And pinch your noses blue." 
May, 1791. 



YARDLEY OAK.* 

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all 
That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, 
(Since which I number threescore winters past.) 
A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, 
As now, and with excoriate forks deform, 
Relics of ages ! could a mind, imbued 
With truth from heaven, created things adore, 
I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. 

It seems idolatry with some excuse, 
When our forefather Druids in their oaks 
Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet 
Unpurified by an authentic act 
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine. 
Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste 
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. 

Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball [jay, 
Which babes might play with ; and the thievish 
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd 
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 

* This tree had been known by the name of Judith for 
many ages. Perhaps it received that name on being 
planted by the Countess Judith, niece to the Conqueror, 
Whom he gave in marriage to the English Earl Waltheof, 
with the counties of Northampton and Huntingdon as 
her dower.— Vide Letters, p. 301. 



But fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rain» 
Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 
Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, 
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared 
The soft receptacle, in which, secure, 
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through 

So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, 
Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search 
Of argument, employ 'd too oft amiss, 
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! 

Thou fell'st mature ; and, in the loamy clod 
Swelling with vegetative force instinct, 
Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins, 
Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; 
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, 
And, all the elements thy puny growth 
Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. 

Who lived when thou wast such. Oh, could'sl 
thou speak, 
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees 
Oracular, I would not curious ask 
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth 
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous pas* 

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
The clock of history, facts and events 
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 
Recovering, and misstated setting right — 
Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again ! 

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the 

woods ; 

And time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 

For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 

O'erhung the champaign ; and the numerous 

flocks 
That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm. 
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived 
Thy popularity, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth, [push'd 

While thus through all the stages thou hast 
Of treeship — first, a seedling, hid in grass ; 
Then twig ; then sapling ; and. as century roll'd 
Slow after century, a giant bulk 
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root, 
Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
With prominent wens globose — till at the last 
The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict 
On other mighty ones, found also thee. 

What exhibitions various hath the world 
Witness'd of mutability in all 
That we account most durable below 1 
Change is the diet on which all subsist, 
Created changeable, and change at last, 
Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat 
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — 
Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought, 
Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
In all that live, plant, animal, and man, 
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads 
Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works 
Delight in agitation, yet sustain 
The force that agitates not unimpair'd ; 
But'worn by frequent impulse to the cause 
Of their best tone their dissolution owe. 

Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
The great and little of thy lot thy growth 
From almost nullity into a state 
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, 
Slow, into such magnificent decay. 
Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



64* 



Jould shake thee to the root — and time has been 
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age 
Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents [deck 
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the 
Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous arms. 
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present 
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, 
Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load !* 
But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days 
Oaks fell not. hewn by thousands, to supply 
The bottomless demands of contest waged 
For senatorial honors. Thus to time 
The task was left to whittle thee away 
With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, 
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, 
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, 
Achieved a labor which had. far and wide, 
By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. 

Embowell'd now. and of thy ancient self 
Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that 

seems 
A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, 
Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, 
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st 
The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
A quarry of stout spurs and knotted 'fangs, 
Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 

So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet 
Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, 
Though all the superstructure by the tooth 
Pulverized of venality, a shell 
Stands now, and semblance only of itself! 

Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent 
them off 
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild 
With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some 

have left 
A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white ; 
And some memorial none where once they grew. 
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 
Proof not contemptible of what she can, 
Even where death predominates. The spring 
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighboring wood, 
So much thy juniors, who their birth received 
Half a millennium since the date of thine. 

But since, although well qualified by age 
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
May be expected from thee, seated here 
On thy distorted root with hearers none, 
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
Myself the oracle, and will discourse 
In my own ear such matter as I may. 

One man alone, the father of us all, 
Drew not his life from woman ; never gazed, 
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, 
On all around him ; learn'd not by degrees, 
Nor owed articulation to his ear; 
But. moulded by his Maker into man 
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd 
All creatures, with precision understood 
Their purport, uses properties, assign'd 
To each his name significant, and fill'd 
With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven 
In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 
He was excused the penalties of dull 

* Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, 
which, by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted 
iO the angle formed where the deck and the ship's Bides 
meet. 



Minority. No tutor charged his hand 
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind 
With problems. History, not wanted yet, 
Lean'd on her elbow, watching time, whose 

course, 
Eventful, should supply her with a theme . . . 
1791. 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE, 

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'l 
DAY. 

Whence is it that, amazed, I hear 

From yonder wither'd spray, 
This foremost morn of all the year, 

The melody of May 1 

And why, since thousands would be proud 

Of such a favor shown, 
Am I selected from the crowd 

To witness it alone 1 

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, 

For that I also long 
Have practised in the groves like thee, 

Though not like thee in song 1 

Or sing'st thou, rather, under force 

Of some divine command, 
Commission'd to presage a course 

Of happier days at hand ! 

Thrice welcome then ! for many a long 

And joyous year have I, 
As thou to-day, put forth my song 

Beneath a wintry sky. 

But thee no wintry skies can harm, 

W T ho only need'st to sing 
To make e'en January charm, 

And every season spring. 
1792. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 

OF MISS PATTY MORE's, SISTER OF HANNAH MORS 

In vain to live from age to age 

While modern bards endeavor, 
I write my name in Patty's page, 
And gain my point forever. 

w. COWPER. 
March 6, 1792. 



SONNET 



TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. 

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, 
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd 
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd 

From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. 
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter 
gall'd, 

Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain. 
Thou hast achieved a part ; hast gain'd the ea 

Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause : 

Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold cair 
tion pause 
And weave delay, the better hour is near 
That shall remunerate thy toils severe, 

By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. 



644 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
Prom all the just on earth and all the blest above. 
April 16, 1792. 

. EPIGRAM 

PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY. 

To purify their wine, some people bleed 

A lamb into the barrel, and succeed ; 

No nostrum, planters say, is half so good 

To make fine sugar as .a negro's blood. 

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, 

And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs, 

'Tis in the blood of innocence alone—; 

Good cause why planters never try their own. 



TO DR. AUSTIN, 

OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. 

Austin ! accept a grateful verse from me, 
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee. 
Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind 
Pleasing requital in my verse may find ; 
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, 
Immortalizing names which else had died : 
And O ! could I command the glittering wealth 
With which sick kings are glad to purchase 
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, [health ! 
Were in the power of verse like mine to give, 
I would not recompense his arts with less, 
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. 
Friend of my friend !* I love thee, though 
unknown, 
And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 
May 26, 1792. 



CATHARINA : 

l"HE SECOND PART : ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE 
COURTENAY, ESQ,. 

Believe it or not, as you choose, 

The doctrine is certainly true, t 
That the future is known to the muse, 

And poets are oracles too. 
I did but express a desire 

To see Catharina at home, 
At the side of my friend George's fire, 

And lo — she is actually come ! 

Such prophecy some may despise, 

But the wish of a poet and friend 
Perhaps is approved in the skies, 

And therefore attains to its end. 
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth 

From a bosom effectually warm'd 
With the talents, the graces, and worth 

Of the person for whom it was form'd 

Mariaf would leave us, I knew, 
To the grief and regret of us all, 

But less to our grief, could we view 
Catharina the Q,ueen of the Hall. 

And therefore I wish'd as I did, 
And therefore this union of hands : 

Not a whisper was heard to forbid, 

. But all cry — Amen — to the bans. 
* Hayloy. t Lady Throckmorton. 



Since, therefore, I seem to incur 

No danger of wishing in vain 
When making good wishes for her, 

I will e'en to my wishes again — 
With one I have made her a wife, 

And now I will try with another, 
Which I cannot suppress for my life — 

How soon I can make her a mother. 
June, 1792. 

EPITAPH ON FOP, 

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, 
Here moulders one whose bones some honoi 

claim. 
No sycophant, although of spaniel race, 
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase — 
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, 
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice ; 
This record of his fate exulting view, 
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you. 

" Yes," — the indignant shade of Fop replies— • 
" And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies." 
August, 1792. 



SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.., 

ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAY0N3, 

Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in tht 
months of August and September, 1792. 

Romney, expert infallibly to trace 

On chart or canvas, not the form alone 
And semblance, but however faintly shown, 

The mind's impression too on every face — 

With strokes that time ought never to erase, 
Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own 
The subject worthless, I have never known 

The artist shining with superior grace. 

But this I mark — that symptoms none of woe 
In thy incomparable work appear. 

Well — I am satisfied it should be so, 

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear ; 

For in my looks what sorrow could 'st thou see 
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee 1 
October, 1792. 



MARY AND JOHN. 

If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 

"Tis a very good match between Mary and John. 

Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the 

scratches ! 
It can't be a match — 'tis a bundle of matches. 



EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, 

OF CHICHELEY. 

Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man 

lies, 
Till all who knew him follow to the skies. 
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep ; 
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants 

weep — 
And justly — few shall ever him transcend 
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend. 
April, 1793. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



641 



TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM, 

•N RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE 
MADE BY HERSELF. 

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, 
When I was young, and thou no more 

Than plaything tor a nurse, 
I danced and fondled on my knee, 
A kitten both in size and glee, 

I thank thee for my purse. 

Gold pays the worth of all things here ; 
But not of love ; — that gem's too dear 

For richest rogues to win it ; 
I, therefore, as a proof of love, 
Esteem thy present far above 

The best things kept within it. 
May 4, 1793. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE 
THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN. 

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, 
Built as it has been in our waning years, 
A rest afforded to our weary feet, 
Preliminary to— the last retreat. 
May, 1793. 



IN 



TO MRS. UNWIN. 

Mary ! I want a lyTe with other strings, 

Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd 

they drew, 
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 

And unde based by praise of meaner things, 

That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 
I may record thy worth with honor due, 
In verse as musical as thou art true, 

And that immortalizes whom it sings. 

But thou hast little need. There is a book 
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 

On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
A chronicle of actions just and bright ; 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee 
mine. 
May, 1793. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ., 

ON HIS PRESENTING ME WJTH AN ANTIQUE BUST 
OF HOMER. 

Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me ! 

When I behold the fruit of thy regard, 

The sculptured form of my old favorite bard, 
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee : 
Joy too and grief— much joy that there should be, 

Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to 
reward 

With some applause my bold attempt and hard, 
Which others scorn ; critics by courtesy. 
The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine, 

I lose my precious years, now soon to fail, 
Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 

Proves dross when balanced in the Christian 
scale. 
Be wiser thou — like our forefather Donne, 
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. 
May 1793. 



. TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 

ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NC 
RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. 

If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he 

found 
While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around 
Might fitly represent the church, endow'd 
With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd ; 
In pledge, perhaps, of favors from on high, 
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry 
Heaven grant us half the omen — may we see 
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee ! 
May, 1793. 

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING 
A YOUNG BIRD. 

A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 

Well fed, and at his ease, 
Should wiser be than to pursue 

Each trifle that he sees. 

But you have kill'd a tiny bird, 

Which flew not till to-day, 
Against my orders, whom you heard 

Forbidding you the prey. 

Nor did you kill that you might eat 

And ease a doggish pain, 
For him. though chased with furious nea» 

You left where he was slain. 

Nor was he of the thievish sort, 

Or one whom blood allures, 
But innocent was all his sport 

Whom you have torn for yours. 

My dog ! what remedy remains, 

Since teach you all I can 
I see you. after all my pains, 

So much resemble man 1 
July 15, 1793. 



BEAU'S REPLY. 

Sir. when I flew to seize the bird 

In spite of your command, 
A louder voice than yours I heard, 

And harder to withstand. 

You cried — Forbear ! — but in my breast 
A mightier cried — Proceed ! — 

'Twas nature. Sir. whose strong behest 
Impell'd me to the deed. 

Yet. much as nature I respect, 

I ventured once to break 
(As you perhaps may recollect) 

Her precept for your sake ; 

And when your linnet on a day, 

Passing his prison door. 
Had flutter'd all his strength away, 

And panting press'd the floor, 

Well knowing him a sacred thing, 

Not destined to my tooth, 
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, 

And lick'd the feathers smooth. 

Let my obedience then excuse 
My disobedience now, 



646 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Nor some reproof yourself refuse 
From your aggrieved bow-wow : 

If killing birds be such a crime, 
(Which I can hardly see.) 

What think you, Sir, of killing time 
With verse address'd to me ! 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Dear architect of fine chateaux in air, 
Worthier to stand forever, if they could, 
Than any built of stone or yet of wood, 

For back of royal elephant to bear ! 

for permission from the skies to share, 
Much to my own. though little to thy good, 
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) 

A partnership of literary ware ! 

But I am bankrupt now ; and doom'd henceforth 
To drudge, in descant dry. on others' lays ; 

Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd birth ! 
But what his commentator's happiest praise 1 

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, 
Which they who need them use, and then 
despise. 
June 29, 1793. 



ANSWER 

To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine 
Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent 
to her, on condition she should neither show it, nor 
take a copy. 

To be remember'd thus is fame, 

And in the first degree ; 
And did the few like her the same, 

The press might sleep for me. 

So Homer in the memory stored 

Of many a Grecian belle, 
Was once preserved— a richer hoard, 

But never lodged so well. 
1793. 



ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. 

The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, 
Whom all this elegance might well seduce ; 
Nor can our censure on the husband fall, 
Who for a wife so lovely, slew them all. 
September, 1793. 



TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT 
GRAVINA, 

•n hia translating the Author's Song on a Rose into 
Italian Verse. 

My rose, Gravina. blooms anew, 

And steep'd not now in rain, 
But in C astil' an streams by you, 

Will never fade again 
1783 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON. 

Pause here, and think : a monitory rhyme 
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. 

Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein ; 
Seems it to say — "Health here has long fc. 

reign 1" 
Hast thou the vigor of thy youth 1 an eye 
That beams delight 1 a heart untaught to sigh % 
Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease , 
Anticipates a day it never sees ; 
And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud 
Exclaims " Prepare thee for an early shroud.' 



EPITAPH ON A HARE. 

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 
Nor swifter greyhound follow, 

Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, 
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo ; 

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, 
Who, nursed with tender care, 

And to domestic bounds confined, 
Was still a wild Jack hare. 

Though duly from my hand he took 

His pittance every night. 
He did it with a jealous look, 

And, when he could, would bite. 

His diet was of wheaten bread 
And milk, and oats, and sfraw ; 

Thistles, or lettuces instead, 
With sand to scour his maw. 

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, 

On pippins' russet peel, 
And when his juicy salads fail'd 

Sliced carrot pleased him well. 

A turkey carpet was his lawn, 

Whereon he loved to bound, 
To skip and gambol like a fawn, 

And swing his rump around. 

His frisking was at evening hours, 

For then he lost his fear, 
But most before approaching showers, 

Or when a storm drew near. 

Eight years and five round rolling moons 

He thus saw steal away, 
Dozing out all his idle noons, 

And every night at play. 

I kept him for his humor's sake, 

For he would oft beguile 
My heart of thoughts that made it ache, 

And force me to a smile. 

But now beneath this walnut shade 

He finds his long last home, 
And waits in snug concealment laid, 

Till gentler Puss shall come. 

He, still more aged, feels the shocks, 
From which no care can save, 

And, partner once of Tiney's box, 
Must soon partake his grave. 




-: 






TREATMENT OF HIS HARES, 



641 



EPITAPH IUM ALTERUM. 

Hie etiatti jacet, 

Q,ui totum novennium vixit, 

Puss. 

Siste paulisper, 

Q,ui praeteriturus es, 

Et tecum sic reputa — 

Hunc neque canis venaticus, 

Nee plumbum missile, 

Nee laqueus, 

Nee imbres nimii, 

Confecere : 

Tamen mortuus est — 

Et moriar ego. 



The following account of the treatment of his 
hares was inserted by Cowper in the Gentle- 
man's Magazine. 

In the year 1774, being much inftisposed both in mind 
and body, incapable of diverting myself either with com- 
pany or books, and yet in a condition that made some 
diversion necessary, I was glad of anything that would 
engage my attention, without fatiguing it. The children 
of a neighbor of mine had a leveret given them for a play- 
thing ; it was at that time about three months old. Un- 
derstanding better how to tease the poor creature than 
to feed it, and soon becoming weary of their charge, they 
readily consented that their father, who saw it pining and 
growing leaner every day, should offer it to my accept- 
ance. I was willing enough to take the prisoner under 
my protection, perceiving that, in the management of 
"uch an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I should 
find just that sort of employment which my case required. 
It was soon known among the neighbors that I was pleased 
with the present, and the consequence was, that in a short 
time I had as many leverets offered to me as would have 
stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, which 
it is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names 
I gave them— Puss, Tiney, and Bess. Notwithstanding 
the two feminine appellatives, I must inform you .that 
they were all males. Immediately commencing carpen- 
ter, I built them houses to sleep, in ; each had a separate 
apartment, so contrived that their ordure would pass 
through the bottom of it ; an earthen pan placed under 
each received whatsoever fell, which being duly emptied 
and washed, they were thus kept perfectly sweet and 
clean. In the daytime they had the range of a hall, and 
at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into 
that of another. 

Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, 
raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from 
my temples. He would suffer me to take him up, and to 
carry him about in my arms, and has more than once 
fallen fast asleep upon my knee. He was ill three days, 
during which time I nursed him, kept him apart from 
his fellows, that they might not molest him (for, like 
many other wild animals, they persecute one of their 
own species that is sick,) and by constant care, and try- 
ing him with a variety of herbs, restored him to perfect 
nealth. No creature could be more grateful than my pa- 
tient after his recovery ; a sentiment which he most sig- 
nificantly expressed by licking my hand, first the back 
of it, then the palm, then every finger separately, then 
oetween all the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part of 
it unsaluted ; a ceremony which he never performed but 
once again upon a similar occasion. Finding him ex- 
tremely tractable, I made it my custom to carry him 
always after breakfast into the garden, where he hid him- 
self generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleep- 
ing or chewing the cud kill evening ; in the leaves also 
of that vine he found a favorite repast. I had not long 
habituated him to this taste of liberty, before he bngan 
to be impatient for the return of the time when he might 
enjoy it. He would invite ine to the garden by drum- 
ming upon my knee, and by a look of such expression 
as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this rhetoric 
did not immediately succeed, he would take the skirt of 
(ay coat between his teeth, and pull it with all his force. 
Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly tamed ; the shy- 
aess of his nature was done away, and on the whole it 
was visible by many symptoms, which I have not room 
*o enumerate, that he was happier in human society than 
vixen shut up with his natural companions. 



Not so Tiney; upon him the kindest treatment had 
not the least effect. He too was sick, and in his sickness 
had an equal share of my attention ; but if, after his re- 
covery, I took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, 
strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and bite. He 
was however very entertaining in his way ; e\en his sur- 
liness was matter of mirth, and in his play he preserved 
such an air of gravity, and performed his feats with such 
a solemnity of manner, that in him too I had an agreea 
ble companion. 

Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose 
death was occasioned by his being turned into his box, 
which had been washed, while it was yet damp, was a 
hare of great humor and drollery. Puss was tamed by 
gentle usage ; Tiney was not to be tamed at all ; and. 
Bess had a courage and confidence that made mm tame 
from the beginning. I always admitted them into the 
parlor after supper, when, the carpet affording their feet 
a firm hold, they would frisk, and bound, and play a 
thousand gambols, in which Bess, being remarkably 
strong and fearless, was always superior to the rest, and 
proved himself the Vestris of the party. One evening, 
the cat being in the room, had the hardiness to pat Bess 
upon the cheek, an indignity which he resented by drum- 
ming upon her back with such violence that the cat was 
happy to escape from under his paws, and hide herself. 

I describe these animals as having each a character of 
his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances 
were so expressive of that character, that, when I looked 
only on the face of either, I immediately knew which it 
was. It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his 
flock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that 
he can, by that indication only, distinguish each from 
all the rest ; and yet, to a common observer, the differ- 
ence is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the same 
discrimination in the cast of countenances would be dis- 
coverable in hares, and am persuaded that among a 
thousand of them no two could be found exactly simi- 
lar : a circumstance little suspected by those who have 
not had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have 
singular sagacity in discovering the minutest alteration 
that is made in the place to which they are accustomed, 
and instantly apply their nose to the examination of a 
new object. A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it 
was mended with a patch, and that patch in a moment 
underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem too to be 
very much directed by the smell in the choice of their 
favorites : to some persons, though they saw them daily, 
they could never be reconciled, and would even scream 
when they attempted to touch them ; but a miller com 
ing in engaged their affections at once ; his powdered 
coat had charms that were irresistible. It is no wonder 
that my intimate acquaintance with these specimens of 
the kind has taught me to hold the sportman's amuse- 
ment in abhorrence ; he little knows what amiable crea- 
tures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, 
how cheerful they are in their spirits, what enjoyment 
they have of lifei and that, impressed as they seem with 
a peculiar dread of man, it is only because man gives 
them peculiar cause for it. 

That I may not be tedious, 1 will just give a short sum- 
mary of those articles of diet that suit them best. 

I take it to be a general opinion, that they graze, but 
it is an erroneous one, at least grass is not their staple : 
they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon quitting it 
for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, 
and lettuce, are their favorite vegetables, especially the 
last. I discovered by accident that fine white sand is in 
great estimation with them ; I suppose as a digestive. 
It happened, that I was cleaning a birdcage when the 
hares were with me; I placed a pot filled with s'uch 
sand upon the floor, which, being at once directed to it 
by a strong instinct, they devoured voraciously; since 
that time I have generally taken care to see them well 
supplied with it. They account green corn a delicacy 
both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat : straw 
of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their 
dainties : they will feed greedily upon oats, but if fur- 
nished with clean straw never want them ; it serves them 
also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet 
and dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed rn 
quire aromatic herbs, but will eat a small quantity o* 
them with great relish, and are particularly fond of th* 
plant called musk ; they seem to resemble sheep in this, 
that, if their pasture be too succulent, they are very erV 
ject to the rot ; to prevent which, I always made bread 
their principal nourishment, and, filling a pan with il 
cut into small squares, placed it every evening in theii 
chambers, for they feed only at evening and in the night , 
during the winter, when vegetables were not to be got, I 
mingled this mess of bread with shreds of carrot, adding 



648 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin ; for, though 
they are fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts them. 
These however not being a sufficient substitute for the 
•uice of summer herbs, they must at this time be sup- 
plied with water ; but so placed, that they cannot over- 
set it into their beds. I must not omit, that occasionally 
they are much pleased with twigs of hawthorn, and of 
the common brier, eating even the very wood when it is 
of considerable thickness. 

Bess, I have said, died young ; Tiney lived to be nine 
years old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of 
some hurt in his loins by a fall ; Puss is still living, and 
has just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs 
of decay, nor even of age, except that he has grown more 
discreet and less frolicsome than he was. I cannot con- 
clude without observing, that I have lately introduced a 
dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had never seen a 
hare to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it 
with great cautfon, but there was no real need of it. Puss 
discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least symp- 
tom of hostility. There is therefore, it should seem, no 
natural antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit 
of the one occasions the flight of the other, and the dog 
pursues because he is trained to it ; they eat bread at 
the same time out of the same hand, and are in all re- 
spects sociable and friendly. 

I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I 
not add, that they have . no ill scent belonging to them, 
that they are indefatigably nice in keeping themselves 
clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them with 
a brush under each foot ; and that they are never infested 
by any vermin. 

May 28, 1784. 

MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR. COWPER's PAPERS. 

. Tuesday, March 9, 1786. 
This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven 
months. He died between twelve and one at noon, of 
taere old age, and apparently without pain. 



A TALE.* 

In Scotland's realms, where trees are few, 
, Nor even shrubs abound ; 

But where, however bleak the view, 
Some better things are found ; 

For husband there and wife may boast t 

Their union undented, 
And false ones are as rare almost 

As hedgerows in the wild — 

In Scotland's realm forlorn and hare 

The history chanced of late— 
The history of a wedded pair, 

A chaffinch and his mate. 

The spring drew near, each felt a breast 

With genial instinct fill'd ; 
They pair'd, and would have built a nest, 

But found not where to build. 

The heaths uncover'd and the moors 

Except with snow and sleet, 
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores 

Could yield them no retreat. 

Long time a breeding-place they sought, 

Till both grew vex'd and tired ; 
At length a ship arriving brought 

The good so long desired. 

* This tale is founded on an article which appeared 
In the Buckinghamshire Herald, Saturday, June 1, 1793: 
— " Glasgow, May 23. In a block, or pulley, near the 
head of the mast of a gabert, now lying at the Broomie- 
law, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest 
Was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was fol- 
lowed hither by both birds. Though the block is occa- 
sionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the 
birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, 
visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, 
but when she descends to the hull for food." 



A ship ! — could such a restless thing 
Afford them place of rest 1 

Or was the merchant charged to bring 
The homeless birds a nest % 

Hush ! silent hearers profit most — 

This racer of the sea 
Proved kinder to them than the coast. 

It served them with a tree. 

But such u tree ! 'twas shaven deal, 

The tree they call a mast, 
And had a hollow with a wheel, 

Through which the tackle pass'd. 

Within that cavity aloft 

Their roofless home they fix'd, 

Form'd with materials neat and soft, 
Bents^ wool, and feathers mix'd. 

Four ivory eggs ^oon pave its floor 
With russet specks bedight — 

The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore, 
And lessens to the sight. 

The mother-bird is gone to sea, 
As she had changed her kind ; 

But goes the male ? Far wiser, he 
Is doubtless left behind. 

No — soon as from ashore he saw 
The winged mansion move, 

He flew to reach it, by a law 
Of never-failing love ; 

Then, perching at his consort's side, 

Was briskly borne along, 
The billows and the blast defied, 

And cheer'd her with a song. 

The seaman with sincere delight 
His feather'd shipmates eyes, 

Scarce less exulting in the sight 
Than when he tows a prize. 

For seamen much believe in signs, 
And from a chance so new 

Each some approaching good divines, 
And may his hopes be true ! 

Hail, honor'd land ! a desert where 

Not even birds can hide, 
Yet parents of this loving pair 

Whom nothing could divide. 

And ye who, rather than resign 

Your matrimonial plan, 
Were not afraid to plough the brine 

In company with man ; 

For whose lean country much disdain 

We English often show, 
Yet from a richer nothing gain 

But wantonness and woe — 

Be it your fortune, year by year 
The same resource to prove, 

And may ye, sometimes landing hert, 
Instruct us how to love ! 
June, 1793. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



64? 



TO MARY. 

The twentieth year is well nigh past 

Since first our sky was overcast ; 

Ah ! would that this might be the last ! 

My Mary ! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
[ see thee daily weaker grow ; 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more ; 

My Mary ! 

For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 

My Mary! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, 
And all thy threads with magic art 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 

My Mary ! 
« 
Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language uttered in a dream : 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 

My Mary ! 

Thy^silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 

My Mary ! 

For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see 1 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 
t My Mary ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, 

My Mary ! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
That now at every step thou movest 
Upheld by two ; yet still thou lovest, 

My Mary ! 

And still to love, though press'd with ill, 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still, 

My Mary ! 

But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 

My Mary ! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

My Mary ! 
Autumn of 1793. 



THE CASTAWAY. 

Obscurest night involved the sky, 
The Atlantic billows roar'd, 

When such a destined wretch as I, 
Wash'd headlong from on board 



Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
His floating home forever left. 

No braver chief could Albion boast 
Than he with whom he went, 

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast 
With warmer wishes sent. 

He loved them both, but both in vain, 

Nor him beheld, nor her again. 

Not long beneath the whelming brine, 

Expert to swim, he lay ; 
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 

Or courage die away ; 
But waged with death a lasting strife, 
Supported by despair of life. 

He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd 
To check the vessel's course, 

But so the furious blast prevail'd, 
That, pitiless perforce, 

They left their outcast mate behind, 

And scudded still before the wind. 

Some succor yet they could afford ; 

And, such as storms allow, 
The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 

Delay'd not to bestow : 
But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, 
Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
Their haste himself condemn, 

Aware that flight, in such a sea. 
Alone could rescue them ; 

Yet bitter felt it still to die 

Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 

He long survives, who lives an hour 

In ocean, self upheld : 
And so long he, with unspent power, 

His destiny repell'd : 
And ever, as the minutes flew, 
Entreated help, or cried — " Adieu !" 

At length, his transient respite past. 

His comrades, who before 
Had heard his voice in every blast, 

Could catch the sound no more : 
For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
The stifling wave, and then he sank. 

No poet wept him; but the page 

Of narrative sincere. 
That tells his name, his worth, his age, 

Is wet with Anson's tear ; 
And tears by bards or heroes shed 
Alike immortalize the dead. 

I therefore purpoee not, or dream, 

Descanting on his fate, 
To give the melancholy theme 

A more enduring date : 
But misery still delights to trace 
Its semblance in another's case. 

No voice divine the storm allay'd, 

No light propitious shone ; 
When, snatch 'd from all effectual aid, 

We perish 'd, each alone : 
But I beneath a rougher sea, 
And whelm'd in deeper Julfs than he. 
March 20, 1799. 



650 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 

Dear President, whose art sublime 
Gives perpetuity to time. 
And bids transactions of a day, 
That fleeting hours would waft away 
To dark futurity, survive, 
And in unfading beauty live, — 
You cannot with a grace decline 
A special mandate of the Nine — 
Yourself, whatever task you choose, 
So much indebted to the Muse. 

Thus say the sisterhood : — We come — 
Fix well your pallet on your thumb, 
Prepare the pencil and the tints — 
We come to furnish you with hints. 
French disappointment, British glory, 
Must be the subject of the story. 

First strike a curve, a graceful bow, 
Then slope it to a point below ; 
Your outline easy, airy, light, 
Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite. 
Let independence, sanguine, horrid, 
Blaze like a meteor in the forehead : 
Beneath (but lay aside your graces) 
Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces, 
Each with a staring, stedfast eye, 
Fix'd on his great and good ally. 
France flies the kite — 'tis on the wing — 
Britannia's lightning cuts the string. 
The wind that raised it, ere it ceases, 
Just rends it into thirteen pieces, 
Takes charge of every fluttering sheet, 
And lays them all at George's feet. 

Iberia, trembling from afar, 
Renounces the confederate war.. 
Her efforts and her arts o'ercome, 
France calls her shatter'd navies home. 
Repenting Holland learns to mourn 
The sacred treaties she has torn ; 
Astonishment and awe profound 
Are stamp'd upon the nations round: 
Without one friend, above all foes, 
Britannia gives the world repose. 



THE DISTRESSED TRAVELERS; 

OR, LABOR IN VAIN. 

A New Song, to a Tune never sung before, 

I sing of a journey to Clifton,* 

We would have perform'd, if we could ; 
Without cart or barrow, to lift on 
Poor Maryt and me through the mud. 
Slee, sla, slud, 
Stuck in the mud ; 
Dfo it is pretty to wade through a flood ! 

So away we went, slipping and sliding ; 

Hop, hop, a la mode de deux frogs, 
'Tis near as good walking as riding, 
When ladies are dress'd in their clogs. 
Wheels, no doubt, 
Go briskly about, 
But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout. 



* A village near Olney. 
t Mrs. Unwin. 



DIALOGUE. 

SHE. 

" Well ! now, I protest it is charming; 

How finely the weather improves ! 
That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming, 

How slowly and stately it moves." 

HE. 

" Pshaw ! never mind, 
'Tis not in the wind, [hind. 

We are travelling south, and shall leave it be* 

SHE. 

" I am glad we are come for an airing, 
For folks may be pounded, and penn'd, 

Until they grow rusty, not caring 
To stir half a mile to an end." 



" The longer we stay, 
The longer we may ; 
It's a folly to think about weather or way." 

SHE. 

" But now I begin to be frighted, 
If I fall what a way I should roll ! 

I am glad that the bridge was indicted 
Stay ! stop ! I am sunk in a hole •" 

HE. 

" Nay, never care, 
'Tis a common affair ; 
You'll not be the last, that will set a foot there." 



" Let me breathe now a little and ponder 

On what it were better to do ; 
That terrible lane I see yonder, 

I think we shall never get through." 

HE. 

"So think I :— 
But, by the bye, 
We never shall know, if we never should try." 

SHE. 

" But should we get there, how shall we get home 1 
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past ! 
Slipping, and sliding, and if we should come 
To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last ! 
Oh this lane ! 
Now it is plain 
That struggling and striving is labor in vain." 

HE. 

" Stick fast there while I go and look ;" 

SHE. 

" Don't go away, for fear I should fall :" 

HE. 

" I have examined it, every nook, 

And what you see here is a sample of all. 

Come, wheel round, 

The dirt we have found 
Would be an estate, at a farthing a pound." 

Now, sister Anne,* the guitar you must take, 

Set it, and sing it, and make it a song : 
I have varied the verse, for variety's sake, 
. And cut it off short — because it was long. 
'Tis hobbling and lame, 
Which critics won't blame, 
For the sense and the sound, they say, should 
be the same. 

* The late Lady Austen. 



MioUl!iLLANEOUS POEMS. 



66- 



ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON 
LITERATURE.* 

The Genius of the Augustan age 
His head among Rome's ruins rear'd, 
And, bursting with heroic rage, 
When literary Heron appear 'd ; 

Thou hast, he cried, like him of old 
Who set the Ephesian dome on fire, 
By being scandalously bold, 
Attain'd the mark of thy desire. 

And for traducing Virgil's name 
Shalt share his merited reward ; 
A perpetuity of fame, 
That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd. 



STANZAS 

ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH 
THE REMAINS OF MILTON.f ANNO 1790. 

" Me too, perchance, in future days, 
The sculptured stone shall show, 
With Paphian myrtle or with bays 
Parnassian on my brow. 

1 But I, or ere that season come, 

Escaped from every care, 
%all reach my refuge in the tomb, 
And sleep securely there.":}: 

So sang in Roman tone and. style, 

The youthful bard, ere long 
Ordain'd to grace his native isle 

With her sublimest song. 

Who then but must conceive disdain, 

Hearing the deed unblest 
Of wretches who have dared profane 

His dread sepulchral rest 1 

111 fare the hands that heaved the stones ty 

Where Milton's ashes lay, 
That trembled not to grasp his bones 

And steal his dust away ! 

O ill requited bard ! neglect 

Thy living worth repaid, 
And blind idolatrous respect 

As much affronts thee dead. 
August, 1790. 



* Nominally by Robert Heron, Esq., but supposed to 
have been written by John Pinkerton. 8vo. 1785. 

t The bones of Milton, who lies buried in Cripplegate 
church, were disinterred : a pamphlet by Le Neve was 
published at the time, giving an account of what appeared 
on opening his coffin. 

X Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus, 
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri 
Fronde comas— At ego secui-a pace quiescam. 

Milton in Manso. 

$ Cowper, no doubt, had in his memory the lines said 
to have been written by Shakspeare on his tomb : 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear 
To dig the dust inclosed here. 
Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL 

June 22, 17354. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

If reading verse be your delight, 
'Tis mine as much, or more, to write ; 
But what we would, so weak is man, 
Lies oft remote from what we can. 
For instance, at this very time 
I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme 
To soothe my friend*, and, had I power, 
To cheat him of an anxious hour; 
Not meaning (for I must confess, 
It were but folly to suppress) 
His pleasure, or his good alone, 
But squinting partly at my own. 
But though the sun is flaming high 
In the centre of yon arch, the sky, 
And he had once (and who but he V) 
The name for setting genius free, 
Yet whether poets of past days 
Yielded him undeserved praise, 
And he by no uncommon lot 
Was famed for virtues he had not; 
Or whether, which is like enough, 
His Highness may have taken huff, 
So seldom sought with invocation, 
, Since it has been the reigning fashion 
To disregard his inspiration, 
I seem no brighter in my wits, 
For all the radiance he emits, 
Than if I saw, through midnight vapor, 
The glimmering of a farthing taper. 
Oh for a succedaneum, then, 
To accelerate a creeping pen ! 
Oh for a ready succedaneum, 
Q,uod caput, cerebrum, et cranium 
Pondere liberet exoso, 
Et morbo jam caliginyso ! 
'Tis here ; this oval box well fill'd 
With best tobacco, finely mill'd, 
Beats all Anticyra's pretences 
To disengage the encumber'd senses 
Oh Nymph of transatlantic fame, 
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name 
Whether reposing on the side 
Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide, 
Or listening with delight not small 
To Niagara's distant fall, 
"Tis thine to cherish and to feed 
The pungent nose-refreshing weed 
Which, whether pulverized it gain 
A speedy passage to the brain, 
Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise 
In circling eddies to the skies, 
Does thought more quicken and refine 
Than all the breath of all the Nine- 
Forgive the bard, if bard he be, 
Who once too wantonly made free, 
To touch with a satiric wipe 
That symbol of thy power, the pipe ; 
So may no blight infest thy plains, 
And no unseasonable rains; 
And so may smiling peace once more 
Visit America's sad shore ; 
And thou, secure from all alarms, 
Of thundering drums and glittering arnitj 
Rove unconfined beneath the shade 
Thy wide expanded leaves have made ; 
So may thy votaries increase, 
And fumigation never cease. 



652 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



May Newton with renew'd delights 
Perform thine odoriferous rites, 
While clouds of incense half divine 
Involve thy disappearing shrine ; 
And so may smoke-inhaling Bull 
Be always filling, never full. 



EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, 

OF WESTON. 

Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's 

tomb, 
But happiest they who win the world to come : 
Believers have a silent field to fight, 
And their exploits are veil'd frc*m human sight 
They in some nook, where little known they 

dwell, 
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell ; 
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, 
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. 
1791. 



SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER 
BIRTH-DAY. 

Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many 

a thorn, 
Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consign'd, 
Can e'er forget the charms he left behind, 
Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn ! 
In happier days to brighter prospects born, 
tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind, 
Like thee, content in every state may find, 
And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn. 
To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extreme 
Of idle mirth, and affectation coy ; 
To blend good sense with elegance and ease ; 
To bid Alfliction's eye no longer stream ; 
Is thine ; best gift, the unfailing source of joy, 
The guide to pleasures which can never cease ! 



ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION 
OF HOMER. 

Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse, 

If, bound in rhyming tethers, 
He had committed this abuse 

Of changing ewes for wethers;* 

But, male for female is a trope, 

Or rather bold *risnomer, « 
That would have startled even Pope, 

When he translated Homer. 



DN THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS 
MAJESTY, FROM SEA-BATHING IN 
T.HE YEAR 1789. 

O sovereign of an isle renown'd 

For undisputed sway, 
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound 

Her navies wing their way. 

* I have heard about my wether mutton from various 
|uarters. It was a blunder hardly pardonable in a man 
Irho has lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by sheep, 



With juster claims she builds at length 

Her empire on the sea, 
And well may boast the waves her strengtn, 

Which strength restored to thee. 



ADDRESSED TO MISS ON READING 

THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.* 

And dwells there in a female heart, 
By bounteous Heaven design'd, 

The choicest raptures to impart, 
To feel the most refined — 

Dwells there a wish in such a breast 

Its nature to forego, 
To smother in ignoble rest 

At once both bliss and woe ! 

Far be the thought, and far the strain, 

Which breathes the low desire, 
How sweet so'er the verse complain, 

Though Phoebus string the lyre. 

Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise,) 

Who, knowing them, can tell 
From generous sympathy what joys 

The glowing bosom swell : 

In justice to the various powers 

Of pleasing, which you share, 
Join me, amid your silent hours, 

To form the better prayer. 

With lenient bairn my Oberon hence 

To fairy land be driven, 
With every herb that blunts the sense 

Mankind received from heaven. 

Oh ! if my sovereign Author please, 

Far be it from my fate 
To live unbless'd in torpid ease, 

And slumber on in state ; 

" Each tender tie of life defied, 
Whence social pleasures spring, 
Unmoved with all the world beside, 
A solitary thing — " 

Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow, 

Thus braves the whirling blast, 
Eternal winter doom'd to know, 

No genial spring to taste. v 

In vain warm suns their influence shed, 

The zephyrs sport in vain, 
He rears unchanged his barren head, 

Whilst beauty decks the plain. 

What though in scaly armor dress'd, 

Indifference may repel 
The shafts of wo — in such a breast 

No joy can ever dwell. 

'Tis woven in the world's great plan, 
And fix'd by heaven's decree, 

almost these thirty years. I have accordingly satirize? 
myself in two stanzas, which I composed last night, while 
I lay awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed with 
laudanum. If you find them not very brilliant, therefore, 
you will know how to account for it. — Letter to Joseph 
Hill, Esq., dated April 15, 1792. 

* For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see Annual Register, vol. T 
p. 202. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



65i 



That all the true delights of man 
Should spring from sympathy. 

'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws 

Of nature we retain, 
Our self-approving bosom draws 

A pleasure from its pain. 

Thus grief itself has comforts dear 

The sordid never know ; 
And ecstacy attends the tear 

When virtue bids it flow. 

For, when it- streams from that pure source, 

No bribes the heart can win 
To check, or alter from its course, 

The luxury within. 

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves, 

Who, if from labor eased, 
Extend no care beyond themselves, 

Unpleasing and unpleased. 

Let no low thought suggest the prayer, 
Oh ! grant, kind Heaven, to me, 

Long as I draw ethereal air, 
Sweet Sensibility ! 

Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen, 

With lustre-beaming eye, 
A train, attendant on their queen, 

(Her rosy chorus) fly ; 

The jocund loves in Hymen's band, 

With torches ever bright, 
And generous friendship, hand in hand 

With pity's wat'ry sight. 

The gentler virtues too are join'd 

In youth immortal warm ; 
The soft relations, which, combined, 

Give life her every charm. 

The arts come smiling in the close, 

And lend celestial fire ; 
The marble breathes, the canvas glows, 

The muses sweep the lyre. 

'.' Still may my melting bosom cleave 

To sufferings not my own, 
And still the sigh responsive heave 

Where'er is heard a groan. 

" So pity shall take virtue's part, 

Her natural ally. > 

And fashioning my soften'd rreart, 

Prepare it for the sky." 

This artless vow may Heaven receive, 

And you, fond maid, approve: 
So may your guiding angel give 

Whate'er you wish or love ! 

So may the rosy-finger'd hours 

Lead on the various year, 1 

And every joy, which now is yours, 

Extend a larger sphere ! 

And suns to come, as round they wheel, 

Your golden moments bless 
With all a tender heart can feel, 

Or lively fancy guess ! 

1762. 



A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, 

LATE RECTOR OP ST. MARY WOOLNOTH, 

Says the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand 
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face, 

That you are in fashion all over the land, 
And I am so much fallen into disgrace. 

Do but see what a pretty contemplative air 
I give to the company — pray do but note 'em — ■ 

You would think that the wise men of Greece 

were all there, [of Gotham. 

Or at least would suppose them the wise men 

My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown 

roses, 

While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; 

There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of 

noses, [hear. 

Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to 

Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way, [gaging. 

And opening his mouth with a smile quite en- 
The box in reply was heard plainly to say, 

What a silly dispute is this we are waging ! 

3 

If you have a little of merit to claim, w [weed, 
You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian 

And I, if I seem to deserve any blame, 

The before-mentioned drug in apology plead. 

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, 
No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, 

We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, [in us. 
But of anything else they may choose to n»» 



THE FLATTING MILL. 

A*f ILLUSTRATION. 

When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold 
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length, 
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd 
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength. 

Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears 
Like a loose heap of ribbon, of glittering show. 
Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears, 
And, warm'd by the pressure, is all in a glow. 

This process achiev'd, it is doom'd to sustain 
The thump after thump of a gold-beater's rnallet, 
And at last is of service in sickness or pain 
To cover a pill for a delicate ralate. 

Alas for the poet ! who dares undertake 

To urge reformation of national ill — 

His head and his heart are both likely to ache 

With the double employment of mallet and mill 

If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight, 
Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow, 
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight, 
And catch in its progress a sensible glow. 

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine 
As the leafthatenfolds what an invalid swallows 
For truth is unwelcome, however divine, 
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows. 



654 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME 
REDBREAST, 

A FAVORITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS. 

These are not dewdrops, these are tears, I 

And tears by Sally shed 
For absent Robin, who she .fears, 

With too much cause, is dead. 

One morn he came not to her hand 

As he was wont to come, 
And, on her finger perch'd, to stand 

Picking his breakfast-crfcmb. 

Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd 

She sought him, but in vain — 
That day he came not, nor the next, 

Nor ever came again. 

She therefore raised him here a tomb, 

Though where he fell, or how, 
None knows, so secret was his doom, 

Nor where he moulders now. 

Had half a score of coxcombs died 

In social Robin's stead, 
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, 

Or haply never shed. 

But Mb was neither rudely bold 

Nor spiritlessly tame ; 
Nor was. like theirs, his bosom cold, 

But always in a flame. 
March, 1792. 



SONNET, 



ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ,. 

Hayley — thy tenderness fraternal shown 
In our first interview, delightful guest ! 
To Mary, and me for her dear sake distress'd, 

Such as it is, has made my heart thy own, 

Though heedless now of new engagements 
grown ; 
For threescore winters make a wintry breast, 
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest 

Of friendship more, except with God aione. 
But thou hast won me ; nor is God my foe, 

Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, 
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow, 
My brother, by whose sympathy I know 

Thy true deserts infallibly to scan, 

Nat more to admire the bard than love the man. 
June 2, 1792. 



AN EPITAPH. 

Here lies one who never drew 
Blood himself, yet many slew ; 
Gave the gun its aim, and figure 
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger. 
Armed men have gladly made 
Him their guide, and him obey'd ; 
At his signified desire 
WDuld advance, present, and fire — 
Stout he was and large of limb, 
Scores have fled at sight of him ! 
And to all this fame he rose 
Only following his nose. 
Neptune was he call'd net he 
Who controls the boisterous sea, 



But of happier command, 
Neptune of the furrow'd land ; 
And, your wonder vain to shorten, 
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 
1792. 



ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. 

In language warm as could be breathed or penn'c 
Thy picture speaks the original, my friend, 
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind — 
They only speak thee friend of all mankind ; 
Expression here more soothing still I see, 
That friend of all a partial friend to me. 
January, 1793. 



ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER. 

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT. 

Thrive, gentle plant ! and weave a bower 

For Mary and for me, 
And deck with many a splendid flower, 

Thy foliage large and free. 

Thou earnest from Eartham, and wilt shade 

(If truly I divine) 
Some future day the illustrious head 

Of him who made thee mine. 

Should Daphne show a jealous frown 

And envy seize the bay, 
Affirming none so fit to crown 

Such honor'd brows as they, 

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend, 

And with convincing power ; 
For why should not the virgin's friend 

Ee crown'd with virgin's bower 1 
Spring of 1793. 



ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL 

FROM MR. HAYLEY. 

I should have deem'd it once an effort vain 
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain, 
But from that error now behold me free, 
Since I received him as a gift from thee. 



«. STANZAS. 

ADDRESSED to ladv hesketh, by a lady 

In returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to the Wr-Aer 
on condition she should neither show it nor take a copy. 

What wonder! if my wavering hand 

Had dared to disobey, 
When Hesketh gave a harsh command, 

And Cowper led astray. 

Then take this tempting gift of thine, 

By pen uncopied yet ! 
But canst thou Memory confine, 

Or teach me to forget 1 

More lasting than the'touch of art, 

Her chaiacters remain; 
When written by a feeling heart 

On tablets of the brain. 



MISCELANEOUS POEMS, 



65fl 



COWPER'S REPLY. 

To be remember'd thus is fame, 

And in the first degree ; 
And did the few, like her, the same, 

The press might rest for me. 

So Homer, in the mem'ry stor'd 
Of many a Grecian belle, 

Was once preserved — a richer hoard, 
But never lodged so well. 



LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS THEODORA 
JANE COWPER. 

William was once a bashful youth, . 

His modesty was such, 
That one might say, to say the truth, 

He rather had too much. 

Some said that it was want of sense, 

And others, want of spirit, 
(So blest a thing is impudence,) 

While others could not bear it. 

But some a different notion had, 

And at each other winking, 
Observed, that though he little said, 

He paid it off with thinking. 

llowe'er, it happen'd, by degrees, 

He mended, and grew better, 
In company grew more at ease, 

And dress'd a little smarter ; 

Nay, now and then, could look quite gay, 

As other people do ; 
And sometimes said, or tried to say, 

A witty thing or so. 

He eyed the women, and made free 

To comment on their shapes, 
So that there was, or seem'd to be, 

No fear of a relapse. 

The women said, who thought him rough, 

But now no longer foolish, 
" The creature might do well enough, 

But wants a deal of polish." 

At length improved from head to heel, 

'Twas scarce too much to say, 
No dancing beau was so genteel, 

0/ half so degage. 

Now that a miracle so strange 

May not in vain be shown, 
Let the dear maid who wrought the change 

E'en claim him for her own ! 



TO THE SAME. 

How quick the change from joy to wo, 
How chequer'd is our lot below ! 
Seldom we view the prospect fair ; 
Dark clouds ef sorrow, pain, and care, 
(Some pleasing interv'als between,) 
Scowl over more than half the scene. 
Last week with Delia, gentle maid ! 
Par hence in happier fields I stray 'd. 



Five suns successive rose and set, 
And saw no monarch in his state. 
Wrapt in the blaze of majesty, 
So free from every care as I. 
Next day the scene was overcast — 
Such day till then I never pass'd, — 
For on that day, relentless fate ! 
Delia and I must separate. 
Yet ere we look : d our last farewell, 
From her dear lips this comfort fell, — 
" Fear not that time, where'er we rove, 
Or absence, shall abate my love." 



LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT. 

Sweet babe ! whose image here express'd 
Does thy peaceful slumbers show ; 

Guilt or fear, to break thy rest, 
Never did thy spirit know. 

Soothing slumbers ! soft repose, 
Such as mock the painter's skill, 

Such as innocence bestows, 
Harmless infant! lull thee still. 



LINES. 



Oh ! to some distant scene, a willing exile 
From the wild roar of this busy world, 
Were it my fate with Delia to retire, 
With her to wander through the sylvan shade, 
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf, 
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind 
In their own Eden, we would envy none, 
But. greatly pitying whom the world calls happy, 
Gently spin out the silken thread of life ! 



INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE IN 
THE SHRUBBERY AT WESTON. 

Here, free from riot's hated noise, 
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys, 

A book or friend bestows ; 
Far from the storms that shake the great, 
Contentment's gale shall fan my seat, 

And sweeten my repose. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM 
RUSSEL. 

Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste 
The present moments, and regret the past; 
Deprived of every joy I valued most, 
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost ; 
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mein, 
The dull effect of humor, or of spleen ! 
Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day, 
Him* snatch'd by fate in early youth away ; 
And her — thro' tedious years of doubt and pain, 
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — but in vain! 
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, 
Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear ; 
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows 
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; 

* Sir William Russel, the favorite friend of the young 
poet. 



656 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, 
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! 
See me neglected on the world's rude coast, 
Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, 
And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! 
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, 
All that delights the happy — palls with me ! 



ON THE HIGH PRICE OF FISH. 

Cocoa-N'dt naught, 
Fish too dear, 
None must be bought 
For us that are here : 

7<o lobster on earth, 
That ever I saw, 
To me would be worth 
Sixpence a claw. 

So. dear madam, wait 
Till fish can be got 
At a reas'nable rate, 
Whether lobster or not ; 

Till the French and the Dutch 
Have quitted the seas, 
And then send as much 
And as oft as you please. 



TO MRS. NEWTON. 

A noble theme demands a noble verse, 
In such I thank you for your fine oysters. 
The barrel was magnificently large, 
But, being sent to Olney at free charge, 
Was not inserted in the- driver's list, 
And therefore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd ; 
For. when the messenger whom we despatch 'd 
Inquir'd for oysters. Hob his noddle scratch'd ; 
Denying that his wagon or his wain 
Did any such commodity contain. 
In consequence of which, your welcome boon 
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon ; 
In consequence of which some chanc'd to die, 
Arid some, though very sweet, were very dry. 
Now Madam says, (and what she says must still 
Deserve attention, say she what she will.) 
That what we call the diligence, be-case 
It goes to London with a swifter pace, 
Would better suit the carriage of your gift, 
Returning downward with a pace as swift ; 
And therefore recommends it with this aim — 
To save at least three days, — the price the same; 
For though it will not carry or convey [may, 
For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you 
For oyster bred upon the salt sea-shore, 
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more. 

News have I none that I can deign to write, 
Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night ; 
And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour, 
Caught in the first beginning of the show'r ; 
But walking, running, and with much ado, 
Got home — just time enough to be wet through, 



Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told, 
Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold ; 
And' wishing just the same good hap to ycu, 
We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu ' 



VERSES PRINTED BY HIMSELF ON A 
FLOOD AT OLNEY. 

To watch the storms, and hear the sky 
Give all our almanacks the lie ; 
To shake with cold, and see the plains 
In autumn drown'd with wintry rains ; 
'Tis thus I spend my moments here, 
And wish myself a Dutch mynheer; 
I then should have no need of wit ; 
For lumpish Hollander unfit ! 
Nor should I then repine at mud, 
Or meadows deluged with a flood ; 
But in a bog live well content, 
And find it just my element ; 
Should be a clod, and not a man; 
Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann, 
With charitable aid to drag 
My mind out of its proper quag ; 
Should have the genius of a boor, 
And no ambition to have more. 



EXTRACT FROM A SUNDAY-SCHOOL 
HYMN. 

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r, 

In heaven, thy dwelling-place, 
From infants, made the public care, 

And taught to seek thy face ! 

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, 

And grant us, we implore, 
Never to waste in sinful play 

Thy holy sabbaths more. 

Thanks that we hear — but, oh ! impart 

To each desires sincere, 
That we may listen with our heart, 

And learn, as well as hear. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF A HAMPER. 

(in the manner of homer.) 

The straw-stuff'd hamper with its ruthless steel 
He open'd, cutting sheer th' inserted cords 
Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth 

came 
The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat, 
Or oats, or barley ; next a bottle green 
Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distilFd 
Drop after drop odorous, by the art 
Of the fair mother of his friend — the Rose. 



ON THE NEGLECT OF HOMER. 

Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor 
And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door, 
The rich old vixen would exclakn, (I fear,) 
" Begone ! no tramper gets a farthing here." 






SKETCH OF TBE LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 



The Rev. John Newton has formed too 
prominent a feature in the life and correspond- 
ence of Cowper, and is too intimately associ- 
ated with his endeared name, not to require a 
brief notice of the leading events of his life, 
on introducing those beautiful Olney Hymns 
which were written by Cowper. Any detailed 
statement is rendered unnecessary by his own 
memoir of himself,* and a subsequent one 
by the Rev. Mr. Cecil. The life of Newton 
abounds with the most extraordinary inci- 
dents, resembling the fictions of romance, 
rather than the realities of common life. But 
the hand of God is so visible, and the ulti- 
mate triumph of divine grace is so signally dis- 
played amidst the most daring provocations, 
as to render it one of the most remarkable 
biographical memoirs ever submitted to the 
public eye. 

The Rev. John Newton was born in 
London the 24th of July, 1725. His father 
was master of a ship in the Mediterranean 
trade. His mother was a pious character; 
and it is to her that he was indebted, in his 
early years, for those religious impressions 
which, however subsequently weakened, were 
probably never wholly effaced. Her pre- 
mature death deprived him of this excellent 
parent, at an age when he most needed her 
superintending care. When he was eleven 
years old he joined his father, and made five 
voyages with him to the Mediterranean. 
His early life seems to present a mingled 
detail of religious duties and declensions — 
relapses into sin, accompanied by strong con- 
victions of his guilt and danger — providential 
warnings, which roused his conscience for a 
time, and were subsequently forgotten ; till 
at length, by successive instances of grieving 
God's Holy Spirit, he sank into the very 
depths of wickedness. In the year 1742 he 
formed an attachment, equalling in degree 
all that the writers of romance have ima- 
gined ; but in its duration unalterable. In 
1743 he was impressed, put on board a ten- 
der, from which he was released by the exer- 
tions of his father, and soon after entered the 
navy.as a midshipman. Here he was seduced 
into infidel principles by one of his compan- 

* See The Life of the Rev. John Newton, written hy 
himself, in a series of letters addressed to the Rev. Mr. 
Haweifl. 



ions, who in a violent storm was swept into 
eternity, while he himself was mercifully 
spared. Having deserted his ship, he was 
overtaken, kept in irons, publicly whipped, 
and degraded from his office. He now be- 
came a prey to the most gloomy thoughts, 
and seemed to be given up to judicial hard- 
ness, and even to doubt the existence of a 
future state of being. 

We contemplate this period of nis life with 
awe and terror. He subsequently engaged in 
the slave-trade on the coast of Africa, where 
his conduct awakened, even among the slaves, 
emotions of alarm and astonishment. In 
the midst of this daring impiety, Newton 
passed through every successive stage of 
providential dealings, from the first whisper of 
conscience, till the awful catalogue of judg- 
ments seemed to be utterly expended. Every- 
thing was exhausted save the long-suffering 
and mercy of God. His guilt was equalled 
only by his misery. The slave-trade on the 
coast of Africa was to him the fit memorial 
of a captivity more galling in its character, 
more terrible in its consequences. At home 
abroad, on the mighty deep, or on foreigr 
shores, he carried with him the maiks of his 
servitude, the taint of his corruption, and th« 
visible wrath of an offended God. 

The divine dealings towards the children 
of pious parents are strongly illustrated in 
the foregoing narrative. We have often ob- 
served that they are generally the subjects of 
a special dispensation whenever they become 
wanderers from God. In mercy to the pray- 
ing parent, as well as to th«'- erring child, he 
never leaves them without repeated tokens 
of his displeasure and intimations of his will. 
He disappoints their hopes, blights their pros- 
pects, and brings upon them the day of his 
wrathful visitation, "if his children forsake 
my late and walk not in my judgments ; if 
they break my statutes, and keep not my com- 
mandments ; then will I visit their transgrea 
sion with the rod, and their iniquity with 
stripes. Nevertheless, my loving-kindness will 
I not utterly take from him, nor suffer my faith- 
fulness to fail." Psalm. Ixxxix. 30 — 33. 

We by no means interpret this clause am 

generally conveying the assurance that the 

children of pious parents will ultimately be 

saved. The conclusion would be too aV- 

4.* 



658 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



solute, and seem opposed to the testimony 
of facts. But we nevertheless believe that 
the prayers and instructions of a godly parent 
rise up, like the alms of Cornelius, as a me- 
morial before God; and that early impres- 
sions are seldom utterly effaced. They pur- 
sue the memory amid the tumult of business, 
the seductions of pleasure, and the broad 
path of sin. They are a powerful stimulant 
to conscience in moments of pain, depression, 
and sorrow ; till at lengh the cry of penitence 
often bursts from the overwhelmed heart, and 
the last accents have been known to be those 
of prayer and praise. 

We now proceed to detail the particulars 
of Newton's conversion. This event occurs 
on his return homewards from the coast of 
Africa, when the ship is overtaken by a dread- 
ful storm, and death seems to be inevitable. 
We extract the account from his own nar- 
rative. 

" The 21st of March is a day much to be re- 
membered by me, and I have never suffered 
it to pass wholly unnoticed since the year 
1748. On that day the Lord sent from on 
high, and delivered me out of deep waters. I 
began to think of my former religious profes- 
sions; the extraordinary turns in my life; 
the calls, warnings, and deliverances I had 
met with ; the licentious course of my con- 
versation, particularly my unparalleled effron- 
tery in making the gospel-history the constant 
subject of profane ridicule. I thought, allow- 
ing the Scripture premises, there never was 
nor could be such a sinner as myself; and 
then, comparing the advantages I had broken 
through, I concluded at first, that my sins 
were to great to be forgiven. The Scripture 
likewise seemed to say the same ; for 1 had 
formerly been well acquainted with the Bible, 
and many passages upon this occasion re- 
turned upon my memory, particularly those 
awful passages, Prov. i. 24 — 31; Heb. vi. 
4 — 6; and 2 Pet. ii. 20, which seemed so 
exactly to suit my case and character as to 
bring with them a presumptive proof of a 
divine original. Thus, as I have said, I waited 
with fear and impatience to receive my in- 
evitable doom. Yet, though I had thoughts 
of this kind, they were exceedingly faint and 
disproportionate ; it was not till long after, 
(perhaps several years^) till I had gained 
some clear views of the infinite righteousness 
and grace of Jesus Christ my Lord, that I 
had a deep and strong apprehension of my 
state by nature and practice : and, perhaps, 
till then I could not have borne the sight. 
When I saw, beyond all probability, there 
vas still hope of respite, and heard about six 
in the evening that the ship was freed from 
water, there arose a gleam of hope ; I thought 
[ saw the hand of God displayed in our favor. 
I began to pray ; I could not utter the prayer 
of faith ; I could not draw near to a recon- 



ciled God, and call him Father. My prayel 
was like the cry of the ravens, which yet the 
Lord does not disdain to hear. 1 now be- 
gan to think of that Jesus whom I had sc 
often derided. I recollected the particulars 
of his life, and of his death : and death for 
sins not his own, but, as I remembered, for 
the sake of those who in their distress should 
put their trust in Him. And now I chiefly 
wanted evidence. The comfortless principles 
of »in fidelity were deeply riveted, and I rather 
wished than believed these things were real 
facts. The great question now was, how to 
obtain faith ? I speak not of an appropria- 
ting faith, (of which I then knew neither the 
nature nor necessity,) but how I should gain 
an assurance that the Scriptures were of di- 
vine inspiration, and a sufficient warrant for 
the exercise of trust and hope in God. One 
of the first helps I received (in consequence 
of a determination to examine the New Tes- 
tament more carefully) was from Luke xi. 13. 
I had been sensible that to profess faith in 
Jesus Christ, when in reality I did not be- 
lieve his history, was no better than a mock- 
ery of a heart-searching God : but here I 
found a Spirit spoken of, which was to be 
communicated to those who ask it. Upon 
this I reasoned thus. If this book is true, 
the promise in this passage is true likewise. 
I have need of that very Spirit by which the 
whole was written, in order to understand it 
aright. He has engaged here to give that 
Spirit to those who ask. I must, therefore, 
pray for it ; and if it is of God, he will make 
good his own word. My purposes were 
strengthened by John vii. 17. I concluded 
from thence, that though I could not say 
from my heart that I believed the gospel, yet 
I would for the present take it for granted, 
and that by studying it in this light I should 
be more and more confirmed in it. If what 
I am writing could be perused by our mod- 
ern infidels, they would say (for I too well 
know their manner) that I was very desirous 
to persuade myself into this opinion. I con- 
fess I was ; and so would they be, if the Lord 
should show them, as he was pleased to, 
show me at that time, the absolute necessity 
of some expedient to interpose between a 
righteous God and a sinful soul. Upon the 
gospel scheme I saw at least a peradventure 
of hope, but on every other side I was sur- 
rounded with black unfathomable despair."* 
Alluding to the means which he enjoyed at 
this eventful period, for acquiring spiritua. 
light and knowledge, he observes, "As to 
books, T had a New Testament, Stanhope, and 
a volume of Bishop Beveridge's Sermons, one 
of which, upon our Lord's passion, affected me 
much. In perusing the New Testament, 1 
was struck with several passages, particularly 
that of the fig-tree, Luke xiii. ; the case 07 
* See "Life of Newton," prefixed to his works. 



LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON 



65. 



St. Paul, 1 Tim. i.; but particularly the prodigal, 
Luke xv. — a case I thought had never been so 
clearly exemplified as by myself. And then 
the goodness of the father in receiving, nay, 
in running to meet such a son, and (his in- 
tended only to illustrate the Lord's goodness 
to returning sinners ; this gained upon me. I 
continued much in prayer; I saw that the Lord 
had interposed so far to save me ; and I hoped 
he would do more. The outward circumstan- 
ces helped in this place to make me still more 
serious and earnest in crying to Him who 
alone could relieve me; and sometimes I 
thought I could be content to die even for 
want of food, if I might but die a believer. 
Thus far I was answered, that before we ar- 
rived in Ireland I had a satisfactory evidence 
in my own mind of the truth of the gospel, 
as considered in itself, and its exact suitable- 
ness to answer all my needs. I saw that, by 
the way there pointed out, God might declare, 
not his mercy only, but his justice also, in the 
pardon of sin, on account of the obedience 
and sufferings of Jesus Christ. 1 stood in 
need of an Almighty Saviour, and such a one 
I found described in the New Testament. 
Thus far the Lord had wrought a marvellous 
thing. I was no longer an infidel. 1 heartily 
renounced my former profaneness; I had 
taken up some right notions; was seriously 
disposed, and sincerely touched with a sense 
of the undeserved mercy I had received, in 
being brought safe through so many dan- 
gers. I was sorry for my past misspent life, 
and purposed an immediate reformation ; 1 
was quite freed from the habit of swearing, 
which seemed to have been deeply rooted in 
me as a second nature. Thus, to all appear- 
ance, I was a new man. But though I cannot 
doubt that this change, so far as it prevailed, 
was wrought by the Spirit and power of God ; 
yet still I was greatly deficient in many re- 
spects. I was, in some degree, affected with 
a sense of my more enormous sins, but I was 
little aware of the innate evils of my heart. 
I had no apprehension of the spirituality and 
extent, of the law of God. The hidden life 
of a Christian, as it consists in communion 
with God by Jesus Christ, and a continual de- 
pendence on him for hourly supplies of wis- 
dom, strength, and comfort, was a mystery, 
of which I had as yet no knowledge. I ac- 
knowledged the Lord's mercy in pardoning 
what was past, but depended chiefly upon my 
ovn resolution to do better for the time to 
cine. I had no Christian friend or faithful 
minister to advise me that my strength was no 
more than my righteousness : and though I 
soon began to inquire for serious books, yet, 
not having spiritual discernment, I frequently 
made a wrong choice ; and I was not brought 
in the way of evangelical preaching or conver- 
sation, (except a few times, when I heard b*t 
understood not,) for six years after this period. 



Those things the Lord was pleased to discovei 
to me gradually. I learned them here a little 
and there a little, by my own painful expeni 
ence, at a distance from the common meana 
and ordinances, and in the midst of the same 
course of evil company, and bad examples, as 
I had been conversant with for some time 
From this period 1 could no more make a mock 
at sin, or jest with holy things: I no more 
questioned the truth of Scripture, or lost a 
sense of the rebukes of conscience. There- 
fore I consider this as the beginning of my 
return to God, or rather of his return to me; 
but I cannot consider myself to have been a 
believer (in the full sense of the word) till a 
considerable time afterwards."* 

Progressive conversions seem to be most 
agreeable to the analogy of nature ; and 
though we by no means question the reality 
of instantaneous conversions, or consider that 
the grace of God is limited either to time, 
manner or degree; yet we have generally ob- 
served that they partake too much of a spirit 
of excitement to form a sure and safe test 
The. excitement of the senses is a dangerous 
ingredient in holy things, because they are 
equally susceptible of opposite impressions. 
Those conversions ultimately prove most 
solid and abiding, where the understanding is 
enlightened, the conscience roused, and the 
will subdued by the simultaneous energy and 
power that moves and purifies the feelings 
and affections of the heart. 

But in whatever manner it was accom- 
plished, the conversion of Newton claims to 
rank among those memorable acts of divine 
grace which have invested the names of a 
Rochester, a Gardiner, and a Bunyan, with so 
much interest and celebrity. May we not also 
mark its affinity to the still more distinguished 
examples recorded in the sacred writings, such 
as a Manasses, or a Saul, prototypes not less 
in guilt than in mercy? If any man could 
justly appropriate the words of the apostle, 
surely that individual was Newton. " How- 
beit for this cause I obtained mercy, that in me 
first Jesus Christ might show forth all long 
suffering, for a pattern to them which should 
hereafter believe on him to life everlasting." 
1 Tim. i. 16. Instances like these abound in 
edifying truths. They exhibit the divine 
sovereignty in legible and unerring character-;. 
They serve also to confound the pride and 
self-glory of man by proving that '■ base things 
of the world, and things which are despised, 
hath God chosen, yea and things which are 
not, to bring to nought things that are ; that 
no flesh should glory in ' is presence." 1 Cor 
i. 28, 29. 

But above all they proclaim that no mania 

beyond the reach of mercy, however guilty 

depraved, or lost ; and that the door is nevei 

closed to thf broken and contrite spirt. Let 

* Life of Newton. 



6bO 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



not then the penitent despair, nor yet the im- 
penitent presume ; but rightly interpreting 
these wonderful and gracious dispensations, 
may many a returning prodigal, like Newton, 
exclaim in the accents of adoring faith and 
love, " Who is God like unto thee, that par- 
do*neth iniquity, and passeth by the trans- 
gression of the remnant of his heritage ? He 
retaineth not his anger forever, because he 
delighteth in mercy." Micah vii. 18. 

That we may proceed to the more impor- 
tant events of Newton's subsequent history, 
we shall here briefly mention, that at this time 
he wrote to his father, who was then going 
out as Governor of York Fort, in Hudson's 
Bay, where he died in 1750. He previously 
gave his consent to his son's marriage with 
Miss Catlett, the lady who had been the ob- 
ject of so long and romantic an attachment. 
They were united on the 1st of February, 
1750. After this event he ma^ie three voya- 
ges to Africa, devoting much of his time to 
classical and devotional studies, and perform- 
ing public worship in his vessel according to 
the Liturgy of the Church of England, twice 
every day. The moral change which his mind 
had experienced is expressed in the following 
beautiful and edifying manner, strongly ex- 
emplifying the power of divine grace to raise 
and elevate the soul. 

" To be at sea in these circumstances, with- 
drawn out of the reach of innumerable tempt- 
ations, with opportunity and turn of mind 
disposed to observe the wonders of God in 
the great deep, with the two noblest objects 
of sight, the expanded heavens and the ex- 
panded ocean, continually in view ; and where 
evident interpositions of Divine Providence, 
in answer to prayer, occur almost every day; 
these are helps to quicken and confirm the 
life of faith, which, in a good measure, supply 
to a religious sailor the want of those advan- 
tages which can be enjoyed only upon the 
shore. And, indeed, though my knowledge 
of spiritual things, as knowledge is usually 
estimated, was at this time very small ; yet I 
sometimes look back with regret on these 
scenes. I never knew sweeter or more fre- 
quent hours of divine communion, than in my 
two last voyages to Guinea, when I was either 
almost secluded from society on shipboard, 
or when on shore amongst the natives. I have 
wandered through the woods, reflecting on 
the singular goodness of the Lord to me, in 
a place where, perhaps, there was not a person 
that knew Him for some thousands of miles 
*ound about me. 

; ' In desert woods, with thee, my God, 
Where human footsteps never trod, 

How happy could I be ; 
Thou my repose from care, my light, 
Amidst the darkness of the night, 

In solitude my company."* 

• These luv» are a translation from the following well- 



His views on the subject of the slave-trad« 
are thus recorded by himself. 

"During the time I was engaged in the 
slave-trade, I never had the least scruple as to 
its lawfulness. I was upon the whole satis- 
fied with it, as the appointment Providence 
had marked out for me ; yet it was, in many 
respects, far from eligible. It was indeed, ac- 
counted a genteel employment, and usually 
very profitable, though to me it did not prove 
so, the Lord seeing that a large increase ot 
wealth would not be good for me. However, 
I considered myself as a sort of a gaoler or 
turnkey, and I was sometimes shocked with 
an employment that was perpetually convers- 
ant with chains, bolts and shackles. In this 
view I had often petitioned in myj)rayers that 
the Lord, in his own time, would be pleased 
to fix me in a more humane calling, and, if it 
might be, place me where I might have more 
frequent converse with his people and ordi- 
nances, and be freed from those long separa- 
tions from home which very often were hard 
to bear. My prayers were now answered, 
though in a -way which I little expected."* 

The circumstance to which he alludes may 
be briefly stated. When he was within two 
days of sailing on a new voyage, and to all 
appearance in good health, he was suddenly 
seized with a fit, which deprived him of sense 
and motioM. It lasted about an hour, but left 
behind such symptoms as induced the physi- 
cians to judge that it would not be safe or 
prudent to proceed on the voyage. The event 
was remarkable. The person who was ap- 
pointed to take his place, most of the officers, 
and many of the crew died, and the vessel 
was brought back to Liverpool with great 
difficulty.! 

Thus' ended Newton's connexion with Af- 
rica and the slave-trade and with a sea-faring 
mode of life. He was destined for higher 
ends, and the providence and grace of God 
soon pointed out a sphere more suited to his 
newly acquired views, and presenting ample 
means for extended usefulness. • 

" And now," he observes, " having reason 
to close with the Apostle's determination, 
' to know nothing but Jesus Christ and him 
crucified,' I devoted my life to the prosecu- 
tion of spiritual knowledge, and resolved to 
pursue nothing but in subservience to this 
main design.";); With this view he acquired 
a sufficient proficiency in the Greek lan- 
guage, so as to read with facility the New 
Testament and Septuagint ; he then entered 
upon the study of the Hebrew, and two 

known passage of Propertius ; Newton piously applying 
to the Creator what the poet addresses to the creature. 

Sic ego desertis possim bene vivere sylvis, 

Quo n ulla humano sit via trita pede. 

Tu mihi curarura requies, in nocte vel atra 

Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis. 

See Life of Jfewton. 

* Life of Newton. t Ibid- t Ibii. 



LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 



66 



years afterwards engaged in the Syriac, be- 
sides reading the best writers in divinity, 
and attending on the ministry of men dis- 
tinguished for their piety and their scriptural 
views. In reference to his own entrance on 
the sacred office, he thus states his senti- 
ments. 

"One word concerning my views to the 
ministry, and I have done. I have told you, 
that this was my dear mother's hope con- 
cerning me; but her death and the scenes 
of life in which I afterwards engaged, seemed 
to cut off the probability. The first desires 
of this sort in my own mind arose many 
years ago, from reflection on Gal. i. 23, 24. 
'But they had heard only, that he which 
persecuted us in times past, now preacheth 
the faith which once he destroyed. And 
they glorified God in me.' I could not but 
wish for such a public opportunity to testify 
the riches of divine grace. I thought I was, 
above most living, a fit person to proclaim 
that faithful saying, ' That Jesus Christ came 
into the world to save the chief of sinners ;' 
ind as my life had been full of remarkable 
turns, and I seemed selected to show what 
the Lord could do, I was in some hopes that 
perhaps, sooner or later, he might call me 
.nto this service."* 

This choice of Newton seemed to be not 
only a natural consequence of his newly- 
acquired state of mind, but to be in perfect 
onformity with those leadings of Provi- 
dence which we have so fully recorded. Who 
so fit to proclaim the adorable mercy and 
goodness of God, the freeness of his grace, 
the severity of his justice, and the tenderness 
of his love, as he who had so recently gone 
through the whole of the mighty process ? 
Who could trace the natural obduracy and 
corruption of the human heart, the rebellion 
of the will, the vile slavery of sin, and the 
power that breaks its fetters, like him whose 
past history so forcibly illustrated these 
truths? Men cannot teach others till they 
themselves are first taught of God ; and so 
long as this necessary discipline is wanting 
preaching is but a sublime and empty decla- 
mation. 

Newton being further confirmed in his 
resolution by he judgment of some Chris- 
tian friends, received a title to a curacy in 
Yorkshire, Dec. 16, 1758, and applied to the 
Archbishop of York, Dr. Gilbert, for ordina- 
tion. As he had not however graduated at 
the University, he was rejected, the Arch- 
bishop alleging the rules and canons of the 
church. Four years after this period, in 
1762, having experienced a continuance of 
the same difficulties, ana conscious that he 
was Durying his talents, he was about to 
iirecl his zeal in another channel, when he 

* Life of Newton. 



was restrained by the influence of his wife 
In reference to this trial, he makes the fo) 
lowing reflection. " The exercises of mj 
mind upon this point, I believe, have not 
been peculiar to myself. I have known sev 
eral persons, sensible, pious, of competent 
abilities, and cordially attached to the estab- 
lished church, who, being wearied out with 
repeated refusals of ordination, and, perhaps, 
not having the advantage of such an adviser 
as I had, have at length struck into the itin- 
erant path, or settled among the Dissenters. 
Some of these, yet living, are men of re- 
spectable characters and useful in their min- 
istry. But their influence, which would once 
have been serviceable to the true interests 
of the church of England, now rather oper- 
ates against it." 

Finally, being recommended by the Earl 
of Dartmouth* to Dr. Green, Bishop of Lin- 
coln, of whose candor and kindness he speaks 
with much respect, he was ordained deacon 
at Buckden, April 29, 1764, and appointed 
to the curacy of Olney, Bucks. He received 
priest's orders the year following. 

In this sphere of duty Newton continued 
nearly sixteen years exercising the functions 
of his office with exemplary fidelity, going 
from house to house, and exhibiting a pat- 
tern of an excellent parish priest. By the 
munificence of John Thornton, Esq., he was 
enabled to exercise the rites of hospitality 
and to dispense relief effectually to the poor. 
" Be hospitable," said Mr. Thornton, " and 
keep an open house for such as are worthy 
of entertainment. Help the poor and needy. 
I will statedly allow you 200Z. a year, and 
readily send whatever you have occasion to 
draw for more." Newton once observed, 
that he thought he had received of Mr. 
Thornton upwards of 3,000Z. in this way, 
during the time he resided at Olney. f 

Such traits do honor to human nature. 

One of the incidents which distinguishes 
the residence of Newton at Olney is his 
friendship and intercourse with Cowper. It 
is said, that this intercourse was injurious to 
the poet, and that Newton's peculiar views, 
which were Calvinistic, increased the morbid 
turn of his mind. The doctrinal sentiments 
of Newton we shall shortly consider, with- 
out however entering upon a lengthened dis. 
cussion unsuited to the character of the 
present, work. But we hesitate not to affirm 
that though the standard of Newton was un- 
questionably more Calvinistic than what is 
generally adopted by the clergy in these 
times, the main doctrines which he held wers 
the common fundamental principles of the 

* Lord Dartmouth was the patron of the living of OlneJ 
and distinguished for his piety. It is due to this noblrt 
family to state, that in no instance has a vacancy in tb* 
living ever been filled up but in subserviency to the in 
terests of true religion. 

t Cecil's A&raoir of Newton. 



Christian faith, and that no preacher could 
have been more practical in his views. In 
other respects, Newton was social in his 
spirit, affectionate in his feelings, and culti- 
vated in his understanding. Having had 
ample means of ascertaining his real char- 
acter, the editor can with truth assert that 
no man was more beloved, admired, and re- 
spected. 

We next examine Newton's doctrinal views. 

The doctrines of Newton embraced all 
those great fundamental truths which distin- 
guish the period of the reformation, and 
were continued downwards to the times of 
Charles L, when an evident departure from 
sound doctrine is perceptible in the writers 
of that age, as well as in those which suc- 
ceeded.* We claim for Newton the praise 
of having been one among a few faithful 
witnesses who boldly proclaimed those truths, 
when religion was degenerating, with some 
few exceptions, into a system of moral ethics. 
It is to such men as Romaine, Venn, Ber- 
ridge, Milner, Walker of Truro, Adam of 
Wintringham, Stillingfleet, Jones of St. Sav- 
iour's, Newton, and a few others, that we 
owe that revival of piety which is now diffus- 
ing itself so generally among the members 
of our church. These doctrines comprise 
the fall and corruption of man, the divinity 
and offices of the Saviour, the necessity of 
conversion by the grace of the Holy Spirit, 
free justification by faith in the atonement, 
the work of sanctification in all its progres- 
sive stages, attested by the evidence of a 
holy and devoted life, founded on these 
views and principles. 

These great and important truths are gen- 
erally called " doctrines according to godli- 
ness ;" that is, they constitute the only gen- 
uine spring and source of godliness. It 
cannot be effected without them, because 
the principle would be wanting which is 
alone competent to produce real holiness. 
They form the vital essence of Christianity, 
its distinguishing and essential badge, its 
grace, its ornament, and glory. 

Some men decry doctrine altogether, and 
assert that we are more concerned with the 
precepts than the doctrines of the Bible. 
But, these doctrines are to be found in our 
Articles,! in our Homilies,! in the works of 
Cranmer, Latimer, Ridley, Hooper, Tindal, 
and others, the confessors and martyrs of 
the glorious Reformation. 

We subjoin the testimony of an eminent 
prelate on this subject/ delivered in a charge 
in the year 1792. We refer to the venerable 
Bishop of Durham, Dr. Shute Barrington. 

" All that distinguishes Christianity from 

* Bishops Hall, Davenant, and Jeremy Taylor, are hon- 
wable exceptions. 

t See 9, 10, 11, 12, 13th Articles. 

j See the Homilies entitled "On the misery of man;" 
lift " Justifying faith ;" " Good works annexed to faith ;" 



other religions is doctrinal; a Christian'! 
hopes and consolations, his obligations and 
motives, are doctrinal points ; the very means 
and end of his salvation, the many objects 
of his most earnest intention, are all points 
of faith and doctrine. Divest Christianity 
of its faith and doctrines, and you despoil it 
of all that is peculiar to it in its motives, its 
consolations, its sanctions, and its duties. 
You divest it of all that made revelation 
necessary ; you reduce it to the cold and in- 
effectual substance of what is called philos- 
ophy; that philosophy which has of late 
shown itself not the friend of religion, learn- 
ing, and civil order, but of anarchy, conceit, 
and atheism : you reduce it to the obscure 
glimmerings of human knowledge ; that 
knowledge which the greatest of the ancient 
philosophers* confessed to be totally insuffi- 
cient to satisfy the doubts and solicitude of 
an inquiring mind, and looked forward with 
a kind of prophetic exultation to the period 
when Divine Providence, in compassion to 
the weakness of our nature, should enlighten 
mankind by the revelation of himself, which 
modern philosophers reject."f 

We add the distinguished testimony A 
Archbishop Seeker. 

" To improve the people effectually, you 
must be assiduous in teaching the principles 
not only of virtue and natural religion, but 
of the gospel ; and of the gospel, not as al- 
most explained away by modern refiners, 
but ' as the truth is in Jesus;' as it is taught 
by the church of which you are members ; 
as you have engaged by your subscriptions 
and declarations, that you will teach it your- 
selves. You must preach to them faith in 
the ever-blessed Trinity ; you must set forth 
the original corruption of our nature ; our 
redemption, according to God's eternal pur- 
pose in Christ, by the sacrifice of the cross ; 
our sanctification by the influences ' of the 
Divine Spirit; the insufficiency of good 
works, and the efficacy of faith to salva- 
tion 

" The truth, I fear, is, that many, if not 
most of us, have dwelt too little on these 

doctrines in our sermons, partly 

from not having studied theology deeply 
enough to treat of them aby and benefi- 
cially. God grant it may never have been 
for want of inwardly experiencing their im- 
portance. But, whatever be the cause, the 
effect has been lamentable"^ 

If a solemn and admonitory warning was 
ever conveyed to the Christian world on 
this subject, it has been afforded by the con- 
duct of the church of Geneva. By a regula- 



on " the death and passion of our Saviour Christ ;" Hom- 
ily for Whitsunday, &c. 

* Plato. 

t See Bishop of Durham's Charge, (Barrington, 119ft 

j See " Watson's Tracts," vol. vi. 






LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 



663 



Hon, the breach of which was made punish- 
able by expulsion the great fundamental 
doctrines, such as the essential divinity of 
Christ, the doctrine of human corruption, the 
atonement, justification by faith, and the per- 
sonality and offices of the Holy Spirit, were 
prohibited in the pulpit. The people, no 
longer accustomed to These important truths, 
soon forgot them, and the consequence has 
been the substitution of a cold and lifeless 
Socinianism. Had it not been for that band 
of faithful men in this country, so much 
misrepresented and traduced, who shall say 
whether, in our own communion, we might 
not have incurred the same fearful result? 
They stood in the gap, like Phinehas, and the 
plague was stayed. 

We know all that is urged in opposition 
to this reasoning, and we will examine its 
merits. These doctrines, it is said, are over- 
charged. The corruption of human nature, 
for instance, instead of being described as 
partial, is represented to be total. Society, 
we are assured, could not exist on such a 
supposition. 

Let us listen to what Newton remarks on 
this subject. 

" His natural powers, though doubtless im- 
paired, were not destoyed. Man by nature 
is still capable of great things. His under- 
standing, reason, memory, imagination, &e. 
sufficiently proclaim that the ' hand which 
made him is divine.' He is, as Milton says 
of Beelzebub, '■majestic though in ruins.'' He 
can reason, invent, and, by application, attain 
a considerable knowledge in natural things. 
The exertions of human genius, as specified 
in the characters of some philosophers, poets, 
orators, &c., are wonderful. But man can- 
not know, love, trust or serve his Maker, un- 
less he be renewed in the spirit of his mind.'"* 

" Sin did not deprive him of rationality but 
of spirituality."! 

Again : " God has not left man destitute of 
such dispositions as are necessary to the 
peace of society ; but I deny that there is 
any moral goodness in them, unless they are 
founded in a supreme love to God, have his 
glory for their aim, and are produced by faith 
in Jesus Christ."f 

What does Newton here assert that is not 
maintained in the 13th Article of our own 
Churchy 

Thus man's natural and moral powers sur- 
vive the fall ; but those which are spiritual 
are effaced and lost. Nature cannot confer 
what it is the province of grace alone to be- 
stow. It requires a divine power to restore 
and quicken the soul. But what is the doc- 
trine^ of the church of England as regards 

* See Newton's " Cardiphonia." Letter to Rev. Mr. S. 

tlbid. 

J Works done before the grace of Christ and the inspi- 
-aiion of his Spirit, are not pleasant to God, forasmuch 
w they spring not of faith in Jesus Christ, &c. 



man's partial or total corruption ? We ex- 
tract the following passage from the Homilj 
on the Nativity : — 

" Whereby it came to pass that, as before 
(the fall) he was blessed, so now he was ac- 
cursed; as before he was loved, so now he 
was abhorred ; as before he was most beau- 
tiful and precious, so now he was most vile 
and wretched in the sight of his Jjord and 
Maker. Instead of the image of God, he 
was now become the image of the devil, in- 
stead of the citizen of heaven, he was become 
the bond slave of hell, having in himsel no 
one fart of his former purity and cleanness, but 
being altogether spotted and defiled, insomuch 
that now he seemed to be nothing else but a 
lump of sin."* Who ever used language 
stronger and explicit than these words ? 

Thus we see that men, in attacking these 
views and sentiments, are in fact, impugning 
the doctrines of their own church. 

We merely add one more remark on the 
much-controverted subject of conversion. To 
those who deny this doctrine, and describe 
it as " spiritual revelry," pretended illumina- 
tions, &c, we recommend the consideration 
of the following passage in the Homily on 
Whitsunday. It refers to our Lord's conver- 
sation with Nicodemus, and to the inability 
of the latter to comprehend this great spirit- 
ual change of heart. 

" Behold a lively pattern of a fleshly and 
carnal man. He had little or no intelligence 
of the Holy Ghost, and therefore he goeth 
bluntly to work, and asketh how this thing 
were possible to be true. Whereas, other 
wise, if he had known the great power of 
the Holy Ghost in this behalf, that it is He 
which inwardly worketh the regeneration 
and new birth of mankind, he would never 
have marvelled at Christ's words, but would 
rather take occasion thereby to praise and 
glorify God." 

We have thought proper to adduce these 
testimonies, because they vindicate the doc- 
trines o Newton, and of those who concur 
with him in these views. They fully prove 
how much the stability of our church, in the 
estimation of some of its ablest advocates, 
depends on the faithfulness with which these 
doctrines are maintained. On this subject 
we would beg to express our deepest con- 
viction that, if the Church of England is to 
survive those perils by which she is threat- 
ened ; if, as we anticipate, she will rise from 
her tribulation with renewed strength and 
beauty ; it is to the purity of her doctrine, 
and to the devotedness of her ministers, and 
not to the richness of her endowments,' or to 
the secular arm of the state, that she must 
be indebted for her durability and greatness. 
To be upheld, she must be " strong in tho 

* See also Article IX. of the Church of Ergland, o« 
Original Sin. 



664 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Lord and in the power of his might," apos- 
tolical in her doctrines, restored in her dis- 
cipline, and holy in her practice. The lan- 
guage shall then be addressed to her that is 
applied by the inspired prophet to Zion; 
" No weapon that is formed against thee 
shall prosper, and every tongue that shall 
rise against thee in judgment thou shall con- 
demn." Isaiah liv. 17. Or, to use words 
still more emphatic, " The gates of hell shall 
not prevail against her." 

Having thus generally vindicated the doc- 
trines of Newton, we next advert to some of 
his writings. We make a few extracts from 
his Cardiphonia, the most popular of his writ- 
ings, being a series of letters on religious 
subjects. The following is addressed to a 
nobleman, distinguished for his piety. 

"To devote soul and body, every talent, 
power and faculty, to the service of the 
Lord's cause and will ; to let our light shine 
(in our several situations) to the praise of 
grace ; to place our highest joy in the con- 
templation of his adorable perfection ; to re- 
ioice even in tribulations and distresses, in 
reproaches and infirmities, if thereby the 
power of Christ may rest upon us, and be 
magnified in as; to be content, yea, glad to 
be nothing, ihat he may be all in all ; — to 
obey him in opposition to the threats or so- 
licitations of men ; to trust him, though all 
outward appearances seem against us ; to 
rejoice in him, though we should (as will 
sooner or later be the case) have nothing 
else to rejoice in; to live above the world, 
and to have our conversation in heaven ; to 
be like the angels, finding our own pleasure 
in performing his; — this, my Lord, is the 
prize, the mark of our high calling, to which 
we are encourged with a holy ambition con- 
tinually to aspire. It is true, we shall still 
fall short; we shall find that, when we 
should do good, evil will be present with 
us ; but the attempt is glorious, and shall not 
be wholly in vain. He that gives us thus to 
will, will enable us to perform with growing 
success, and teach us to profit even by our 
mistakes and imperfections."* 

The privileges of the believer are thus set 
forth. 

"How great and honorable is the privilege 
of a true believer ? That he has neither wis- 
dom nor strength in himself is no disadvan- 
tage ; for he is connected with infinite wis- 
dom and almighty power. Though weak as 
a worm, his arms are strengthened by the 
mighty God of Jacob, and all things become 
possible, yea, easy to him, that occur within 
the compass of his proper duty and calling. 
The Lord, whom he serves, engages to pro- 
portion his strength to his day, whether it 
be a day of service or of suffering; and, 

** Cardiphonia." Letters to a Nobleman. 



though he is fallible and short-sighted, ex- 
ceedingly liable to mistake and imposition, 
yet, while he retains a sense that he is so, 
and with the simplicity of a child asks coun- 
sel and direction of the Lord, he seldom 
takes a wrong step, at least not in matters 
of consequence ; and even his inadvertencies 
are overruled for good. If he forgets his 
true state, and thinks himself to be some- 
thing, he presently finds he is indeed nothing; 
but if he is content to be nothing, and to have 
nothing, he is sure to find a seasonable and 
abundant communication of all that he wants. 
Thus he lives, like Israel in the wilderness, 
upon mere bounty; but then it is a bounty 
unchangeable, unwearied, inexhaustible, and 
all-sufficient."* 

The believer's call, duty, and privilege is 
thus illustrated by the happy application of 
Milton's character of Abdiel, at the end of 
book 5, of the " Paradise Lost." The com- 
pliment to his noble friend is just and 
merited. 

" Faithful found 
Among the faithless, faithful only he, 
Among innumerable false, unmov'd, 
Unshaken, unseduc'd, unterrified, 
His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ; 
Nor number, nor example, with him wrought 
To swerve from truth, or change his constant 

mind 
Though single." 

" Methinks your Lordship's situation par- 
ticularly resembles that in which the poet has 
placed Abdiel. You are not indeed called to 
serve God quite alone ; but, amongst those 
of your own rank, and with whom the station 
in which he has placed you necessitates you 
to converse, how few are there who can un- 
derstand, second, or approve the principles 
upon which you act ; or easily bear a con- 
duct which must impress conviction or reflect 
dishonor upon themselves 1 ? But you are 
not alone. The Lord's people (many of 
whom you will not know till you meet them 
in glory) are helping you here with their 
prayers. His angels are commissioned to 
guard and guide your steps. Yea, the Lord 
himself fixes his eye of mercy upon your pri- 
vate and public path, and is near you at your 
right hand, that you may not be moved! 
That he may comfort you with the light of 
his countenance, and uphold you with the 
arm of his power, is my frequent prayer."* 

Such is the sweet strain of practical and 
experimental piety in which Newton writes, 
uniting the graces of composition with the 
courtesy of Christian feeling, and the senti 
ments of an exalted piety The nobleman 
to whom these letters are addressed, (twenty 
six in number,) was the Earl of Dartmouth, 

* "Cardiphonia." 



LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 



6G5 



the patron of the living of Olney. Happy 
would it be if men of rank were always will- 
ing- to listen to such truths, and the pen of a 
Newton could record them with so much faith- 
fulness and grace. The date of this corre- 
spondence commences in the year 1765, and 
terminates in 1777. The succeding eight 
letters, to the Rev. Mr. S., are addressed to 
the Rev. Thomas Scott, and will be shortly 
adverted to. Mr. B., to whom eleven letters 
are inscribed, is Mr. Barham, the father of 
the late Jos. Foster Barham, Esq. M.P. One 
letter is addressed to the latter, as Mr. B., 
jun. ; and Miss M. B., is Miss Martha Bar- 
ham, his sister. The Rev. Mr. R., is Mr. 
Rose, late Rector of Beckenham, who married 
her sister. I am enabled to verify these facts 
from family connexion, and personal knowl- 
edge. Besides these letters, Newton was 
the author of "Omicron," "Letters to a 
Wife," " Rt^iew of Ecclesiastical History," 
" Sermons," ''The Aged Pilgrim's Triumph," 
" Life of the Rev. William Grimshawe," an 
ancestor of tne Editor, distinguished for his 
piety and laboiious exertions, though accom- 
panied with some peculiarities; I cannot 
however record his name without reverence 
for his piety and zeal. The majority of the 
Olney Hymns were contributed by Newton, 
and have always been acceptable to the re- 
ligious public. They are diversified in their 
subject, and uniformly spiritual and experi- 
mental, though inferior, as poetical composi- 
tions, to those contributed by Cowper. 

His lines on the Ocean are characterized 
by great force and beauty. 

A THOUGHT ON THE SEA SHORE. 

In ev'ry object here I see 

Something, O Lord ! that leads to thee. 

Firm as the rocks thy promise stands, 

Thy mercies countless as the sands ; 

Thy love a sea immensely wide, 

Thy grace an everflowing tide. 

In ev'ry object here I see 

Something, my heart, that points at thee. 

Hard as the rocks that bound the strand, 

Unfruitful as the barren sand. 

Deep and deceitful as the ocean, 

And, like the tides, in constant motion. 

The last point of view in which Newton 
claims to be considered is, as the honored 
instrument, in the hands of God, for raising 
up others who became eminent for piety and 
usefulness. We pass over many instances 
of comparatively less importance, and select 
two of known celebrity, the late Rev. Thomas 
Scott, and the Rev. Claudius Buchanan. Mr. 
Scott, at the time of Newton's residence at 
Olney, was the curate of Raven stone, in that 
neighborhood. Though strictly conscien- 
tious, and earnest in the discharge of his 
duties, yet his views were indistinct, and his 
mi ^d laboring under strong prejudices. The 



sentiments and principles of Newton, so op- 
posite to his own, excited his attention. He 
was unable to comprehend them, and, as a 
natural consequence, deprecated and rejected 
them. Newton presented him with one of 
his publications, entitled "Omicron." This 
led to a correspondence, which is inserted in 
the " Cardiphonia." The influence of New- 
ton's arguments, though slow, was finally 
successful. The strong and powerful preju- 
dices of Scott yielded, like the mists that are 
dispelled by the penetrating beams of the 
sun. He has recorded this eventful period 
of his life in his " Force of Truth," a booh 
which merits to be universally read. Mr 
Scott's subsequent career and usefulness are 
well known. He was " a burning and a shin- 
ing light." His " Commentary on the Bible" 
requires no eulogium, its praise is in all the 
churches. In America alone, we believe that 
not less than forty or fifty thousand copies 
have been sold. It is now circulating in 
France and in Switzerland. Perhaps no 
book has contributed so essentially to dif- 
fuse the great doctrines of the Reformation, 
and to revive the piety and spirit of former 
ages. We do not know a more splendid 
trophy to the name and usefulness of New- 
ton, than to be recorded as the instrument, 
under the Divine blessing, of having raised 
up so distinguished a character as the Rev. 
Thomas Scott. 

The second instance is that of the Rev. 
Claudius Buchanan. Mr. Newton, after a 
residence of nearly sixteen years at Olney, 
was removed to London, having been pre- 
sented, by the recommendation of John 
Thornton, Esq., to the living of St. Mary 
Woolnoth. On a Sunday evening a stranger 
stood in one of the aisles of the church, 
while Newton was preaching. He became im- 
pressed with what he heard, and communicated 
to him the state of his mind : Newton admir- 
ing his talents, and anticipating his future 
usefulness, introduced him to the late Henry 
Thornton, Esq., by whose liberality he was 
sent to college. He was afterwards or- 
dained, and subsequently filled an important 
situation in the east. He at length returned 
to Europe to awaken Britain to the claims 
of India. The effect produced by his ap- 
peals, and by his celebrated sermon, " The 
Star in the East," will long be remembered. 
He was eminently instrumental in rousing 
public attention to the duty of evangelizing 
India. 

The stranger whose history we have thus 
briefly recorded was the Rev. Claudius Bu- 
chanan. 

Such is the history of Newton, abounding 
in the most singular and eventful incidents, 
and exhibiting a man not less distinguished 
by his piety than by his acknowledged talents 
and great usefulness. The moral truths thai 



666 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



it conveys are both numerous and highly in- 
structive. To parents it is fraught with the 
greatest encouragement, by proving that early 
impressions of piety, however they may seem 
to be extinguished by a long course of im- 
penitence, may subsequently revive, though 
probably under the most solemn dispensa- 
tions: "Thou shalt be visited of the Lord 
with thunder, and with earthquake, and great 
noise, with storm and tempest, and the flame 
of devouring fire." Isaiah xxix. 6. The mercy 
that spares in the midst of manifold provoca- 
tions; the long-suffering and goodness of 
God ; the doctrine of a particular Providence ; 
the strivings of his Spirit ; the necessity of 
the conversion of the soul to God ; and the 
ultimate triumphs of his grace ; how forcibly 
have these truths been illustrated in the fore- 
going narrative ! Reader, adore the wonder- 
ful power and grace of God ! See what this 
grace has done for others ! Learn what it is 
capable of effecting for yourself, and what an 
instrument of extended usefulness Providence 
may render you, when your own heart is once 
renewed by his Spirit ! Who shall trace the 
final consequences of a single soul thus 
brought to God ! The last great day alone 
can reveal the issue. If then you have not 
yet entered on this heavenly road, make the 
grand experiment in the strength and power 
of God. " It is high time to awake out of 
sleep." " The night is far spent, the day is 
at hand." Save thyself and others. Flee to 
the cross of Christ for pardon and mercy. 
Read the neglected Bible. Pour out the 
heart in fervent, persevering prayer ; and let 
thy faith be quickened, and thy fears as- 
suaged by the gracious assurance, " All things 



whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing 
ye shall receive." Matt. xxi. 22. 

He died at his residence in Coleman-street 
Buildings, London, Dec. 21, 1807, in his 83rd 
year. 

The following epitaph, composed by him 
self, is inscribed on a plain marble tablet, 
near the vestry door, in the church of St. 
Mary Woolnoth, London. 

JOHN NEWTON, Clerk, 

ONCE AN INFIDEL AND LIBERTINE, 

A SERVANT OF SLAVES IN AFRICA, 

WAS, BY THE RICH MERCY OF OUR LORD AND 

SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST, 

PRESERVED, RESTORED, PARDONED, 

AND APPOINTED TO PREACH THE FAITH HE HAD 

LONG LABORED TO DESTROY, 

NEAR SIXTEEN YEARS AT OLNEY IN BUCKS, 

AND TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS IN THIS CHURCH. 

ON FEB. 1, 1750, HE MARRIED 

MARY, 

DAUGHTER OF THE LATE GEORGE CATLETT, 

OF CHATHAM, KENT. 

HE RESIGNED HER TO THE LORD WHO GAVE HER, 

ON THE 15TH OF DECEMBER, 1790. 



In his study at the vicarage in Olney 
Bucks, are still to be seen the following 
lines, inscribed on the wall : — 

" Since thou wast precious in my sight thou 
hast been honorable." — Isaiah xliii. 4. 

But, 

" Thou shalt remember that thou wast a bond- 
man in the land of Egypt, and the Lord thy God 
redeemed thee." — Deuteronomy xv. 15 



PRELIMINARY REMARKS ON THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



The origin of the Olney Hymns, and the 
proportion contributed by Cowper to that 
collection, have been already stated in the 
first part of this work.* Before, however, 
we enter on the subject of these hymns, it 
will not perhaps be thought uninteresting to 
present the reader with a brief historical ac- 
count of Psalmody, and to detail the circum- 
stances which first gave rise to a metrical ver- 
sion of the Psalms of David. We shall ex- 
tract the information principally from " War- 
en's History of English Poetry." Sir John 
Hawkins may also be consulted on the same 
lubject.f 

* Page 56. T History of Music. 



The praise of having first effected a metri- 
cal version of the Psalms is to be assigned 
to France. About the year 1540, Clement 
Marot, valet of the bedchamber to Francis I., 
was the favorite poet of France. Being tired 
of the vanities of profane poetry, and anxious 
to raise the tone of public taste and feeling, 
he attempted a version of the Psalms into 
French rhyme, aided by Theodore Beza, and 
encouraged by the Professor of Hebrew in 
the University of Paris. This translation, 
not aiming at any innovation in the public 
worship, received the sanction of the Sor- 
bonne, as containing nothing contrary to 
sound doctrine. Solicitous to justify this 



REMARKS ON THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



667 



new application of his poetical powers, Ma- 
rot expatiates in his dedication on the supe- 
rior claims of sa'cred poetry, and observes 
•'that the golden age would now be restored, 
when we should see the peasant at his plough, 
the carman in the streets, and the mechanic 
in his shop, solacing their toils with psalms 
and canticles; and the shepherd and shep- 
herdess, reposing in the shade, and teach- 
ing the jocks to echo the name of the Cre- 
ator."* 

This version soon eclipsed the brilliancy 
of his madigrals and sonnets. In the festive 
and splendid court of Francis I. of a sudden 
nothing was heard but the psalms of Cle- 
ment Marot. By each of the royal family 
and the principal nobility of the court, a 
psalm was chosen, and adapted to a popular 
ballad tune. 

Calvin soon discovered what a powerful 
auxiliary psalm-singing might prove to the 
reformed religion, and immediately intro- 
duced Marot's version into his congregation 
at Geneva. They were adapted to plain and 
easy melodiesf by Guillaume de Franc,, and 
became a characteristic badge of the newly- 
established worship. Germany next caught 
the sacred ardor, and the choral mode of ser- 
vice yielded to the attractive and popular 
character of a devotional melody, in which 
all might join, without distinction of rank 'or 
character. Psalm-singing being thus asso- 
ciated with the Reformed religion, became 
interdicted to the Catholics under the most 
severe penalties. 

This predilection for sacred song soon 
reached England. Previously however to 
this event, Sir Thomas Wyatt and the cel- 
ebrated Lord Surrey had translated portions 
of the Psalms into metre. We subjoin a 
brief specimen from each of these writers, 
as illustrating the style and poetical preten- 
sions of that early period of English litera- 
ture. 

Psalm xxxii. — Beati quorum, fyc. 

Oh ! happy are they that have forgiveness got 
Of their offence, not by their penitence, 
As by merit, which recotnpenseth not ; 
Although that yet pardon hath not offence 
Without the same, but by the goodness 
Of him that hath perfect intelligence, 
Of heart contrite, and covereth the greatness 
Of sin within a merciful discharge. — ■ 

* Le Laboureur a sa charrug, 
Le Charretier parmy le rug, 
Et 1' Artisan en sa boutique, 
Avecques un Pseaume ou Cantique, 
En son labour se soulager. 
Feure-ux qui orra le Berger 
Et la Bergere au bois estans. 
Fair que rochers et estangs 
Apres eux chantent la hauteur 
Du sainct nom de Createur. 

Clement Marot. 
t This mode of adaptation may be seen in the " Godly 
and Spiritual Songs," &c., printed at Edinburgh in 1597, 
nod reprirted there in 1801.— Part. 



And happy is he to whom God doth impute 
No more his faults, by 'knowledging his sin : 
But cleansed now the Lord doth him repute. 
Sir Thomas Wyatt. 

Psalm viii. LORD, WHAT IS MAN 1 

But yet among all these I ask, " What thing is 

manl" 
Whose turn to serve in his poor need this work 

.Thou first began. 
Or what is Adam's son that bears his father's 

mark 1 
For whose delight and comfort eke Thou has 

Wrought all this work. 
I see thou mind'st him much, that dost reward 

him so : 
Being but earth, to rule the earth, whereon him- 
self doth go. 
From angels' substance eke Thou mad'st him 

differ small ; 
Save one doth change his life awhile; the other 

not at all. 
The sun and moon also Thou mad'st to give him 

light; 
And each one of the wandering stars to twinkle 

sparkles bright. 
The air to give him breath; the water for hia 

health ; 
The earth to bring forth grain and fruit, for to 

increase his wealth. 

Earl of Surrey. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt versified the seven 
Penitential Psalms, and died in 1542. The 
Earl of Surrey honored his memory and vir- 
tues by three sonnets. Five years after- 
wards this distinguished and highly-gifted 
nobleman fell a victim to the tyranny of 
Henry VIII., and was beheaded, in the year 
1547. He has left a version of the eighth, 
fifty-fifth, seventy-third, and eighty-eighth 
Psalms.* • • 

The versification of Sternhold and Hop- 
kins, the first that was ever used in the 
Church of England, next demands our at- 
tention. Sternhold was groom of the robes 
to Henry VIII. It is singular that both in 
France and England we are indebted to lay- 
men and court poets for the introduction of 
what subsequently became so characteristic 
a feature in the reformed worship. Stern- 
hold composed fifty-one Psalms, and dedi- 
cated his version to King Edward VI. His 
coadjutor in this undertaking was John 
Hopkins, a clergyman and school-master, in 
Suffolk. His poetry is rather of a higher 
order than that of Sternhold. He translated 
fifty-eight Psalms. To the above may be 
added the names of William Whyttingham, 
Dean of Durham, who added sixteen Psalms. 
The hundredth and hundred and ninteenth 
Psalms were included in this number. The 
rest were contributed by Robert Wisdome, 
Archdeacon of Ely; by William Hethe, a 

* There is also a fragment of a comment on the Seven 
Penitential Psalms, in English verse, attributed to Dr, 
Alcock, Bishop of Ely, the founder of Jesus Collet 
Cambridge. 



tf68 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Scotch divine; John Pullain, and Thomas 
Churchyard, one of the pages of the Earl of 
Surrey. The entire version of the Psalter 
was at length published by John Day, in 
1562, attached for the first time to the Com- 
mon Prayer, and entitled, " The whole Booke 
of Psalmes, collected into English metre, by 
J. Sternhold, J. Hopkins, and others, con- 
ferred with the Ebrue, with apt Notes to sing 
them withall." 

. They are believed to contain some of the 
original melodies composed by French and 
German musicians. Many of them are the 
tunes of Gondinel and Le Jeune, who are 
among the first composers of Marot's French 
psalms. Not a few were probably imported 
by the Protestant refugees from Flanders, 
who fled into England from the persecution 
of the Duke of Alva. Some of our own 
musicians, such as Marbeck, Tallis, Tye, 
Parsons, and Munday, are supposed to have 
contributed their talents towards this under- 
taking. 

We insert a few extracts from the original 
version, which in this refined age will appear 
rather ludicrous, and unsuited to the dignity 
of sacred poetry. 

Psalm lxxxiv. 12. 

Why doost withdrawe thy hand aback, 
And hide it in thy lappe ? 
O plucke it out, and be not slack 
To give thy foes a rappe ! 

Psalm lxviii. 37. 

For why 7 their hearts were nothing bent, 
To him nor to his trade. 

The miraculous march of Jehovah before 
the Israelites, through the wilderness, is thus 
represented by Sternhold. . 

Psalm lxviii. 

When thou didst march before thy folk, 

The Egyptians from among, 
And brought them from the wilderness, 

Which was both wide and long : 

The earth did quake, the raine pourde dovf ne, 
Heard were great claps of thunder ; 

The mount Sinai shooke in such a sorte, 
As it would cleave in sunder. 

Thy heritage with drops of rain 

Abundantly was washt ; 
And if so be it barren was, 

By thee it was refresht. 

God's army is two millions, 

Of warriors good and strong, 
The Lord also in Sinai 

Is present them among. 

Though this version has undergone many 
revisions, yet we fully agree with Warton, 
Jiat its continued use is discreditable to the 



Church of England.* The translation, in its 
genuine and unsophisticated state, may justly 
indeed be considered, as he observes, no in- 
considerable monument of our ancient liter 
ature, if not of our ancient poetry ; and Ful- 
ler, likewise, remarks, " Match these verses 
for their ages, they shall go abreast with the 
best poems of those times." Still the spirit 
of the present age demands a higher stand- 
ard both of poetical taste and devotional 
piety. They are too bald and jejune. The 
public feeling requires a more luminous ex- 
hibition of the great truths of the gospel, 
and a more experimental mode of delineating 
the trials and conflicts of the Christian war- 
fare. No man has accomplished this impor- 
tant task more successfully than Watts. He 
has united the inspiration of poetry with the 
hallowed fire from the altar; and we hesitate 
not to assert, that if Watts had been a church- 
man, his version would have been in univer- 
sal repute among us. It is already incorpo- 
rated with most of the modern selections, 
where there is a return to the doctrines of 
the Reformation; and Sternhold and Hop- 
kins are becoming increasingly unsuited to 
the advancing spirit of religious inquiry. 

It was this conviction that induced New- 
ton, in the year 1771, to engage in the com- 
position of the Olney Hymns. They were 
designed to be the joint contribution of New- 
ton and Cowper, but the morbid depression 
of the poet prevented the fulfilment of his 
share of the engagement. The total number 
contributed by Cowper has been variously 
stated. Hayley estimates it at sixty-eight. 
Other biographers have considerably reduced 
the amount. Some editions assign sixty- 
three ; others insert sixty-five. There is at 
present no uniform standard, nor is there, to 
the best of our judgment, one single edition 
entitled to the credit of correctness.! We 
trust that we have the means of deciding 
this controverted subject. So far as the 
original edition, now lying before us, pub- 
lished, under the superintendence of Newton 
himself, by Johnson, the bookseller, and bear- 
ing the date of 1779, may be considered as 
the most authentic guide and criterion, we 
are enabled to state that the original number, 
distinguished by the initial letter C (Cow- 
per's signature), is sixty-seven. If to the 
above we add a hymn not inserted in New- 
ton's original edition, because subsequently 
composed, but which we have been enabled 
to authenticate as the production of Cowper 
the total number, entitled to be ascribed tf 



* Warton's censure is expressed in very strong lan- 
guage. " To the disgrace of sacred music, sacred poetry, 
and our established worship, these Psalms still continue 
to be sung in the Church of England." See History of 
English Poetry, vol. ii. p. 461. 

t One edition imputes two hymns of Newton's to Cow 
per, by mistaking the numerical letter C for the initia 
of Cowper's name. 



REMARKS ON THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



669 



lis pen, is sixty-eight. The hymn that we 
allude to begins, 

" To Jesus, the crown of my hope." 

It has already appeared before the public in 
some modern selections. 

Of these hymns two were written at the 
period of Cowper's recovery at St. Albans, 
when his mind had received those gracious 
impressions which so powerfully influenced 
his future principles and writings. The first 
which Cowper ever composed was in allusion 
to this event. It is entitled " The Happy 
Change," and begins with the words, 

" How bless'd thy creature is, O God." 

The second was written when he contempla- 
ted retiring from the busy world. It is the 
beautiful and admired hymn, 

" Far from the world, O Lord, I flee." 

It may be interesting to the reader to learn, 
from concurring sources of information, that 
the celebrated hymn commencing with 

" God moves in a mysterious way," 

was the last in the collection that he com- 
posed, and that it was written on the eve of 
that aiflicting malady, which, occurring in 
Jan., 1773, suspended his powers for nearly 
seven successive years, though his corre- 
spondence was partially resumed with Mr. 
Hill and Mr. Unwin, from the year 1776. It 
was during a solitary walk in the fields that 
ne had a presentiment of his approaching at- 
tack, and it is to this remarkable impression 
that we owe the origin of the above admired 
composition. 

This hymn acquires a peculiar interest 
from the above incident as well as from the 
unshaken faith and submission which it incul- 
cates under the darkest dispensations. It 
seems as if God were giving him a chart of 
the voyage through those seas of trouble 
which he was about to navigate. No man 
could have written this hymn unless under 
the influence of a real or supposed special 
dispensation ; and one end perhaps designed 
by it was, that Cowper should not only con- 
vey instruction to his own mind, but be made 
the instrument of consoling others. Few 
hymns have been more admired or more fre- 
quently quoted. It stands pre-eminent in that 
class which refer to the mysterious dealings 
of God, and is singularly qualified to invig- 
orate the faith, to check the speculations of 
finite reason, and to lead the sufferer to re- 
pose on the unerring wisdom and goodness 
of God. 

We must be carefu'., at the same time, how 
we reason on these subjects. That impres- 
sions of approaching trials may be sent from 
God, and subsequently be realised, we are by 



no means prepared to deny ; but that they are 
often the occasion of fulfilling themselves, by 
acting strongly on a nervous temperament, 
we still more firmly believe. Again, that 
they frequently exist, and are not confirmed 
by the result, is well known. On the whole, 
we think reason as well as Scripture militates 
strongly against the doctrine of impressions. 
There is often an order and progression in 
them which, if minutely traced, prove their 
fallacy. Anxiety first suggests fear. A too 
great sensitiveness of feeling, an excursive 
imagination, and the want of a more vigorous 
exercise of faith next invest what was only 
imaginary, with reality. It thus acquires a 
form and existence, next expands into mag- 
nitude, and then rises into the power and as- 
cendancy of an absorbing idea; till, by a final 
deception, the impression is attributed to a 
divine hand. But who does not see that it is 
more justly to be ascribed to morbid sensi- 
bility, to nervous excitement, and, most of all, 
to the want of a firmer confidence in the 
power and goodness of God ? The language 
of Scripture is decidedly opposed to the the- 
ory of impressions. The Bible directs us 
never to indulge in anticipations of evil, and 
to " take no thought for the morrow." An 
habitual trust in a superintending Providence 
will ever prove to be the best preservative 
against imaginary or real evil, and will fill 
the mind with the sweet calm of a holy and 
abiding peace. 

In returning to the subject of the Olney 
Hymns, we may remark that those contrib- 
uted by Cowper are, with some few excep 
tions, distinguished by excellences of no com- 
mon kind. To the grace and beauty of po- 
etical composition, they unite the sublimity 
of religious sentiment, and the tenderness 
and fervor of devotional feeling. The nearer 
approaches to the Deity, which constitute the 
communion of the soul with God, and in which 
the believer is able to contemplate him as a 
reconciled Father in Christ Jesus ; the suffi- 
ciency of divine grace to pardon all our sins, 
and to renew and sanctify the soul ; the as- 
pirations of prayer for the attainment of these 
blessings, and the song of praise in the con- 
sciousness of their enjoyment; the faith that 
reposes every care on his promises, and re- 
alises their covenanted truth ; such are the 
subjects on which Cowper delights to dwell 
with a fervor which gives new wings to our 
devotion, and raises us above the enfeebling 
vanity of earthly things. 

To specify all the hymns which lay claim 
to our admiration, would far exceed the limits 
of our plan, and interfere with the judgment 
and discrimination of the reader. We cannot, 
however, avoid referring to the following: — . 
"O for a closer walk with God;" "Ere God 
had built the mountains;" "The Lord will 
happiness divine ;" " There is a fountain fill'd 



670 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



with blood ;" " Hark, my soul, it is the Lord;" 
" God of my life, to thee I call ;" and espe- 
cially, "The billows swell, the winds are 
high." There is a character of experimental 
piety pervading the hymns of Cowper, which 
singularly adapts tiiem to meet the feelings 
of the contemplative or tried Christian. The 
deeper and more secret emotions of the soul ; 
the vicissitudes of joy and sorrow: the fears 
that depress, and the hopes that soothe and 
tranquillize the mind, are treated with a fidel- 
ity and pathos, that render Cowper emphati- 
cally the poet of the heart. His hymns pos- 
sess one peculiar feature which powerfully 
engages our sympathies. They disclose the 
inward recesses, and deep exercises of his 
own mind. But the sorrows of Cowper are 
now ended. Every trace is obliterated, ex- 
cept the record of them which is stamped on 



his interesting page. He has entered withii 

the vail, where the mysterious dispensations 
of Providence, which once cast their deep 
shade on his chequered path, are vindicated 
and explained. He has joined "the general 
assembly and church of the first-born, wb'*ch 
are written in heaven, and an innumerable 
company of angels, and God, the judge of all, 
and the spirits of just men made perfect, and 
Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant." 
There, freed from the sorrows and finite con- 
ceptions of erring reason, he unites with the 
redeemed of the Lord in that nobler song of 
praise, "Unto Him that loved us, and washed 
us from our sins in his own blood, and hath 
made us kings and priests unto God and his 
Father; to him be glory and dominion forevef 
and ever. Amen. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



i WALKING WITH GOD— Gen. v. 24. 

Oh ! for a closer walk with God, 
A calm and heavenly frame ; 

A light to shine upon the road 
That leads me to the Lamb ! 

Where is the blessedness I knew 

When first I saw the Lord ! 
Where is the soul-refreshing view 

Of Jesus and his word ? 

What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd ! 

How sweet their memory still ! 
But they have left an aching void, 

The world can never fill. 

Return, O holy Dove, return ! 

Sweet messenger of rest: 
I hate the sins that made thee mourn, 

And drove thee from my breast. 

The dearest idol I have known, 

Whate'er that idol be. 
Help me to tear it from thy throne, 

And worship only thee. 

So shall my walk be close with God, 

Calm and serene my frame : 
So purer light shall mark the road 

That leads me to the Lamb. 



U. JEHOVAH- JIREH. THE LORD WILL 
PROVIDE— Gen. xxii. 14. 

The saints should never be dismay'd, 
Nor s : nk in hopeless fear : 



For when they least expect his aid, 
The Saviour will appear. 

This Abraham found : he raised the knife 
God saw. and said, " Forbear ! 

Yon ram shall yield his meaner life . 
Behold the victim there." 

Once David seem'd Saul's certain prey; 

But hark ! the foe's at hand ;* 
Saul turns his arms another way. 

To save the invaded land. 

When Jonah sunk beneath the wave, 
He thought to rise no more ;f 

But God prepared a fish to save, 
And bear him to the shore. 

Blest proofs of power and grace divine 

That meet us in his word ! 
May every deep-felt care of mine 

Be trusted with the Lord. 

Wait for his seasonable aid, 

And though it tarry, wait : 
The promise may be long delay'd, 

But cannot come too latei 



III. JEHOVAH-ROPHI. I AM THE LORE 
THAT HEALETH THEE.— Exod. xv. 26. 

Heal us, Emmanuel here we are, 

Waiting to feel thy touch : 
Deep- wounded souls to thee repair, 

And, Saviour, we are such. 



* 1 Sam. xxiii. 27. 



t Jonah i. 17. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



671 



Our faith is feeble, we confess, 

We faintly trust thy word ; 
But wilt thou pity us the less 1 

Be that far from thee, Lord ! 

Remember him who once applied, 

With trembling for relief; 
"Lord. I believe." with tears he cried,* 

" Oh, help my .unbelief!" 

She too, who touch'd thee in the press, 

And healing virtue stole, 
Was answer'd, " Daughter, go in peace, - ! 

Thy faith hath made thee whole." 

Conceal'd amid the gathering throng, 
She would have shunn'd thy view ; 

And if her faith was firm and strong. 
Had strong misgivings too. 

Like her, with hopes and fears we come, 

To touch thee, if we may, 
Oh ! send us not despairing home, 

Send none unheal'd away. 



IV. JEHOVAH-NISSI. THE LORD MY 
BANNER.— Exod. xvii. 15. 

By whom was David taught 

To aim the deadly blow, 
When he Goliath fought, 
And laid the Gittite low 1 
Nor sword nor spear the stripling took, 
But chose a pebble from the brook. 

'Twas Israel's God and king 
Who sent him to the fight ; 
Who gave him strength to sling, 
And skill to aim aright. 
Ye feeble saints, your strength endures, 
Because young David's God is yours. 

Who order'd Gideon forth,' 

To storm the invaders' camp, 
With arms of little worth, 
A pitcher and a lamp 1 :f 
The trumpets made his coming known, 
And all the host was overthrown. 

Oh ! I have seen the day, 

When, with a single word, 
God helping me to say, 
My trust is in the Lord, 
My soul hath quell'd a thousand foes, 
Fearless of all that could oppose. 

But unbelief, self-will, 

Self-righteousness, and pride, 
How often do they steal 
My weapon from my side ! 
Yet David's Lord, and Gideon's friend, 
Will help his servant to the end. 



V. JEHOVAH-SHALOM. THE LORD 
SEND PEACE— Judges vi. 24. 

Jesus, whese blood so freely stream'd, 

To satisfy the law's demand ; 
By thee from guilt and wrath redeem'd, 

Before the Father's face I stand. 

* Mark ix. 24. t Mark v. 34. 

t Judges vii. 9 and 20. 



To reconcile offending man, 

Make Justice drop her angry rod ; 

What creature could have form'd the plan, 
Or who fulfil it but a God 1 

No drop remains of all the curse, 

For wretches who deserved the whole; 

No arrows dipt in wrath to pierce 
The guilty but returning soul. 

Peace by such means so dearly bought, 
What rebel could have hoped to see 1 

Peace, by his injured Sovereign wroughr 
His Sovereign fasten'd to a tree. 

Now, Lord, thy feeble worm prepare ! 

For strife with earth and hell begins ; 
Confirm and gird me for the war, 

They hate the soul that hates his sins. 

Let them in horrid league agree ! 

They may assault, they may distress; 
But cannot quench thy love to me, 

Nor rob me of the Lord, my peace. 



VI. WISDOM.— Prov. viii. 22—31. 

Erk God had built the mountains, 

Or raised the fruitful hills ; 
Before he fill'd the fountains 

That feed the running rills; 
In me, from everlasting, 

The wonderful I AM, 
Found pleasures never-wasting, 

And Wisdom is my name. 

When, like a tent to dwell in, 

He spread the skies abroad, 
And swathed about the swelling 

Of Ocean's mighty flood ; 
He wrought by weight and measure, 

And I was with him then : 
Myself the father's pleasure, 

And mine the sons of men. 

Thus Wisdom's words discover 

Thy glory and thy grace, 
Thou everlasting lover 

Of our unworthy race ! 
Thy gracious eye suivey'd us 

Ere stars were seen above ; 
In wisdom thou hast made us, 

And died for us in love. 

And couldst thou be delighted 

With creatures such as we, 
Who, when we saw thee, slighted 

And nail'd thee to a tree % 
Unfathomable wonder, 

And mystery divine ! 
The voice that speaks in thunder, 

Says, " Sinner, I am thine !" 



VII. VANITY OF THE WORLD 

God gives his mercies to be spent ; 

Your hoard will do your soul no good ; 
Gold is a blessing only lent. 

Repaid by giving others food. 

The world's esteem is but a bribe, 

To buy their peace you sell your own ; 



672 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The slave of a vain-glorious tribe, 
Who hate you while they make you known. 

The joy that vain amusements, give, 
Oh ! sad conclusion that it brings ! 

The honey of a crowded hive, 
Defended by a thousand stings. 

: Tis thus the world rewards the fools 
That live upon her treacherous smiles : 

She leads them blindfold by her rules, 
And ruins all whom she beguiles. 

God knows the thousands who go down 
From pleasure into endless woe ; 

And with a long despairing groan 
Blaspheme their Maker as they go. 

fearful thought ! be timely wise : 
Delight but in a Saviour's charms, 

And God shall take you to the skies, 
Embraced in everlasting arms. 



VIII. O LORD, 



I WILL PRAISE THEE. 

Isaiah xii. 1. 



I will praise thee every day 
Now thine anger's turned away ! 
Comfortable thoughts arise 
From the bleeding Sacrifice. 

Here in the fair gospel-field, 
Wells of free salvation yield 
Streams of life, a plenteous store, 
•And my soul shall thirst no more. 

Jesus is become at length 
My salvation and my strength ; 
And his praises shall prolong, 
While I live, my pleasant song. 

Praise ye then his glorious name, 
Publish his exalted fame ! 
Still his worth your praise exceeds, 
Excellent are all his deeds. 

Raise again the joyful sound, 
Let the nations roll it round ! 
Zion, shout, for this is he, 
God the Saviour dwells in thee ! 



X. THE CONTRITE HEART.- Jsaia/i lvii. 15. 

The Lord will happiness divine 

On contrite hearts bestow ; 
Then tell me, gracious God, is mine 

A contrite heart or no 1 

I hear, but seem to hear in vain, 

Insensible as steel ; 
If aught is felt, 'tis only pain 

To find I cannot feel. 

I sometimes think myself inclined 
. To loVe thee, if I could : 
But often feel another mind, 
Averse to all that's good. 

My best desire -. are faint and few, 

I fain would strive for more ; 
But when I cry, " My strength renew," 

Seem weaker than before. 



Thy saints are comforted, I know, 
And love thy house of prayer; 

I therefore go where others go, 
But find no comfort there. 

O make this heart rejoice or ache ; 

Decide this doubt for me ; 
And if it be not broken, break, 

And heal it if it be. 



X. THE FUTURE PEACE AND GLORY 
OF THE CHURCH.— Isaiah ix. 15—20. 

Hear what God the Lord hath spoken, 
" O my people, faint and few, 
Comfortless, afflicted, broken, 
Fair abodes I build for you ; 
Thorns of heart-felt tribulation 
Shall no more perplex your ways : 
You shall name your walls, Salvation, 
And your gates shall all be praise. 

" There, like streams that feed the garden, 
Pleasures without end shall flow ; 
For the Lord, your faith rewarding, 
All his bounty shall bestow; 
Still in Undisturb'd possession 
Peace and righteousness shall reign ; 
Never shall you feel oppression, 
Hear the voice of war again. 

" Ye no more your suns descending, 
Waning moons no more shall see ; 
But, your griefs forever ending, 
Find eternal noon in me ; 
God shall rise, and shining o'er you, 
Change to day the gloom of night; 
He. the Lord, shall be your glory, 
God your everlasting light." 



XI. JEHOVAH OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS.- 

Jer. xxiii. 6. 

My God, how perfect are thy ways ! 

But mine polluted are; 
Sin twin s itself about my praise, 

And slides into my prayer. 

When I would speak what thou hast don? 

To save me from my sin, 
I cannot make thy mercies known, 

But self-applause creeps in. 

Divine desire, that holy flame 

Thy grace creates in me ; 
Alas ! impatience is its name, 

When it returns to thee. 

This heart, a fountain of vile thoughts, 

How does it overflow ! 
While self upon the surface floats, 

Still bubbling from below. 

Let others in the gaudy dress 

Of fancied merit shine ; 
The Lord shall be my righteousness, 

The Lord forever mine. 



XII. EPHRAIM REPENTING.— 
Jtr. xxxi. 18—20. 

My God, till I received thy stroke, 

How like a beast was I ! 
So unaccustom'd to the yoke, 

So backward to comply. 

With grief my just reproach I bear, 
Shame lills me at the thought ; 

How frequent my rebellions were ! 
What wickedness I wrought ! 

Thy merciful restraint I scorn'd, 

And left the pleasant road ; 
Yet turn me. and I shall be turn'd . 

Thou art the Lord my God. 

" Is Ephraim banish'd from my thoughts, 

Or vile in my esteem 1 
No," saith the Lord, " with all his faults, 

I still remember him. 

" Is he a dear and pleasant child 1 

Yes, dear and pleasant still ; 
Though sin his foolish heart begiuled, 

And he withstood my will. 

" My sharp rebuke has laid him low, 

He seeks my face again ; 
My pity kindles at his woe, 

He shall not seek in vain." 



Kill. THE COVENANT.— Eztk. xxxvi. 25-26 

The Lord proclaims his grace abroad ! 
Behold I change your hearts of stone ; 
Each shall renounce his idol-god. 
And serve, henceforth, the Lord alone. 

My grace, a flowing stream, proceeds 
To wash you filthiness away ; 
Ye shall abhor your former deeds, 
And learn my statutes to obey. 

My truth the great design ensures, 
I give myself away to you ; 
You shall be mine. I will be yours, 
Your God unalterably true. 

Yet not unsought, or unimplored, 
The plenteous grace shall I confer;* 

No — your whole heart shall seek the Lord, 
I'll put a praying Spirit there. 

Prom the first breath of life divine, 
Down to the last expiring hour, 

The gracious work shall all be mine, 
Begun and ended in my power. 



XIV. JEHOVAH-SHAMMAH. 
Eztk. xlviii. 35. 

As oirds their infant brood protect,"}" 
And spread their wings to shelter them, 
Thus saith the Lord to his elect, 
" So will I guard Jerusalem." 

And what then is Jerusalem, 
This darling object of his care 1 
Where is its worth in God's esteem 1 
Who built it, who inhabits there 1 



* Verse 37. 



t Isaiah xxxi. 5 



Jehovah founded it in blood, 
The blood of his incarnate Son ; 
There dwell the saints, once foes to God, 
The sinners whom he calls his own. 

There, though besieged on every side, 
Yet much beloved and guarded well, 
From age to age they have defied 
The utmost force of earth and hell. 

. Let earth repent, and hell despair, 
This city has a sure defence ; 
Her name is call'd The Lord is there, 
And who has power to drive him thence ? 



XV. PRAISE FOR THE FOUNTAIN 
OPENED.— Zee. xiii. 1. 

There is a fountain fill'd with blood 
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins; 

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood. 
Lose all their guilty stains. 

The dying thief rejoiced to see 

That fountain in his day ; 
And there have I, as vile as he, 

Wash'd all my sins away. 

Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood 

Shall never lose its power, 
Till all the ransom'd church of God 

Be saved to sin no more. 

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream 

Thy flowing wounds supply, 
Redeeming love has been my theme, 

And shall be till I die. 

Then in a nobler, sweeter song, 

I'll sing thy power to save ; 
When this poor lisping stammering tongue 

Lies silent in the grave. 

Lord, I believe thou hast prepared 

(Unworthy though I be) 
For me a blood-bought free reward, 

A golden harp for me ! 

'Tis strung, and tuned, for endless years, 

And form'd by power divine, 
To sound in God the Father's ears 

No other name but thine. 



XVI. THE SOWER.— Matt. xiii. 3. 

Ye sons of earth, prepare the plough, 
Break up the fallow ground ; 

The sower is gone forth to sow, 
And scatter blessings round, 

The seed that finds a stony soil, 

Shoots forth a hasty blade ; 
But ill repays the sower's toll, 

Soon wither'd, scorch'd, and dead. 

The thorny ground is sure to balk 

All hopes of harvest there ; 
We find a tall and sickly stalk, 

But not the fruitful ear. 

The beaten path and highway side* 
Receive the trust in vain ; 

43 



674 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The watchful birds the spoil divide, 
And pick up all the grain. 

But where the Lord of grace and power 

Has bless'd the happy field, 
How plenteous is the golden store 

The deep-wrought furrows yield ! 

Father of mercies, we have need 

Of thy preparing grace ; 
Let the same hand that gives the seed 

Provide a fruitful place. 



XVII. THE HOUSE OF PRAYER.-- 
Mark xi. 17. 

Thy mansion is the Christian's heart, 

Lord, thy dwelling-place secure ! 
Bid the unruly throng depart, 

And leave the consecrated door. 

Devoted as it is to thee, 

A thievish swarm frequents the place ; 
Tney steal away my joys from me, 

And rob my Saviour of his praise. 

There, too, a sharp designing trade 
Sin, Satan, and the world maintain; 

Nor cease to press me and persuade 
To part with ease, and purchase pain. 

I know them, and I hate their din, 

Am weary of the bustling crowd ; 
But while their voice is heard within, 

1 cannot serve thee as I would. 

Oh ! for the joy thy presence gives, 

What peace shall reign when thou art here ! 

Thy presence makes this den of thieves 
A calm delightful house of prayer. 

And if thou make thy temple shine, 

Yet, self-abased, will I adore; 
The gold and silver are not mine, 

I give thee what was thine before. 



K VIII. LOVEST THOU ME 1—John xxl 16. 

Hark, my soul ! it is the Lord : 
'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word ; 
Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee : 
" Say. poor sinner, lovest thou me 1 

" I deliver'd thee when bound, 
And when bleeding, heal'd thy wound ; 
Sought thee wandering, set thee right, 
Turn'd thy darkness into light. 

" Can a woman's tender care 
Cease towards the child she bare 1 
Yes, she may forgetful be, 
Yet will I remember thee. 

" Mine is an unchanging love, 
Higher than the heights above; 
Deeper than the depths beneath, 
Free and faithful, strong as death. 

" Thou shalt see my glory soon, 
When the work of grace is d^ne; 
Partner of my throne shalt be : — 
Say, poor sinner, lovest th m me V 



Lord, it is my chief complaint, 
That my love is weak and faint : 
Yet I love thee and adore : 
Oh for grace to love thee more ! 



XIX. CONTENTMENT.— Phil. iv. II. 

Fierce passions discompose the mind, 

As tempests vex the sea ; 
But calm content and peace we find, 

When, Lord, we turn to thee. 

In vain by reason and by rule 

We try to bend the will ; 
For none but in the Saviour's school 

Can learn the heavenly skill. 

Since at his feet my soul has sat, 

His gracious words to hear, 
Contented with my present state, 

I cast on him my care. 

" Art thou a sinner, soul 1" he said, 
" Then how canst thou complain 1 

How light thy troubles here, if weigh'd 
With everlasting pain ! 

" If thou of murmuring wouldst be cured, 
Compare thy griefs with mine ; 

Think what my love for thee endured, 
And thou wilt not repine. 

" 'Tis I appoint thy daily lot, 

And I do all things well ; 
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot, 

And rise with me to dwell. 

" In life my grace shall strength supply, 

Proportion 'd to thy day ; 
At death thou still shalt find me nigh, 

To wipe thy tears away." 

Thus I, who once my wretched days 

In vain repinings spent, 
Taught in my Saviour's school of grace, 

Have learnt to be content. 



XX. OLD TESTAMENT GOSPEL. 

Heb. iv. % 

Israel, in ancient days, 

Not only had a view 
Of Sinai in a blaze, 

But learn'd the Gospel too ; 
The types and figures were a glass 
In which they saw a Saviour's face. 

The paschal sacrifice, 

And blood-besprinkled door * 
Seen with enlighten'd eyes, 
And once applied with power, 
Would teach the need of other blood, 
To reconcile an angry God. 

The Lamb, the Dove, set forth 

His perfect innocence, f 
Whose blood of matchless worth 
Should be the soul's defence ; 
For he who can for sin atone, 
Must have no failings of his own. 

* Exod. xii. 13. t Lev. xll. 0. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



675 



The scape-goat on his head* 

The people's trespass bore, 

And, to the desert led, 

Was to be seen no more : 

In him our Surety seem'd to say, 

'• Behold I bear your sins away." 

Dipt in his fellow's blood, 

The living bird went free ;f 
The type well understood. 
Express'd the sinner's plea; 
Described a guilty soul enlarged, 
And by a Saviour's death discharged. 

Jesus, I love to trace. 

Throughout the sacred page, 
The footsteps of thy grace, 
The same in every age! 
O grant that I may faithful be 
To clearer light vouchsafed to me ! 



XXI. SARDIS.— Rev. iii. 1—6. 

" Write to Sardis," saith the Lord, 

And write what he declares, 
He whose Spirit, and whose word, 

Upholds the seven stars : 
" All thy works and ways I search, 

Find thy zeal and love decay'd ; 
Thou art call'd a living church, 

But thou art cold and dead. 

" Watch, remember, seek, and strive, 

Exert thy former pains ; 
Let thy timely care revive, 

And strengthen what remains: 
Cleanse thine heart, thy works amend, 

Former times to mind recall, 
Lest my sudden stroke descend, 

And smite thee once for all. 

" Yet I number now in thee 

A few that are upright ; 
These my father's face shall see 

And walk with me in white. 
When in judgment I appear. 

They for mine will be contest; 
Let my faithful servants hear, 

And woe be to the rest." 



XXII. 



PRAYER FOR A BLESSING ON 
THE YOUNG. 



Bestow, dear Lord, upon our youth 

The gift of saving grace ; 
And let the seed of sacred truth 

Fall in a fruitful place. 

Grace is a plant, where'er it grows, 

Of pure and heavenly root; 
But fairest in the youngest shows, 

And yields the sweetest fruit. 

Ye careless ones, O hear betimes 
The voice of sovereign love ! 

Your youth is stain : d with many crimes, 
But mercy reigns above. 

True, you are young, but there's a stone 
Wit lin the youngest breast ; 



* Lev. xvi. 21. 



t Lev. xiv. 51—53. 



you the public prayer is made, 
h ! join the public prayer ! 



Or half the crimes which you have done 
Would rob you of your rest. 

For 

Oh „ 
For you the secret tear is shed, 

O shed yourself a tear! 

We pray that you may early prove 

The Spirit's power to teach ; 
You cannot be too young to love 

That Jesus whom we preach. 



XXIII. PLEADING FOR AND WITH 
YOUTH. 

Sin has undone our wretched race, 

But Jesus has restored, 
And brought the sinner face to face 

With his forgiving Lord. 

This we repeat, from year to year, 

And press upon our youth ; 
Lord, give them an attentive ear, 

Lord, save them by thy truth. 

Blessings upon the rising race ! 

Make "this a happy hour. 
According to thy richest grace, 

And thine almighty power. 

We feel for your unhappy state, 

(May you regard it too,) 
And would awhile ourselves forget 

To pour out prayer for you. 

We see, though you perceive it not, 
The approaching awful doom ; 

O tremble at the solemn thought, 
And flee the wrath to come ! 

Dear Saviour, let this new-born year 

Spread an alarm abroad ; 
And cry in every careless ear, 

" Prepare to meet thy God I" 



XXIV. PRAYER FOR CHILDREN 

Gracious Lord, our children see, 
By thy mercy we are free ; 
But shall these, alas ! remain 
Subjects still of Satan's reign 1 
Israel's young ones when of old 
Pharaoh threaten'd to withold,* 
Then thy messenger said. "No; 
Let the children also go." 

When the angel of the Lord. 
Drawing forth his dreadful sword, 
Slew, with an avenging hand, 
All the first-born of the land ;f 
Then the people's doors he pass'd, 
Where the bloody sign was placed ; 
Hear us, now. upon our knees, 
Plead the blood of Christ for these ' 

Lord, we tremble, for we know 
How the fierce malicious foe. 
Wheeling round his watchful flight 
Keeps them ever in his sight : 

* Exod. x. 9. t Exod. xii. 12 



*76 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Spread thy pinions, King of kings! 
Hide them safe beneath thy wings ; 
Lest the ravenous bird of prey 
Stoop, and bear the brood away. 



XXV. JEHOVAH JESUS. 

My song shall bless the Lord of all, 
My praise shall climb to his abode ; 

Thee, Saviour, by that name I call, 
The great Supreme, the mighty God. 

Without beginning or decline, 
Object of faith, and not of sense ; 

Eternal ages saw him shine. 
He shines eternal ages hence. 

As much v when in the manger laid, 

Almighty ruler of the sky, 
As when the six days' works he made 

Fill'd all the morning stars with joy. 

Of all the crowns Jehovah bears, 

Salvation is his dearest claim ; 
That gracious sound well pleased he hears, 

And owns Emmanuel for his name. 

A cheerful confidence I feel, 

My well placed hopes with joy I see ; 
My bosom glows with heavenly zeal, 

To worship him who died for me. 

As man, he pities my complaint, 
His power and truth are all divine ; 

He will not fail, he cannot faint, 
Salvation's sure,' and must be mine. 



XXVI. ON OPENING a PLACE FOR 
SOCIAL PRAYER. 

Jesus ! where'er thy people meet, 
There they behold thy mercy-seat ; 
Where'er they seek thee, thou art found, 
And every place is hallow'd ground. 

For thou, within no walls confined, 
Inhabitest the humble mind ; 
Such ever bring thee when they come, 
And going, take thee to their home. 

Dear Shepherd of thy chosen few ! 
Thy former mercies here renew ; 
Here to our waiting hearts proclaim 
The sweetness of thy saving name. 

Here may we prove the power of prayer, 
To strengthen faith, and sweeten care ; 
To teach our faint desires to rise, 
And bring all heaven before our eyes. 

Behold, at thy commanding word 
We stretch the curtain and the cord ;* 
Come thou and fill this wider space, 
And bless us with a large increase. 

Lord, we are few, but thou art near ; 
Nor short thine arm, nor deaf thine ear ; 
Oh rend the heavens, come quickly down, 
And make a thousand hearts thine own ! 

liv.2. 



XXVII. WELCOME TO THE TABLE. 

This is the feast of heavenly wine 

And God invites to sup ; 
The juices of the living vine 

Were press'd to fill the cup. 

Oh ! bless the Saviour, ye that eat, 

With royal dainties fed ; 
Not heaven affords a costlier treat, 

For Jesus is the bread. 

The vile, the lost, he calls to them, 

Ye trembling souls appear ! 
The righteous in their own esteem 

Have no acceptance here. 

Approach, ye poor, nor dare refuse 
The banquet spread for you ; 

Dear Saviour, this is welcome news, 
Then I may venture too. 

If guilt and sin afford a plea, 

And may obtain a place, 
Surely the Lord will welcome rae, 

And I shall see his face. 



XXVIII. JESUS HASTING TO SUFFER 

The Saviour, what a noble flame 

Was kindled in his breast, 
When hasting to Jerusalem, 

He march'd before the rest ! 

Good-will to men and zeal for God 

His every thought engross ; 
He longs to be baptized with blood,* 

He pants to reach the cross ! 

With all his sufferings full in view, 

And woes to us unknown, 
Forth to the task his spirit flew ; 

'Twas love that urged him on. 

Lord, we return thee what we can : 
Our hearts shall sound abroad 

Salvation to the dying Man, 
And to the rising God ! 

And while thy bleeding glories here 
Engage our wondering eyes, 

We learn our lighter cross to bear, 
And hasten to the skies. 



XXIX. EXHORTATION TO PRAYER. 

What various hindrances we meet 

In coming to a mercy-seat ! 

Yet who that knows the worth of prayer, 

But wishes to be often there 1 

Prayer makes the darken'd cloud withdraw 
Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw, 
Gives exercise to faith and love, 
Brings every blessing from above. 

Restraining prayer, we cease to fight, 
Prayer makes the Christian's armor bright ; 
And Satan trembles when he sees 
The weakest saint upon his knee*. 

.* Luke xii. 50. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



©r 



While Moses stood with arms spread wide, 
Success was found on Isreal's side ; 
But when through weariness they fail'd, 
That moment Amalek prevail'd.* 

Have you no words 1 Ah ! think again, 
Words flow apace when you complain, 
And fill your fellow creature's ear 
With the sad tale of all your care. 

Were half the breath thus vainly spent 
To Heaven in supplication sent, 
Your cheerful song would oftener be, 
11 Hear what the Lord has done for me." 



KXX. THE LIGHT AND GLORY OF THE 
WORD. 

The Spirit breathes upon the Word, 
And brings the truth to sight ; 

Precepts and promises afford 
A sanctifying light. 

A glory gilds the sacred page, 

Majestic like the sun ; 
It gives a light to every age, 

It gives, but borrows none. 

The hand that gave it still supplies 

The gracious light and heat : 
His truths upon the nations rise, 

They rise, but never set. 

Let everlasting thanks be thine, 

For such a bright display, 
As makes a world of darkness shine 

With beams of heavenly day. 

My soul rejoices to pursue 

The steps of him I love, 
Till glory breaks upon my view 

In brighter worlds above. 



XXXI. ON THE DEATH OF A MINISTER. 

His master taken from his head, 

Elisha saw him go ; 
And in desponding accents said, 

" Ah, what must Israel do 1" 

But he forgot the Lord who lifts 

The beggar to the throne ; 
Nor knew, that all Elijah's gifts 

Will soon be made his own. 

What ! when a Paul has run his course. 

Or when Apollos dies, 
Is Israel left without resource 1 

And have we no supplies 7 

Yes, while the dear Redeemer lives 

We have a boundless store. 
And shall be fed with what he gives, 

Who lives for evermore. 



XXXII. THE SHINING LIGHT. 

My former hopes are fled. 
My terror now begins ; 

* Exodus xvii. 11. 



I feel, alas ! that I am dead 
In trespasses and sins. 

Ah, whither shall I fly ! 

I hear the thunder roar; 
The law proclaims destruction nigh, 

And vengeance at the door. 

When I review my ways, 
I dread impending doom : 

But sure a friendly whisper says, 
" Flee from the wrath to come." 

I see, or think I see, 
A glimmering from afar ; 

A beam of day, that shines for me 
To save me from despair. 

Forerunner of the sun,* 
It marks the pilgrim's way ; 

I'll gaze upon it while I run, 
And watch the rising day. 



XXXIIT. SEEKING THE BELOVED, 

To those who know the Lord I speak, 

Is my beloved near 1 
The bridegroom of my soul I seek, 

Oh ! when will he appear 1 

Though once a man of grief and shame, 

Yet now he fills a throne, 
And bears the greatest, sweetest name, 

That earth or heaven has known. 

Grace flies before, and love attends 

His steps where'er he goes ; 
Though none can see him but his friend*, 

And they were once his foes. . 

He speaks — ol edient to his call 

Our warm affections move : 
Did he but shine alike on all, 

Then all alike would love. 

Then love in every heart would reign, 

And war would cease to roar ; 
And cruel and bloodthirsty men 

Would thirst for blood no more. 

Such Jesus is. and such his grace, 

Oh, may he shine on you ! 
And tell him. when you see his face, 

I long to see him too.f 



XXXIV. THE WAITING SOUL. 

Breathe from the gentle south, O Lord, 
And cheer me from the north ; 

Blow on the treasures of thy word, 
And call the spices forth ! 

I wish, thou know'st, to be resign'd, 
And wait with patient hope ; 

But hope delay'd fatigues the mind, 
And drinks the spirit up. 

Help me to reach the distant goal, 

Confirm my feeble knee ; 
Pity the sickness of a soul 

That faints for love of thee. 



* Psalm cxxx. 6. 



t Cant. t. 8 



S78 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Cold as I feel this heart of mine, 

Yet since I feel it so ; 
It yields some hope of life divine 

Within, however low. 

I seem forsaken and alone, 

I hear the lion roar ; 
And every door is shut hut one, 

And that is mercy's door. 

There, till the dear Deliv'rer come, 
I'll wait with humble pray'r ; 

And when he calls his exile home, 
The Lord shall find me there. 



XXXV. WELCOME CROSS. 

'Tis my happiness below 

Not to live without the cross, 
But the Saviour's power to know, 

Sanctifying every loss ; 
Trials must and will befall ; 

But with humble faith to see 
Love inscribed upon them all 

This is happiness to me. 

God in Israel sows the seeds 

Of affliction, pain, and toil ; 
These spring up and choke the weeds 

Which would else o'erspread the soil ; 
Trials make the promise sweet, 

Trials give new life to prayer ; 
Trials bring me to his feet, 

Lay me low, and keep me there. 

Did I meet no trials here, 

No chastisement by the way: 
Might I not, with reason, fear 

I should prove a castaway 1 
Bastards may escape the rod,* 

Sunk in earthly, vain delight : 
But the true born child of God 

Must not, would not, if he might. 



K-XXVI. AFFLICTIONS SANCTIFIED BY 
THE WORD. 

how I love thy holy word, 
Thy gracious covenant, O Lord ! 
It guides me in the peaceful way ; 

1 think upon it all the day. 

What are the mines of shining wealth, 
The strength of youth, the bloom of health ! 
What are all joys compared with those 
Thine everlasting word bestows ! 

Long unafflicted, undismay'd, 
In pleasure's path secure I stray'd ; 
Thou mad'st me feel thy chastening rod,f 
And straight I turn'd unto my God. 

What though it pierced my fainting heart, 
I bless thine hand that caused the smart; 
It taught my tears awhile to flow, 
But saved me from eternal woe. 

Oh! hadst thou left me unchastised, 
Thy precept I had still despised ; 
And still the snare in secret laid, 
Had my unwary feet betray'd. 

* Hebrews xii. 8. \ Psalm cxix. 71. 



I love thee, therefore, O my God, 
And breathe towards thy dear abode ; 
Where, in thy presence fully blesi, 
Thv chosen saints forever rest. 



XXXVII. TEMPTATION. 

The billows swell, the winds are high, 
Clouds overcast my wintry sky ; 
Out of the depths to thee I call, — 
My fears are great, my strength is small. 

O Lord, the pilot's part perform, 
And guard and guide me through the storm. 
Defend me from each threatening ill, 
Control the waves, — say, ' Peace be still." 

Amidst the roaring of the sea, 
My soul still hangs her hope on thee ; 
Thy constant love, thy faithful care, 
Is all that saves me from despair. 

Dangers of every shape and name 
Attend the followers of the Lamb, 
Who leave the world's deceitful shore, 
And leave it to return no more. 

Though tempest-toss'd and half a wreck, 
My Saviour through the floods I seek; 
Let neither winds nor stormy main 
Force back my shatter'd bark again. 



XXXVIII. 



LOOKING UPWARDS IN A 
STORM. 

God of my life, to thee I call, 
Afflicted at thy feet I fall ; 
When the great water-floods prevail,* 
Leave not my trembling heart to fail ! 

Friend of the friendless and the faint 
Where should I lodge my deep complaint 1 
Where but with thee, whose open door 
Invites the helpless and the poor 1 

Did ever mourner plead with thee, 
And thou refuse that mourner's plea ? 
Does not the word still fix'd remain, 
That none shall seek thy face in vain? 

That were a grief I could not bear, 
Didst thou not hear and answer prayer; 
But a prayer-hearing, answering God, 
Supports me under every load. 

Fair is the lot that's cast for me ; 
I have an Advocate with thee ; 
They whom the world caresses most 
Have no such privilege to boast. 

Poor though I am, v despised, forgot,f 
Yet God. my God, forgets me not : 
And he is safe, and must succeed, 
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead. 



XXXIX. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 
OF DEATH. 

My soul is sad, and much dismay'd, 
See, Lord, what legions of my foes, 



* Paalm lxix. 15. 



t Psalm xl. 17. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



679 



With fierce Apollyon at their head, 
My heavenly pilgrimage oppose ! 

See. from the ever-burning lake 
How like a smoky cloud they rise ! 

With horrid blasts my soul they shake, 
With storms of blasphemies and lies. 

Their fiery arrows reach the mark.* 
My throbbing heart with anguish tear ; 

Each lights upon a kindred spark, 
And finds abundant fuel there. 

I hate the thought that wrongs the Lord ; 

Oh ! I would drive it from my breast, 
With thy own sharp two-edged sword, 

Far as the east is from the west. 

Come, then, and chase the cruel host, 
Heal the deep wounds I have received 

Nor let the powers of darkness boast, 
That I am foil'd, and thou art grieved ; 



XL. PEACE AFTER A STORM. 

When darkness long has veil'd my mind, 
And smiling day once more appears : 

Then, my Redeemer, then I find 
The folly of my doubts and fears. 

Straight I upbraid my wandering heart, 
And blush that I should ever be 

Thus prone to act so base a part, 
Or harbor one hard thought of thee ! 

Oh ! let me then at length be taught 
What I am still so slow to learn . 

That God is love, and changes not, 
Nor knows the shadow of a turn. 

Sweet truth, and easy to repeat ! 

But when my faith is sharply tried, 
I find myself a learner yet, 

Unskilful, weak, and apt to slide. 

But, O my Lord, one look from thee 
Subdues the disobedient will ; 

Drives doubt and discontent away, 
And thy rebellious worm is still. 

Thou art as ready to forgive 

As I am ready to repine ; 
Thou therefore all the praise receive ; 

Be shame and self-abhorrence mine. 



XLI. MOURNING AND LONGING 

The Saviour hides his face ! 
My spirit thirsts to prove 
Renew'd supplies of pardoning grace, 
And never-faidng love. 

The favor'd souls who know 
W T hat glories shine in him, 
Pant for his presence as the roe 
Pants for the living stream ! 

What trifles tease me now ! 
They swarm like summer flies, 
They cleave to everything I do, 
And swim before my eyes. 

* Ephea. vi. 16. 



How dull the sabbath day, 
Without the sabbath's Lord ! 
How toilsome then to sing and pray, 
And wait upon the word ! 

Of all the truths I hear, 
How few delight my taste ! 
I glean a berry here and there, 
But mourn the vintage past. 

Yet let me (as I ought) 
Still hope to be supplied ; 
No pleasure else is worth a thought, 
Nor shall I be denied. 

Though I am but a worm, 
Unworthy of his care, 
The Lord will my desire perform, 
And grant me all my prayer. 



XLII. SELF-ACQUAINTANCE 

Dear Lord ! accept a sinful heart, 

Which of itself complains. 
And mourns, with much and frequen. smart, 

The evil it contains. 

There fiery seeds of anger lurk, 

Which often hurt my frame ; 
And wait but for the tempter's work, 

To fan them to a flame. 

Legality holds out a bribe 

To purchase life from thee ; 
And discontent would fain prescribe 

How thou shalt deal with me. 

While unbelief withstands thy grace, 

And puts the mercy by ; 
Presumption, with a brow of brass, 

Says, ; - Give me, or I die." 

How eager are my thoughts to roam 

In quest of what they love ! 
But ah ! when duty calls them home, 

How heavily they move ! 

Oh. cleanse me in a Saviour's blood, 

Transform me by thy power. 
And make me thy beloved abode, 

And let me rove no more. 



XLIII. PRAYER FOR PATIENCE. 

Lord, who hast suffer'd all for me, 
My peace and pardon to procure, 

The lighter cross I bear for thee, 
Help me with patience to endure. 

The storm of loud repining hush, 
I would in humble silence mourn ; 

Why should the unburnt. though burning bush 
Be angry as the crackling thorn 1 

Man should not faint at thy rebuke, 

Like Joshua falling on his face.* 
When the curst thing that Achan took 

Brought Israel into just disgrace. 

Perhaps some golden wedge suppress'd, 
Some secret sin offends my God ; 

* Joshua vii. 10, 11. 



880 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Perhaps that Babylonish vest, 

Self-righteousness, provokes the rod. 

Ah ! were I buffeted all day, 

Mock'd, crown'd with thorns, and spit upon ; 
I yet should have no right to say, 

My great distress is mine alone. 

Let Tie not angrily declare 
No pain was ever sharp like mine ; 

Nor murmur at the cross I bear, 

But rather weep, remembering thine. 



XLIV. SUBMISSION. 

O Lord, my best desire fulfil, 

And help me to resign 
Life, health, and comfort to thy will, 

And make thy pleasure mine. 

Why should I shrink at thy command, 
Whose love forbids my fears ? 

Or tremble at the gracious hand 
That wipes away my tears 1 

No, let me rather freely yield 

What most I prize to thee ; 
Who never hast a good withheld, 

Or wilt withhold, from me. 

Thy favor all myjourney through, 
Thou art engaged to grant; 

What else I want, or think I do, 
'Tis better still to want. 

Wisdom and mercy guide my way, 

Shall I resist them both 1 
A poor blind creature of a day, 

And crush'd before the moth ! 

But ah ! my inward spirit cries, 

Still bind me to thy sway ; 
Else the next cloud that veils the skies, 

Drives all these thoughts away. 



XLV. THE HAPPY CHANGE. 

How blest thy creature is, O God, 

When, with a single eye, 
He views the lustre of thy word, 

The day-spring from on high ! 

Through all the storms that veil the skies. 
And frown on earthly things, 

The Sun of Righteousness he eyes, 
With healing in his wings. 

Struck by that Jight. the human heart, 

A barren soil no more, 
Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad, 

Where serpents lurk'd before.* 

The soul a dreary province once 

Of Satan's dark domain, 
Feels a new empire form'd within, 

And owns a heavenly reign. 

The glorious orb, whose golden beams 

The fruitful year control, 
Since first, obedient to thy word, 

He started from the goal ; 

* Isaiah xxtv. 7. 



Has cheer'd the nations with the joys 

His orient rays impart ; 
But Jesus, 'tis thy light alone 

Can shine upon the heart. 



XL VI. RETIREMENT. 

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee, 

From strife and tumult far ; 
From scenes where Satan wages still 

His most successful war. 

The calm retreat, the silent shade, 
With prayer and praise agree ; 

And seen by the sweet bounty made 
For those who follow 1 thee. 

There, if the Spirit touch the soul, 

And grace her mean abode, 
Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, 

She communes with her God ! 

There. like the nightingale she pours 

Her solitary lays ; 
Nor asks a witness of her song, 

Nor thirsts for human praise. 

Author and Guardian of my life, 
Sweet source of light divine, 

And, (all harmonious names in one) 
My Saviour, thou art mine ! 

What thanks I owe thee, and what love, 

A boundless, endless store, 
Shall echo through the realms above 

When time shall be no more. 



XLVII. THE HIDDEN LIFE. 

To tell the Saviour all my wants, 

How pleasing is the task ! 
Nor less to praise him when he grants 

Beyond what I can ask. 

My laboring spirit vainly seeks 

To tell but half the joy ; 
With how much tenderness he speaks, 

And helps me to reply. 

Nor were it wise, nor should I choose, 

Such secrets to declare ; 
Like precious wines their tastes they lose, 

Exposed to open air. 

But this with boldness I proclaim, 

Nor care if thousands hear, 
Sweet is the ointment of his name, 

Not life is half so dear. 

And can you frown, my former friends, 
Who knew what once I was ; 

And blame the song that thus commend* 
The Man who bore the cross % 

Trust me, I draw the likeness true, 

And not as fancy paints ; 
Such honor may he give to you, 

For such have all his saints. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



63 



KLVIII. JOY AND PEACE IN BELIEVING. 

Sometimes a light surprises 

The Christian while he sings ; 
It is the Lord who rises 

With healing in his wings ; 
When comforts are declining, 

He grants the soul again 
A season of clear shining, 

To cheer it after rain. 

In holy contemplation, 

We sweetly then pursue 
The theme of God's salvation, 

And rind it ever new. 
Set free from present sorrow • 

We cheerfully can say, 
E'en let the unknown to-morrow* 

Bring with it what it may. 

It can bring with it nothing, 

But he will bear us through; 
Who gives the lilies clothing, 

Will clothe his people too ; 
Beneath the spreading heavens 

No creature but is fed ; 
And he who feeds the ravens, 

Will give his children bread. 

The vine nor fig-tree neither f 

Their wonted fruit should bear, 
Though all the fields should wither, 

Nor flocks nor herds be there : 
Yet God the same abiding, 

His praise shall tune my voice, 
For, while in him confiding, 

I cannot but rejoice. 



XLIX. TRUE PLEASURES. 

Lord, my soulVith pleasure springs, 

When Jesus' name I hear; 
And when God the Spirit brings 

The word of promise near : 
Beauties too, in holiness, 

Still delighted I perceive; 
Nor have words that can express 

The joys thy precepts give. 

Clothed in sanctity and grace, 

How sweet it is to see 
Those who love thee as they pass, 

Or when they wait on thee : 
Pleasant too, to sit and tell 

What we owe to love divine ; 
Till our bosoms grateful swell, 

And eyes begin to shine. 

Those the comforts I possess, 

Which God shall still increase, 
All his ways are pleasantness,^ 

And all his paths are peace. 
Nothing Jesus did or spoke, 

Henceforth let me ever slight; 
For I love his easy yoke,*) 

And find his burden fight. 



L. THE CHRISTIAN. 

Honor and happiness unite 
To make the Christian's name a praise ; 



* Matthew vi. 34. 
t Prov. iii 17. 



t Habakkuk iii. 17, 18. 
$ Matt. xi. 30. 



How fair the scene, how clear the light, 
That fills the remn?Mt of his days! 

A kingly character he bears, 

No change his priestly office knows ; 

Unfading is the crown he wears, 
His joys can never reach a close. 

Adorn'd with glory from on high, 
Salvation shines upon his face; 

His robe is of the ethereal dye, 
His steps are dignity and grace. 

Inferior honors he disdains, 

Nor stoops to take applause from earth : 
The King of kings himself maintain r 

The expenses of his heavenly birth. 

The noblest creature saen below, 
Ordain'd to fill a throne above ; . 

God gives him all he can bestow, 
His kingdom of eternal love ! 

My soul is ravish'd at the thought ! 

Methinks from earth I see him rise ! 
Angels congratulate his lot, 

And shout him welcome to the skies ) 



LI. LIVELY HOPE AND GRACIOUS 
FEAR. 

I was a grovelling creature onco / 

And basely cleaved to earth ; 
I wanted spirit to renounce 

The clod that gave me birth. 

But God has breath'd upon a worm, 

And sent me, from above, 
Wings such as clothe an angel's form, 

The wings of joy and love. 

With these to Pisgah's top I fly, 

And there delighted stand, 
To view beneath a shining sky 

The spacious promised land. 

The Lord of all the vast domain 

Has promised it to me ; 
The length and breadth of all the plain, 

As far as faith can see. 

How glorious is my privilege ! 

To thee for help I call ; 
I stand upon a mountain's edge, 

Oh save me, lest I fall ! 

Though much exalted in the Lord, 

My strength is not my own ; 
Then let me tremble at his word, 

And none shall cast me down. 



LII. FOR THE POOR. 

When Hagar found the bottle spent, 

And wept o'er Ishmael, 
A message from the Lord was sent 

To guide her to a well.* 

Should not Elijah's cake and crusef 

Convince us at this day, 
A gracious God will not refuse 
" Provisions by the way 1 ' 
* Gen. xxi. 19. f 1 Kings xvU. 14 



582 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



His saints and servants shall be fed, 

The promise is secure ; 
" Bread shall be given them," he has said, 

" Their water shall be sure."* 

Repasts far richer they shall prove, 
Than all earth's dainties are ; 

'Tis sweet to taste a Saviour's love, 
Though in the meanest fare. 

To Jesus then your trouble bring, 

Nor murmur at your lot ; 
While you are poor and he is King, 

You shall not be forgot. 



LIII. MY SOUL THJRSTETH FOR GOD. 

I thirst, but not as once I did, 

The vain delights of earth to share ; 

Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid 
That I should seek my pleasures there. 

It was the sight of thy dear cross 
First wean'd my soul from earthly things ; 

And taught me to esteem as dross 

The mirth of fools and pomp of kings. 

I want that grace that springs from thee, 
That quickens all things where it flows, 

And makes a wretched thorn like me 
Bloom as the myrtle or the rose. 

Dear fountain of delight unknown ! 

No longer sink below the brim ; 
But overflow and pour me down 

A living and life-giving stream ! 

For sure, of all the plants that share 
The notice of thy Father's eye, 

None proves less grateful to his care, 
Or yields him meaner fruit than I. 



UV. LOVE CONSTRAINING TO OBEDI- 
ENCE. 

No strength of nature can suffice 

To serve the Lord aright : 
And what she has she misapplies, 

For want of clearer light. 

How long beneath the law I lay 

In bondage and distress! 
I toil'd the precept to obey, 

But toil'd without success. 

Then, to abstain from outward sin 

Was more than I could do; 
Now, if I feel its power within, 

I feel I hate it too. 

Then, all my servile works were done 

A righteousness to raise ; 
Now, freely chosen in the Son, 

I freely choose his ways. 

" What shall I do," was then t.ie word, 
«' That I may worthier grow 1" 

"What shall I render to the Lord'?" 
Is my inquiry now. 

* Isa. xxxiii. 16. 



To see the law by Christ fulfill'd, 
And hear his pardoning voice, 

Changes a slave into a child,* 
And duty into choice. 



LV. THE HEART HEALED AND 
CHANGED BY MERCY. 

Sin enslaved me many years, 

And led me bound and blind ; 
Till at length a thousand fears 

Came swarming o'er my mind. 
" Where," I said, in deep distress, 

" Will these sinful pleasures end 1 
How shall I secure my peace, 

And make the Lord my friend 1" 

Friends and ministers said much 

The gospel to enforce ; 
Butmy blindness still was such, 

I chose a legal course : 
Much I fasted, watch'd, and strove, 

Scarce would show my face abroad, 
Fear'd almost to speak or move. 

A stranger still to God. 

Thus afraid to trust his grace, 

Long time did I rebel ; 
. Till, desparing of my case, 

Down at his feet I fell : 
Then my stubborn heart he broke, 

And subdued me to his swayj 
By a simple word he spoke, 

; ' Thy sins are done away." 



LVI. HATRED OF SIN. 

Holy Lord God ! I love thy truth, 
Nor dare thy least commandment slight ; 

Yet pierced by sin, the serpent's tooth, 
I mourn the anguish of the bite. 

But, though the poison lurks within, 
Hope bids me still with patience wait • 

Till death shall set me free from sin, 
Free from the only thing I hate. 

Had I a throne above the rest, 

Where angels and archangels dwell, 

One sin, unslain, within my breast, 

Would make that heaven as dark as hell 

The prisoner, sent to breathe fresh air, 
And bless'd with liberty again, 

Would mourn, were he condemn'd to wea. 
One link of all his former chain. 

But, oh ! no foe invades the bliss, 

When glory crowns the Christian's head 

One view of Jesus as he is 

Will strike all sin for ever dead. 



LVII. THE NEW CONVERT. 

The new-born child of gospel grace, 

Like some fair tree when summer's nigh, 

Beneath Emmanuel's shining face 
Lifts up his blooming branch on high. 

iii. 31. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



681 



\o fears he feels, he sees no foes, 
No conflict yet his faith employs, 

Nor has he learnt to whom he owes 
The strength and peace his soul enjoys. 

But sin soon darts its cruel sting, 
And comforts sinking day by day : 

What seem'd his own, a self-fed spring, 
Proves but a brook that glides away. 

When Gideon arm'd his numerous host, 
The Lord soon made his numbers less ; 

And said, " Lest Israel vainly boast,* 
' My arm procured me this success.' " 

Thus will he bring our spirits down, 
And draw our ebbing comforts low, 

That, saved by grace, but not our own, 
We may not claim the praise we owe. 



LVIII. TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS. 

O God, whose favorable eye 

The sin-sick soul revives, 
Holy and heavenly is the joy 

Thy shining presence gives. 

Not such as hypocrites suppose, 

Who with a graceless heart 
Taste not of thee, but drink a dose, 

Prepared by Satan's art. 

Intoxicating joys are theirs, 

Who, while they boast their light, 

And seem to soar above the stars, 
Are plunging into night. 

Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep, 

They sin, and yet rejoice ; 
Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep, 

Would they not hear his voice 1 

Be mine the comforts that reclaim 
The soul from Satan's power ; 

That make me blush for what I am, 
And* hate my sin the more. 

'Tis joy enough, my All in All, 

At thy dear feet to lie ; 
Thou wilt not let me lower fall, 

And none can higher fly. 



MX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH. 

The Lord receives his highest praise 
From humble minds and hearts sincere ; 

While all the loud professor says 
Offends the righteous Judge's ear. 

To walk as children of the day, 
To mark the precepts' holy light; 

To wage the warfare, watch, and pray, 
Show who are pleasing in his sight. 

Not words alone it cost the Lord, 
To purchase pardon for his own ; 

Ncr will a soul, by grace restored, 
Return the Saviour words alone. 

With golden bells, the priestly vest, 

And rich pomegranates border'd round,f 

* Judges vii. 2. t Exod. xxviii. 33. 



The need of holiness express'd, 
And call'd for fruit, as well as sound. 

Easy, indeed, it were to reach 
A mansion in the courts above, 

If swelling words and fluent speech 
Might serve, instead of faith and love. 

But none shall gain the blissful place, 
Or God's unclouded glory see, 

Who talks of free and sovereign grace, 
Unless that grace has made him free ! 



LX. ABUSE OF THE GOSPEL. 

Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace. 

In this licentious day; 
And while they boast they see thy face, 

They turn their own away. 

Thy book displays a gracious light 

That can the blind restore ; 
But these are dazzled by the sight. 

And blinded still the more. 

The pardon, such presume upon, 

They do not beg. but steal ; 
And when they plead it at thy throne, 

Oh ! where's the Spirit's seal 1 

Was it for this, ye lawless tribe, 

The dear Redeemer bled 1 
Is this the grace the saints imbibe 

From Christ the living head 1 

Ah. Lord, we know thy chosen few 

Are fed with heavenly fare ; 
But these, the wretched husks they chew 

Proclaim them what they are. 

The liberty our hearts implore 

Is not to live in sin ; 
But still to wait at wisdom's door 

Till mercy calls us in. 



LXI. THE NARROW WAY. 

What thousands never knew the road ! 

What thousands hate it when 'tis known 
None but the chosen tribes of God 

Will seek or choose it for their own. 

A thousand ways in ruin end, 
One, only, leads to joys on high ; 

By that my willing steps ascend, 
Pleased with a journey to the sky. 

No more I ask. or hope to find, 

Delight or happiness below ; 
Sorrow may well possess the mind 

That feeds where thorns and thistles grow 

The joy that fades is not for me, 

I seek immortal joys above ; 
There glory without end shall be 

The bright reward of faith and love 

Cleave to the worlds ye sordid worms, 
C ntented lick your native dust, 

>,ut God shall fight with all his storms 
Against the idol of your trust. 



184 



COWPER S WORKS. 



LXII. DEPENDENCE. 

To keep the lamp alive, 
With oil we fill the bowl ; 
"Us water makes the willow thrive, 
And grace that feeds the soul. 

The Lord's unsparing hand 

Supplies the living stream ; 

It is not at our own commard, 

But still derived from him. 

Beware of Peter's word,* 
Nor confidently say, 
" I never will deny thee, Lord," 
But, " Grant I never may !" 

Man's wisdom is to seek 
His strength in God alone ; 
And e'en an angel would be weak, 
Who trusted in his own. 

Retreat beneath his wings, 
And in his grace confide ; 
This more exalts the King of kingsf 
Than all your works beside. 

In Jesus is our store, 
Grace issues from his throne ; 
Whoever says, " I want no more," 
Confesses he has none. 



LXIII. NOT OF WORKS. 

Grace, triumphant m the throne, 
Scorns a rival, reigns alone •, 
Come and bow beneath her sway, 
Cast your idol works away. 
Works of man, when made his plea, 
Never shall accepted be ; 
Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm !) 
Are the best he can perform. 

Self, the god his soul adores, 
Influences all his powers : 
Jesus is a slighted name, 
Self-advancement all his aim ; 
But when God the Judge shall come, 
To pronounce the final doom, 
Then for rocks and hills to hide 
All his works and all his pride ! 

Still the boasting heart replies, 
What ! the worthy and the wise, 
Friends to temperance and peace, 
Have not these a righteousness 1 
Banish every vain pretence 
Built on human excellence ; 
Perish everything in man, 
But the grace that never can. 



LXIV. PRAISE FOR FAITH. 

Of all the gifts thine hand bestows, 

Thou giver of all good ! 
Not heaven itself a richer knows 

Than my Redeemer's blood. 

Faith too, the blood-receiving grace, 
From the same hand we gain ; 



* Matthew xxvi. 33. 



t John vi. 29. 



Else, sweetly as it suits our case, 
That gift had been in vain. 

Till thou thy teaching power apply, 

Our hearts refuse to see, 
And weak, as a distemper'd eye, 

Shut out the view of thee. 

Blind to the merits of thy Son, 

What misery we endure ! 
Yet fly that hand from which alone 

We could expect a cure. 

We praise thee, and would praise thee more 

To thee our all we owe ; 
The precious Saviour, and the power 

That makes him precious too. 



LXV. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE. 

Almighty King ! whose wondrous hand 
Supports the weight of sea and land, 
Whose grace is such a boundless store, 
No heart shall break that sighs for more. 

Thy providence supplies my food, 
And 'tis thy blessing makes it good ; 
My soul is nourish'd by thy word, 
Let soul and body praise the Lord. 

My streams of outward comfort came 
From him who built this -earthly frame ; 
Whate'er I want his bounty gives, 
By whom my soul forever lives. 

Either his hand preserves from pain, 
Or, if I feel it, heals again ; 
From Satan's malice shields my breast, 
Or overrules it for the best. 

Forgive the song that falls so low 
Beneath the gratitude I owe ! 
It means thy praise, however poor, 
An angel's song can do no more. 



LXVI. I WILL PRAISE THE LORD At 
ALL TIMES. 

Winter has a joy for me, 

While the Saviour's charms I read, 
Lowly, meek, from blemish free, 

In the snow-drop's pensive head. 

Spring returns, and brings along 

Life-invigorating suns : 
Hark ! the turtle's plaintive song 

Seems to speak his dying groans ! 

Summer has a thousand charms, * 

All expressive of his worth ; 
'Tis his sun that lights and warms, 

His the air that cools the earth. 

What ! has Autumn left to say 
Nothing of a Saviour's graced 

Yes, the beams of milder day 
Tell me of his smiling face. 

Light appears with early dawn, 
While the sun makes haste to rise ; 

See his bleeding beauties drawn 
On the blushes of the skies. 



ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION. 



685 



Evening with a silent pace, 
Slowly moving in the west, 

Shows an emblem of his grace, 
Points to an eternal rest. 



LXVII. LONGING TO BE WITH CHRIST. 

To Jesus, the Crown of my hope, 

My soul is in haste to be gone: 
O bear me, y« cherubim, up, 

And waft me away to his throne ! 

My Saviour, whom absent I love, 
Whom, not having seen, I adore ; 

Whose name is exalted above 
All glory, dominion, and power; 

Dissolve thou these bonds, that detain 
My soul from her portion in thee ; 

Ah ! strike off this adamant chain 
And make me eternally free. 

When that happy era begins. 

When array'd in thy glories I shine, 
Nor grieve any more, by my sins, 

The bosom on which I recline : 

then shall the veil be remov'd, 

And round me thy brightness be pour'd 

1 shall meet him whom absent I lov'd, 

I shall see whom unseen I ador'd. 

And then, never more shall the fears, 
The trials, temptatidns, and woes, 

Which darken this valley of tears, 
Intrude on my blissful repose. 

Or, if yet remember'd above, 

Remembrance no sadness shall raise ; 



They will be but new signs of thy love, 
New themes for my wonder and praise. 

Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain 

Shall set me eternally free, 
Will but strengthen and rivet the chain 

Which binds me, my Saviour, to thee. 



LXVIII. LIGHT SHINING OUT OP 
DARKNESS. 

God moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform ; 
He plants his footsteps in the sea 

And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill, 
He treasures up his bright designs, 

And works his sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, 
The clouds ye so much dread 

Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 

But trust him for his grace : 
Behind a frowning providence 

He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour ; 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err,* 

And scan his work in vain : 
God is his own interpreter, 

And he will make it plain. 
* John xiii. 7. 



BRIEF ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION, 



THE MYSTIC WRITERS 



The mystic writers, though the object of 
so much public attention in France, towards 
the close of the seventeenth century, have 
never attracted much notice in this country, 
and are known rather as a matler of histori- 
cal fact than of personal interest. It is to 
Cowper that.we are indebted for the transla- 
tion of the Hymns of Madame Guion, the 
founder, or rather reviver, of the Mystics ; for 
It is evident from ecclesiastical history, that 
they existed so early as in the third and fourth 
centuries, and that the habits of profound con- 



templation and retirement from the world, m 
which they indulged, led to the monastic se- 
clusion of which St. Anthony was the most 
eminent example. Dionysius the Areopagite 
is, however, generally considered to be the 
founder of this sect in the fourth century. Ma- 
carius and Hilarion are also included among 
its supporters. The celebrated Thomas a 
Kempis, in the fifteenth century, adopted a 
kind ofpurified mysticism. Molino, a Span- 
ish priest, though resident at Rome, still fur 
ther extended these views; till at length 



58b 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Madame Guion, in the reign of Louis XIV., 
embodied them in their present form, which 
is known in France under the name of Qui- 
etism, from the calm repose and indifference 
to external objects which is characteristic of 
these principles. 

The Mystics professed to elevate the soul 
above all sensible and terrestrial objects, and 
to unite it to the Deity in an ineffable man- 
ner; to inculcate a pure and absolutely dis- 
interested love of God, for his own sake, and 
on account of his adorable perfections : to 
maintain a close and intimate communion 
with him by mortifying all the senses, by a 
profound submission to his will, even under 
the consciousness of perdition, and by an in- 
ternal sanctity of heart, strengthened by a 
holy and sublime contemplation. We shall 
shortly examine this system, and inquire how 
far this indifference to salvation, from a sup- 
posed conformity to the will of God, is found- 
ed either on reason or Scripture; and whether 
the pure love of God, independent of his love 
lo us, and of our personal interest in the 
blessings of redemption, is a state of mind to 
be generally attained. 

But we shall first advert to the manner in 
which Madame Guion was led to embrace 
these views, and illustrate them by a refer- 
ence to her own writings. After endeavor- 
ing, by unceasing efforts, and many acts of 
external piety, to raise her mind to a high 
tone of religious perfection, without being 
able to attain it, she meets with an ecclesias- 
tic of the order of St. Francis, and requests 
him to explain the cause of this failure. His 
reply, and the remarkable consequences by 
which it was followed, is thus recorded by 
herself in the narrative of her own life. 
"1£ is, madam, because you seek without 
what you have within. Accustom yourself to 
seek God in your heart, and you will there 
find him" 

" Having said these words, he left me. 
They were to me like the stroke of a dart, 
which penetrated through my heart. I felt 
at this instant a very deep wound, a wound 
so delightful that I desired not to be cured. 
These words brought into my heart what I 
had been seeking so many years ; or rather, 
they discovered to me what was there, and 
which I had not enjoyed for want of knowing 
it. Oh my Lord! thou wast in my heart, 
and demandedst only a simple turning of my 
mind inward, to make me perceive thy pres- 
ence. Oh infinite Goodness! How was I 
running hither and thither to seek thee ; my 
life was a burden to me, though my happiness 
was in myself. I was poor in the midst of 
riches, and ready to perish with hunger, near 
a table "plentifully spread, and a continual 
feast. Oh Beauty, ancient and new ! Why 
have I known thee so late! Alas! I sought 
th-3e whore thou wast not, and did not seek 



thee where thou wast, it was for want of 
understanding these words of thy gospej 
'The kingdom of God cometh not* with ob- 
servation : neither shall they say, Lo here, of 
Lo there. For behold the kingdom of God 
is within you.' This I experienced; for thou 
becamest my king, and my heart thy king- 
dom, wherein thou didst reign supreme, and 
perform all thy sacred will." 

Hours, she observes, now passed away like 
moments, and she could hardly do anything 
else but pray. She enters at the same time 
upon a strict course of penances, deprives 
herself of the most innocent indulgences, and 
succeeds so far that she could scarcely prefer 
one thing to another. Her senses are severe- 
ly mortified, and kept under uniform restraint. 
She aims at nothing less than the death of 
the senses, and the utter extinction of self. 
" It is only by a total death to self," she re- 
marks, " that we can be lost in God." 

At length these continual efforts become 
painful to her, and she is far from realizing 
either inward peace or the grace of true holi- 
ness. In describing her state of mind, she 
observes : 

"I began to experience an insupportable 
weight, in that very piety which had formerly 
been so easy and delightful to me ; not that I 
did not love it extremely, but I found myself 
defective in that noble practice of it to which 
I aspired. The more I loved it, the more 1 
labored to acquire what I saw I failed in. 
But alas ! I seemed continually to be overcome 
by that which was contrary to it. My heart, 
indeed, was detached from all sensual plea- 
sures. For these several years past it has 
seemed to me that my mind is so detached and 
absent from the body, that I do things as if I 
did them not. If I eat or refresh myself, it 
is done with such an absence, or separation, 
as I wonder at, and with an entire mortifica- 
tion of the keenness of sensation in all the 
natural functions." 

In addition to this dissatisfaction with her- 
self, it is her lot to be married to a man who 
is strongly opposed to her views and prin- 
ciples. Her domestic trials aggravate her 
i wretchedness, and she enjoys peace neither 
in. herself, in others, nor in God. 

" I could now no longer pray as formerly. 
Heaven seemed shut to me, and I thought 
justly too. I could get no consolation nor 
make any complaint thereupon : nor had ^any 
creature on earth to apply to, or to whom I 
might impart my condition. I found myself 
banished from all beings, without finding a 
support or refuge in anything. I could no 
more practice any virtue with facility. Such 
as had formerly been familiar to me seemed 
now to have left me. ' Alas !' said I, ' is it 
possible that this heart, formerly all on fire, 
should now become like ice?' Laden with a 
weight of past sins, and a multitude of new 



ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION. 



681 



ones, I could not think God would ever par- 
don mo, but looked on myself as a victim of 
hell. Whatever I tried for a remedy, seemed 
only to increase the malady. I may say that 
tears were my drink, and sorrow my food. I 
had within myself an executioner who tor- 
tured me without respite." 

We believe the case of Madame Guion to 
be by no means singular. Many aim at high 
attainments in religion, with the utmost sin- 
cerity of intention, but, being ignorant of the 
true way of peace, to which a more scriptural 
view would infallibly lead them, they load the 
conscience with heavy burdens, till it sinks 
under the weight of the oppression. Peace 
of mind is not to be found in self-inflicted 
austerities, in overstrained efforts, nor even in 
the way of internal holiness. This is seeking 
the living among the dead. We first find God, 
not by what we try to do for ourselves, but 
in a firm reliance on what Christ the Lord has 
done for us. "He was wounded for our 
transgressions, he was bruised for our iniqui- 
ties ; the chastisement of our peace was upon 
him; and with his stripes we are healed." 
This is the only true ground of acceptance. 
This is the foundation laid in Zion. "He is 
our peace." Holiness follows, but does not 
go before ; it is the effect, but not the cause. 
Mysticism inverts the order, and seems to give 
more honor to the sanctifying Spirit than to 
a erucified Saviour and Redeemer. 

However specious, therefore the counsel 
given by the priest might seem to be, and 
powerfully as she was impressed by it for a 
season, yet it failed in imparting the whole 
truth. He led her to derive peace from con- 
templating Christ within ; but true peace can 
flow only from contemplating Christ without. 
The "water" and the "blood" are emblemat- 
ical of a double operation. Each is neces- 
sary, Christ in the heart for sanctification, 
Christ on the cross for j ustification and pardon 
of sin. To neglect the latter, and to fix our 
inmost thoughts on the former only, what is it 
but to make a Saviour of sanctification, and to 
render the cross of none effect? 

In the midst of her internal disquietude, 
the husband of Madame Guion dies. " At 
last," she writes, " after having passed twelve 
vears and four months in the crosses of mar- 
riage, as great as possible, except poverty, 
which I never knew, though I had much de- 
wired it, God drew me out of that state to 
give me still stronger crosses to bear, and 
of such a nature as I had never met with be- 
fore." 

Her life from this period was a continual 
scene of trials' and persecutions, to which her 
views and principles uniformly exposed her. 
Relieved now from all external restraint, 
this devoted woman dedicates herself to the 
Lord by a solemn surrender, which she calls 
a marriage contract, and engages to live 



wholly to him and to his glory for the remain 

der of her days. 

Her state of mind, and the joy and happi 
ness which it led to, are thus expressed. 

" At this time I found that I had the perfect 
chastity of love to God, mine being without 
any reserve, division, or view of interest ; — 
perfect poverty, by the total privation of every- 
thing that was mine both inwardly and out' 
wardly ; — perfect obedience to the will of God, 
submission to the church, and honor to Jesus 
Christ in loving himself only." 

" The joy which such a soul possesses in its 
God is %o great, that it experiences the truth 
of those words of the royal prophet, 'All 
they who are in thee, O Lord, are like persons 
ravished with joy.' To such a soul the words 
of our Lord seem to be addressed, ' Your joy 
no man shall 'take from you.' John xvi. 22. 
It is as it were plunged in a river of peace ; 
its prayer is continual r nothing can hinder it 
from praying to God, or from loving him. It 
amply verifies these words in the Canticles, 
' I sleep, but my heart waketh :' for it finds 
that even sleep itself does not hinder it from 
praying. Oh, unutterable happiness ! Who 
could ever have thought that a soul, which 
seemed to be in the utmost misery, should 
ever find a happiness equal to this? Oh happy 
poverty, happy loss, happy nothingness, which 
gives no less than God himself in his own 
immensity, no more circumscribed to the 
limited manner of the creature, but always 
drawing it out of that to plunge it wholly into 
his own divine essence. 

" What then renders this soul so perfectly 
content? It neither knows nor wants to 
know anything but what God calls it to. 
Herein it enjoys divine content, after a man- 
ner vast, immense, independent of exterior 
events ; more satisfied in its humiliation, and 
in the opposition of all creatures, by the or- 
der of Providence, than on the throne of its 
own choice. 

" It is here that the apostolic life begins. 
But is every one called to that state ? Very 
few, indeed, as far as I can comprehend ; and 
of the few that are called to it, fewer still 
walk in true purity." 

This entire surrender of the soul to God, 
or self-abandonment, she thus describes. 

" Abandonment is a matter of the greatest 
importance in our process ; it is the key to , 
the inner court ; so that whosoever knoweth 
truly how to abandon himself, soon becomes 
perfect. We must, therefore, continue s ted- 
fast and immoveable therein, nor listen to the 
voice of "natural reason. Great faith produces 
great abandonment ; we must confide in God, 
'hoping against hope.' (Rom. iv. 18.) 

" Abandonment is the casting off all selfish 
care, that we may be altogether at the Divine 
disposal. All Christians are exhorted to this 
resignation ; for it is said to all, ' Take no 



688 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



thought saying, What shall we eat? or what 
shall we drink ? or, wherewithal shall we be 
clothed ? for your heavenly Father knoweth 
that ye have need of all these things.' (Matt, 
vi. 31, 32.) 'In all thy ways acknowledge 
him, and he shall direct thy paths.' (Prov. iii. 
6.) ' Commit thy ways unto the Lord, and 
thy thoughts shall be established.' (Prov. 
xvi. 3.) ' Commit thy way unto the Lord ; 
trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass.' 
(Psalm xxxvii. 5.) 

" Our abandonment then should be as fully 
applied to our external as internal things, 
giving up all our concerns into the hands of 
God, forgetting ourselves, and thinking only 
of him ; by which the heart will remain al- 
ways disengaged, free, and at peace. It is 
practised by continually losing our own will 
in the will of God; by renouncing every par- 
ticular inclination as soon as it arises, how- 
ever good it may appear, that we may stand 
in indifference with respect to ourselves, and 
only will that which God from eternity had 
willed; by being resigned in all things, 
whether for soul or body, whether for time or 
eternity ; by leaving what is past in oblivion, 
what is to come to Providence, and devoting 
the present moment to God, which brings 
with itself God's eternal order, and it is as in- 
fallible a declaration to us of his will, as it is 
inevitable and common to all; by attributing 
nothing that befalls us to the creature, but 
regarding all things in God, and looking upon 
all, excepting only our sins, as infallibly pro- 
ceeding from him. Surrender yourselves, 
then, to be led and disposed of just as God 
pleaseth, with respect both to your outward 
and inward state." 

There is also another term, of frequent oc- 
currence in Madame Guion's writings, called 
the annihilation of the powers or senses, (ane- 
antissement des puissances,) by which she 
means that all the senses and passions are to 
be completely mortified, and suppressed, in 
order that the soul, freed from the heavy in- 
cumbrance, may aspire to full and unre- 
strained communion with God. 

Such is the outline of mysticism, which we 
have endeavored to illustrate in her own 
words. Indiscriminate censure would be no 
less opposed to the real truth than indis- 
criminate praise. 

The proselytes made to this doctrine in 
France were numerous, consisting of names 
distinguished by their piety and rank. Among 
these, she had the honor of including the 
great Fenelon, who, though he had too much 
taste and judgment to adopt the extremes of 
ner system, listened with delight when she 
descanted before him, at the Hotel de Beau- 
villiers, on the pure and disinterested love of 
God.* 

It was in vain that the celebrated Bishop 

* Life of Fenelon. 



of Meaux* exposed her doctrines with all th« 
powers of his wit, aided by the splendor of 
his eloquence. Her persecutions awakened 
new interest. She was sent to the castle of 
Vincennes, as if she had been a prisoner of 
state. 

There she employed her lonely hours in 
pouring out the effusions of her heart, in 
hymns expressive of her love to God, and of 
the fervor of her devotion. Some of these 
compositions, written under circumstances so 
interesting, we shall present to the reader. 
They are indebted for their English dress to 
the poet Cowper, and to the suggestion of the 
Rev. Mr. Bull of Newport Pagnell, who con- 
ceived that the spirit which they breathe could 
not fail to be congenial to a mind like his. 

We shall now venture to offer a few re- 
marks on this system. 

What we admire in Madame Guion is, the 
purity of her heart, its incessant aspirations 
after holiness, its secret and close communion 
with God. These are qualifications in which 
there is reason to believe that the great bulk 
of professing Christians are greatly deficient. 
Religion, even among reflecting minds, par- 
takes more of a philosophical than a spiritual 
character. The fire is in the intellect, the ice 
is in the heart. In the social circle, the essay, 
or review, how often is spiritual religion 
branded with the title of enthusiasm, and the 
wings of devotion clipped, lest she should 
soar with too lofty an elevation, and pass 
beyond the limits which a cold and calculat- 
ing policy would prescribe. 

Among others again, who are the professed 
followers of Christ, how far do all fall short 
in the sublime and devotional feeling of love 
to God ! The higher attainments of Chris- 
tian piety, the inward fervency of spirit, and 
the entire surrender of the soul, are not suf- 
ficiently realized. Men do not rise to the 
elevation of Bible Christianity. Religion is 
considered too much in the light of a struggle 
and a warfare, and too little as a state of in- 
ward repose and joy unspeakable and full of 
glory. 

It is in this respect that we think the de- 
votional spirit of Madame Guion may be con- 
templated with profit, if by a wise discrimi- 
nation we can adopt what is excellent, and 
reject what is overstrained, legal, and vis- 
ionary. 

There is, however, a familiarity in her ad- 
dresses to the Deity incompatible with the 
reverence due to a sense of his majesty and 
greatness. In exposing this objectionable 
part of her writings, Bossuet beautifully apos. 
trophizes the seraphs, and entreats them tc 
bring burning coals from the altar to purify 
his lips, lest they should have been defiled by 
the impurities which he had been obliged to 
record.f 

* BosaueL t See Butler's Life of Fenelon. 



ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION. 



68S 



With respect to the distinguishing feature 
of mysticism, the pure and disinterested love 
of God, for his own sake, and without any 
consideration of self, that the mind may, at 
particular seasons, rise to this degree of holy 
contemplation we believe to be possible ; but 
we are persuaded that such a state of feeling 
cannot be habitually sustained, and that it is 
beyond the general standard and capacities 
of human nature. God's love to us is re- 
corded in the Scripture as the foundation of 
our love to him : — " We love him, because 
he first loved us." Even glorified spirits, 
whose devotion we may justly suppose to 
have attained its highest degree of perfection, 
are represented as making their own salvation 
the theme of adoring gratitude and praise. 
"For thou hast redeemed us to God by thy 
blood, and hast made us unto our God kings 
and priests." Besides, it is in the great work 
of redemption that the divine attributes are 
so gloriously displayed ; that the most affect- 
ing appeals are made to our fears and hopes ; 
and the most animating motives held forth 
for our obedience. Man's personal interest 
is therefore so interwoven with the display 
of the divine perfections, that the former 
can never be excluded without obscuring the 
glory of the very attributes which mysticism 
requires us to adore. 

Again, the doctrine of the Mystics proposes 
the utter suppression of the passions of hope 
and fear ; the annihilation, as it is called, of 
all our natural feelings, and an entire ab- 
straction from the world. 

The annihilation of our natural feelings, 
that the heart may be wholly filled with the 
love and contemplation of the Deity, is not 
possible, nor, if it were possible, would it be 
desirable, as we should cease, in that case, 
to be men, without acquiring the nature of 
angels. It is not the suppression, but the 
due control and consecration of our feelings 
to the purest ends that the Bible proposes ; 
not the exclusion of what is human, but the 
admixture of what is divine. The apostles, 
though gifted with the Holy Ghost from 
heaven, were still " men of like passions with 
ourselves," and the Saviour who was trans- 
figured on Mount Tabor, thirsted at the well 
of Sychar, and wept at the grave of Lazarus. 

Nor is it abstraction from the world, but 
from its spirit, that the Bible enjoins as a 
duty on the Christian. " Let us open this 
wonderful book," observes an elegant writer, 
" where we may, we meet no mystical abstrac- 
tion. We feel our whole mind to be ad- 
dressed at once ; no faculty, active or passive, 
being left without its provision. Human 
nature is everywhere made to furnish the 
machinery, which may work most effectually 
on itself. To withdraw the mind from sensi- 
ble ideas while reading the Bible, is abso- 
lutely impossible. It places real life before 



us, in all its most interesting and most im- 
pressive forms ; and obliges us to converse 
with ' men of like passions with ourselves, 
even while it is teaching us the way of God 
most perfectly. 

" Instead of abstracting us from the world, 
it makes it a school of wisdom to us ; and 
teaches us, by example as well as precept, to 
proceed in making it so daily to ourselves. 
We discover that while it is the scene of the 
devil's temptations, it is also the scene of 
God's providence ; and that, as on the formei 
account we must be ever vigilant against its 
seductions, so, on the latter account, we can- 
not but be deeply interested in its various 
movements, past, present, and future. To 
be regardless of these would be to overlook 
the volume of prophecy, as well as that king- 
dom of the .Messiah upon earth, of whose 
gradual advancement the prophetic oracles 
chiefly treat, and in whose final triumph all 
their brightest rays concentre. It is not, 
therefore, a mystical escape from the world 
to which the Christian is called. His voca- 
tion is much more glorious; he is to keep him- 
self ' unspotted from the world ;' but he is to 
remain in it, that he may maintain, as far aa 
in him lies, his Lord's right to it, and pro- 
mote his interest in it. He is taught this by 
the Redeemer's last prayer for his followers : 
' I pray not that thou shouldest take them 
out of the world, but that thou shouldest 
keep them from the evil.' And he is still 
more fully instructed by our Lord's own 
example; who made every walk of human 
life the scene of his beneficence, and turned 
every object and occurrence into a means of 
the most interesting and deepest instruction."* 

There is one more feature in mysticism 
entitled to be considered, because it was 
subsequently adopted by Fenelon, viz., the 
possibility of the soul acquiescing in its own 
destruction, if such were the will of God, 
from a profound submission to his will and 
a desire to promote his glory. But this sup- 
position involves a manifest absurdity, be- 
cause a profound submission to the will of 
God is a gracious principle, and how can the 
soul, which is under gracious impressions, 
ever be the object of perdition, or God be 
glorified in its destruction? The case of 
Moses, who prayed to be blotted out of the 
book which God had written, if the Israelites 
might be spared,f or that of St. Paul, who 
wished that he might be accursed, for the 
sake of his brethren, according to the flesh, J 
— these passages might be quoted ; but they 
are to be considered as referring to the pres. 
ent and not to the future life, in reference 

* See "Remains of Alexander Knox, Esq." vol i. pp. 
303, 304. t Exodus xxxii. 32. 

+ Scott and Henry both agree in this interpretation, viz^ 
a willingness to be treated as an anathema, and to be cut 
off from all church communion and privileges, but not 
to be eternally lost. 

44 



to the latter of which they would be ob- 
viously repugnant to the justice and good- 
ness of God. 

It is evident from what has been said, that 
the religious views of Madams Guion, excel- 
lent as they were in their principle, in so far 
as they inculcated the supreme love of God, 
profound submission to his will, the calm 
retirement of the soul, and deadness to the 
spirit of the world, were nevertheless too 
overstrained to be suited to the character 
and constitution of human nature. Wesley 
translated her life, and observes, " Such an- 
other Life as that of Madame Guion, I doubt 
whether the world ever saw. It contains an 
abundance of excellent things, uncommonly 
excellent ; several things which are utterly 
false and unscriptural ; nay, such as are dan- 
gerously false. As to Madame Guion her- 
self, I believe she was not only a good wo- 
man, but good in an eminent degree ; deeply 
devoted to God, and often favored with un- 
common communications of his Spirit." 

The persecutions in which she was thus 
involved were unremitting and painful. Her 
doctrines underwent a solemn inquiry at Issy, 
before three commissioners appointed by 
Louis XIV. for that purpose : viz. the Bishop, 
of Meaux, the Bishop of Chartres, (afterwards 
Cardinal de Noailles,) and M. Tronson, the 
Superior of the Congregation of St. Sulpice. 
After a discussion which lasted six months, 
her writings received a formal condemnation, 
in which Fentlon refused to concur. By this 
apparent sanction of her principles, and still 
more by his celebrated " Maxims of the 
Saints, 1 ' in which he incorporated the more 
spiritual part of her system, he exposed him- 
self to a series of painful reverses. He was 
banished the court by Louis XIV., whc prob. 
ably never read his book, nor comprehended 
his principles, but who never forgave the 
author of Telemachus. By the same author- 
ity he was removed from the office of pre- 
ceptor to the Dukes of Burgundy, Anjou, 
and Berri ; and commanded to retire to Cam- 
bray, which he embellished with his exalted 
virtues. But a further scene of humiliation 
awaited him. His powerful opponent, the 
celebrated Bossuet, not content with attack- 
ing his writings, endeavored to procure their 
condemnation at the Court of Rome, which 
led to a bon-mot of the Pope, that " Ftnelon 
was in fault for too great love to God, and 
bis enemies equally in fault for too little love 
of their neighbor." The Brief was at length 
obtained, though not without considerable 
delay and reluctance. Fenelon received this 
act of censure with calm serenity, and in 
obedience to papal authority, ascended his 
pulpit at Cambray with his Maxims in one 
hand and the Brief in the other. He then 
read the condemnation of his own book, 
amidst the tears and admiration of his congre- 



gation ; thus evincing a magnanimity which 
rendered him greater in his defeat than his 
enemies appeared in their triumph. 

Madame Guion spent ten years in prison, 
during which she composed many hymns, 
with poems on various spiritual subjects, fill 
ing no less than five octavo volumes. Speak- 
ing of the period of her imprisonment at 
Vincennes, she observes, " I passed my time 
in great peace, content to spend the rest of 
my life there, if such were the will' of God. 
I sang songs of joy, which the maid who 
served me learned by heart, as fast as I made 
them : and we sang together thy praises, O 
my God ! The stones of my prison looked 
in my eyes like rubies. I esteemed them 
more than all the gaudy brilliancies of a vain 
world." We cannot state this fact without 
doing homage to the virtues of Madame 
Guion. The piety that'could convert a pris- 
on into a sanctuary, and transform suffer- 
ings into an occasion for joy and thanksgiv- 
ing, must have been elevated and sincere; 
however mingled with enthusiasm. Her doc- 
trine of profound submission, under circum- 
stances the most adverse, was no speculative 
thesis ; it was evidently carried into the life 
and practice. 

Who is not reminded by this act of Vnat 
is recorded in the apostolical times ? " And 
at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and 
sang praises unto God." The rigor of her 
persecutions, in our opinion, conveys a strong 
censure against her zealous but misguided 
opponents. But the case is by no means 
solitary. The world is always indulgent to 
the errors of our practice, but severe to the 
errors of our creed. True policy and human- 
ity would have suggested a different course. 
Extravagances, when left to themselves, 
generally work their own cure ; but, when 
visited with persecution, acquire dignity and 
importance, and never fail to awaken sym- 
pathy for the sufferers. 

After her long imprisonment, Madame 
Guion lived a retired life for more than seven 
years at Blois, where she died June 9, 1717, 
in the seventieth year of her age, celebrated 
for her misfortunes and devotion, though her 
principles, which once convulsed France, and 
awakened the thunders of the Vatican, are 
now nearly forgotten. 

The following selection from her poems, 
executed by Cowper, is highly devotional, and 
may be read with interest and edification. It 
exhibits a happy specimen of her religious 
views in their best form; and Cowper has 
given to them the charms of versification, 
united with a taste and discrimination that 
ensure their popularity. The poem on the 
Nativity is a sublime and bold composition, 
and proves that the piety which warms the 
h^.art, seldom fail? to enlarge and invigorate 
ti 3 faculties of the mind. 



TRANSLATIONS 



THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA MOTHE GUION. 



THE NATIVITY. 

Tis folly all — let me no more be told 
Of Parian porticos, and roofs of gold ; 
Delightful views of nature, dress'd by art, 
Enchant no longer this indifferent heart; 
The Lord of all things, in his humble birth, 
Makes mean the proud magnificence of earth ; 
The straw, the manger, and the mouldering wall, 
Eclipse its lustre ; and I scorn it all. 

Canals, and fountains, and delicious vales, 
Green slopes and plains, whose plenty never 

fails ; 
Deep-rooted groves, whose heads sublimely rise, 
Earth-born, and yet ambitious of the skies ; 
The abundant foliage of whose gloomy shades, 
Vainly the sun in all its power invades ; 
Where warbled airs of sprightly birds resound, 
Whose verdure lives while Winter scowls around ; 
Rocks, lofty mountains, caverns dark and deep, 
And torrents raving down the rugged steep ; 
Smooth downs, whose fragrant herbs the spirits 

cheer ; 
Meads crown'd with flowers ; streams musical 

and clear, 
Whose silver waters and whose murmurs, join 
Their artless charms to make the scene divine ; 
The fruitful vineyard, and the furrow : d plain, 
That seems a rolling sea of golden grain : 
All. all have lost the charms they once possess'd ; 
An infant God reigns sovereign in my breast ; 
From Bethlehem's bosom I no more will rove ; 
There dwells the Saviour, and there rests my love. 
Ye mightier rivers, that, with sounding force. 
Urge down the valleys your impetuous course! 
Winds, clouds, and lightnings! and. ye waves, 

whose heads. 
Curl'd into monstrous forms, the seaman dreads ! 
Horrid abyss, where all experience fails, [sails ; 
Spread with the wreck of planks and shatter'd 
On whose broad back grim Death triumphant 

rides, 
While havoc floats on all thy swelling tides, 
Thy shores a scene of ruin strew'd around 
With vessels bulged, and bodies of the drown'd ! 
Ye fish, that sport beneath the boundless 

waves, 
And rest, secure from man. in rocky caves: 
Swift-darting sharks, and whales of hideous size, 
Whom all the aquatic world with terror eyes ! 
Had I but faith immoveable and true, 
I might defy the fiercest storm, like you : 
The world, a more disturb i and boisterous sea, 
When Jesus shows a smile, affrights not me ; 



He hides me, and in vain the billows roar, 
Break harmless at my feet, and leave the shore. 

Thou azure vault, where, through the gloom of 
night, [light 

Thick sown, we see such countless worlds o 
Thou moon, whose car, encompassing the skies. 
Restores lost nature to our wondering eyes; 
Again retiring, when the brighter sun 
Begins the course he seems in haste to run \ 
Behold him where he shines ! His rapid rays. 
Themselves unmeasured, measure all our days ; 
Nothing impedes the race he would pursue, 
Nothing escapes his penetrating view, 
A thousand lands confess his quickening heat, 
And all he cheers are fruitful, fair, and sweet. 

Far from enjoying what these scenes disclose, 
I feel the thorn, alas ! but miss the rose : 
Too well I know this aching heart requires 
More solid gold to fill its vast desires ; 
In vain they represent his matchless might, 
Whocall'd them out of deep primeval night; 
Their form and beauty but augment my woe, 
I seek the Giver of those charms they show:' 
Nor, Him beside, throughout the world he made 
Lives there in whom I trust for cure or aid. 

Infinite God, thou great unrivall'd one! 
Whose glory makes a blot of yonder sun; 
Compar'd with thine, how dim his beauty seems*, 
How quench'd the radiance of his golden beams 
Thou art my bliss, the light by which I move; 
In thee alone dwells all that I can love. 
All darkness flies when thou art pleased to appear, 
A sudden spring renews the fading year ; 
W 7 here'er I turn I see thy power and grace 
The watchful guardians of our heedless race. 
Thy various creatures in one strain agree, 
All. in all times and places, speak of thr>e ; 
E'en I. with trembling heart and stammering 

tongue, 
Attempt thy praise, and join the general song. 

Almighty Former of this wondrous plan, 
Faintly reflected in thine image, man — 
Holy and just — the greatness of whose name 
Fills and supports this universal frame, 
Diffused throughout the infinitude of space, 
Who art thyself thine own vast dwelling place; 
Soul of our soul, whom yet no sense of ours 
Discerns eluding our most active powers; 
Encircling shades attend thine awful throne, 
That veil thy face, and keep thee still unknown 
Unknown, though dwelling in our inmost part, 
Lord of the thoughts, and Sovereign of the heart 

Repeat the charming truth that never tires. 
No God is like the God my soul desires ; 



692 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



He at whose voice heaven trembles, even He, 
Great as he is, knows how to stoop to me — 
Lo ! there he lies — that smiling infant said, 
u Heaven, earth, and sea, exist !" and they obey'd. 
E'en he, whose being swells beyond the skies, 
Is born of woman, lives, and mourns, and dies ; 
Eternal and immortal seems to cast 
That glory from his brows, and breathes his last. 
Trivial and vain the works that man has 

wrought, 
How do they shrink and vanish at the thought ! 

Sweet solitude, and scene of my repose ! 
This rustic sight assuages all my woes — 
That crib contains the Lord, whom I adore; 
And earth's a shade that I pursue no more. 
He is my firm support, my rock, my tower, 
I dwell secure beneath his sheltering power, • 
And hold this mean retreat forever dear, 
For all I love, my soul's delight is here. 
I see the Almighty swathed in infant bands, 
Tied helpless down the thunder-bearer's hands! 
And, in this shed, that mystery discern, 
Which faith and love, and they alone, can learn. 

Ye tempests, spare the slumbers of your Lord ! 
Ye zephyrs, all your whisper'd sweets afford ! 
Confess the God that guides the rolling year ; 
Heaven, do him homage ; and thou, earth, revere ! 
Ye shepherds, monarchs, sages, hither bring 
Your hearts an offering, and adore your King ! 
Pure be those hearts, and rich in faith and 

love; 
Join, in his praise, the harmonious world above; 
To Bethlehem haste, rejoice in his repose, 
And praise him there for all that he bestows ! 

Man, busy man, alas ! can ill afford 
To obey the summons, and attend the Lord; 
Perverted reason revels and runs wild, 
By glittering shows of pomp and wealth beguiled ; 
And, blind to genuine excellence and grace, 
Finds not her author in so mean a place. 
Ye unbelieving ! learn a wiser part, 
Distrust your erring sense, and search your heart ; 
There soon ye shall perceive a kindling flame 
Glow for that infant God, from whom it came ; 
Resist not, quench not, that divine desire, 
Melt all your adamant in heavenly fire! 

Not so will I requite thee, gentle love ! 
Yielding and soft this heart shall ever prove ; 
And every heart beneath thy power should fall, 
Glad to submit, could mine contain them all. 
But I am poor, oblation I have none, 
None for a Saviour, but himself alone : 
Whate'er I render thee, from thee it came : 
And, if I give my body to the flame, 
My patience, love, and energy divine 
Of heart, and soul, and spirit, all are thine. 
Ah. vain attempt to expunge the mighty score 
The more I pay, I owe thee still the more. 

Upon my meanness, poverty, and guilt, 
The trophy of thy glory shall be built ; 
My self-disdain shall be the unshaken base, 
And my deformity its fairest grace ; 
For destitute of good, and rich in ill, 
Must be my state and my description still. 

And do I grieve at such an humbling lot? 
Nay, but I cherish and enjoy the thought — 
Vain pageantry and pomp of earth, adieu ! 
I have no wish, no memory for you ; 
The more I feel my misery, I adore 
The sacred inmate of my soul the more ; 
Rich in his love, I feel my noblest pride 
Spring from the sense of having nought beside. 



In thee I find wealth, comfort, virtue, might; 
My wanderings prove thy wisdom infinite ; 
All that I have I give thee ; and then see 
All contrarieties unite in thee ; 
For thou hast join'd them, taking up our woe, 
And pouring out thy bliss on worms below, 
By filling with thy grace and love divine 
A gulf of evil in itiis heart of mine. 
This is. indeed, to bid the valleys rise, 
And the hills sink — 'tis matching earth and skies 
I feel my weakness, thank thee, and deplore 
An aching heart, that throbs to thank thee more ; 
The more I love thee, I the more reprove 
A soul so lifeless, and so slow to love ; 
Till, on a deluge of thy mercy toss'd, 
I plunge into that sea, and there am lost. 



GOD NEITHER KNOWN NOR LOVEl» 
BY THE WORLD. 

Ye linnets, let us try beneath this grove, 
Which shall be loudest in our Maker's praise ! 
In quest of some forlorn retreat I rove, [ways 
For all the world is blind, and wandurs from hii 

That God alone should prop the sinking soul. 
Fills them with rage against his empire now : 
I traverse earth in vain from pole to pole, 
To seek one simple heart, set free from all below. 

They speak of love, yet little feel its sway, 
While in their bosoms many an idol lurks ; 
Their base desires, well satisfied, obey, [works. 
Leave their Creator's hand, and lean upon his 

"Pis therefore I can dwell with man no more ; 
Your fellowship, ye warblers ! suits me best : 
Pure love has lost its price, though prized of yore. 
Profaned by modern tongues, and slighted as a 
jest. 

My God. who form'd you for his praise alone, 
Beholds his purpose well fulfill'd in you ; 
Come, let us join the choir before his throne, 
Partaking in his praise with spirits jvfst and true. 

Yes, I will always love ; and. as I ought, 
Tune to the praise of love my ceaseless voice j 
Preferring love too vast for human thought. 
In spite of erring men, who cavil at my choice. 

Why have I not a thousand thousand hearts, 
Lord of my soul ! that they might all be thine 1 
If thou approve — the zeal thy smile imparts. 
How should it ever fail ! can such a fire decline 1 

Love, pure and holy, is a deathless fire ; 
Its object heavenly, it must ever blaze : 
Eternal love a God must needs inspire, [praise. 
When once he wins the heart, and fits it for his 

Self- love dismiss'u- — 'tis then we live indeed 
In her embrace, death, only death is found : 
Come, then, one noble effort, and succeed, 
Cast off the chain of self with which thy sou! 
is bound ! 

Oh ! I could cry, that all the world might heat-, 
Ye self-tormentors, love your God alone ; 
Let his unequall'd excellence be dear, [own. 
Dear to your inmost souls, and make him allyoul 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 



693 



They hear me not — alas ! how fond to rove 
In endless chase of folly's specious lure ! 
'Tis here alone, beneath this shady grors, 
I taste the sweets of truth — here only am secure. 



THE SWALLOW. 

I am fond of the swallow — I learn from her flight, 
Had I skill to improve it, a lesson of love : 
How seldom on earth do we see her alight ! 
She dwells in the skies, she is ever above. 

It is on the wing that she takes her repose, 
Suspended and poised in the regions of air, 
'Tis not in our fields that her sustenance grows, 
It is wing'd like herself, 'tis ethereal fare. 

She comes in the spring, all the summer she stays, 
And, dreading the cold, still follows the sun — 
So, true to our love, we should covet his rays, 
And the place where he shines not immediately 
shun. 

Our light should be love, and our nourishment 

prayer ; 
It is dangerous food that we find upon earth ; 
The fruit of this world is beset with a snare, 
In itself it is hurtful, as vile in its birth. 

'Tis rarely if ever she settles below, 
And only when building a nest for her young; 
Were it not for her brood, she would never bestow 
A thought upon anything filthy as dung. 

Let us leave it ourselves, ('tis a mortal abode,) 
To bask every moment in infinite love ; 
Let us fly the dark winter, and follow the road 
That leads to the day-spring appearing above. 



THE TRIUMPH OF HEAVENLY LOVE 
DESIRED. 

Ah ! reign, wherever man is found, 
My spouse, beloved and divine ! 

Then I am rich, and I abound, 
When every human heart is thine. 

A thousand sorrows pierce my soul, 
To think that all are not thine own : 

Ah ! be adored from pole to pole ; 

Where is thy zeal 1 arise ; be known ! 

All hearts are cold, in every place. 

Yet earthly good with warmth pursue ; 
Dissolve them with a flash of grace. « 

Thaw these of ice. and give us new ! 



k FIGURATIVE DESCRIPTION OF THE 
PROCEDURE OF DIVINE LOVE. 

3* BRINGING A SOUL TO THE POINT OP SELF-RE- 
NUNCIATION AND ABSOLUTE ACQUIESCENCE. 

j Twas my purpose, on a day, 

To embark, and sail away. 

As I climb'd the vessel's side, 

Love was sporting in the tide ; 

" Come," he said. — - : ascend — make haste, 

Launch into the boundless waste." 



Many mariners were there, 
Having each his separate care ; 
They that row'd us held their eyes 
Fix'd upon the starry skies ; 
Others steer'd, or turn'd the sails 
To receive the shifting gales. 

Love, with power divine supplied, 
Suddenly my courage tried ; 
In a moment it was night, 
Ship and skies were out of sight; 
On the briny wave I lay, 
Floating rushes all my stay. 

Did I with resentment burn 

At this unexpected turn 1 

Did I wish myself on shore, 

Never to forsake it more 1 

No — • My soul," I cried, "be still; 

If I must be lost, I will." 

Next he hasten'd to convey 
Both my frail supports away ; 
Seized my rushes ; bade the waves 
Yawn into a thousand graves : 
Down I went, and sunk as lead, 
Ocean closing o'er my head. 

Still, however, life was safe ; 
And I saw him turn and laugh : 
" Friend," he cried, " adieu ! lie low, 
W T hile the wintry storms shall blow ; 
W T hen the spring has calm'd the mau\ 
You shall rise and float again." 

Soon I saw him, with dismay, 
Spread his plumes, and soar away ; 
Now I mark his rapid flight ; 
Now he leaves my aching sight; 
He is gone whom I adore, 
'Tis in vain to seek him more. 

How I trembled then and fear'd, 
When my love had disappear'd ! 
" Wilt thou leave me thus," I cried, 
1: Whelm'd beneath the rolling tide 1" 
Vain attempt to reach his ear! 
Love was gone, and would not hear. 

Ah ! return, and love me still, 

See me subject to thy will ; 

Frown with wrath, or smile with grace, 

Only let me see thy face ! 

Evil I have none to fear, 

All is good, if thou art near. 

Yet he leaves me — cruel fate ! 
Leaves me in my lost estate — 
Have I sinn'dl Oh say wherein ; 
Tell me, and forgive my sin ! 
King, and Lord, whom I adore, 
Shall I see thy face no more 1 

Be not angry ; I resign, 

Henceforth, all my will to thine : 

I consent that thou depart, 

Though thine absence breaks my heart 

Go then, and forever too : 

All is right that thou wilt do. 

This was just what Love intended, 
He was now no more offended . 
Soon as I became a child, 
Love return'd to me and smiled : 
Never strife shall more betide 
'Twixt the bridegroom and his bnde. 



594 



COWPER'S WORKS 



A CHILD OF GOD LONGING TO SEE 
HIM BELOVED. 

There's not an echo round me, 

But I am glad should learn, 
How pure a fire has found me, 

The love with which I burn. 
For none attends with pleasure 

To what I would reveal ; 
They slight me out of measure, 

And laugh at all I feel. 

The rocks receive less proudly 

The story of my flame : 
When I approach, they loudly 

Reverberate his name. 
I speak to them of sadness, 

And comforts at a stand ; 
They bid me look for gladness, 

And better days at hand. 

Far from all habitation, 

I heard a happy sound ; 
Big with the consolation, 

That I have often found. 
I said, " My lot is sorrow, 

My grief has no alloy ;" 
The rocks replied — '■'• To-morrow, 

To-morrow brings thee joy." 

These sweet and sacred tidings, 

What bliss it is to hear ! 
For, spite of all my chidings, 

My weakness and my fear, 
No sooner I receive them, 

Than I forget my pain, 
And, happy to believe them, 

I love as much again. 

I fly to scenes romantic, 

Where never men resort ; 
For in an age so frantic 

Impiety is sport. 
For riot and confusion 

They barter things above ; 
Condemning as delusion, 

The joy of perfect love. 

In this sequester'd cornei, 

None hears what I express ; 
Deliver'd from the scorn er, 

What peace do I possess ! 
Beneath the boughs reclining, 

Or roving o'er the wild, 
I live as undesigning 

And harmless as a child. 

No troubles here surprise me, 

I innocently play, 
While Providence supplies me, 

And guards me all the day : 
My dear and kind defender 

Preserves me safely here. 
From men of pomp and splendor, 

Who fill a child with fear. 



ASPIRATIONS OF THE SOUL AFTER 
GOD. 

My Spouse ! in whose presence I live, 

Sole object of all my desires, 
Who know'st what a flame I conceive, 

And canst easily double its fires ! 



How pleasant is all that I meet '. 

From fear of adversity free ! 
I find even sorrow made sweet ; 

Because 'tis assign'd me by thee. 

Transported I see thee display 

Thy riches and glory divine ; 
I have only my life to repay, 

Take what I would gladly resign. 
Thy will is the treasure I seek, 

For thou art as faithful as strong : 
There let me, obedient and meek, 

Repose myself all the day long. 

My spirit and faculties fail ; 

Oh finish what love has begun ! 
Destroy what is sinful and frail, 

And dwell in the soul thou hast won ! 
Dear theme of my wonder and praise, 

I cry, Who is worthy as thou'? 
I can only be silent and gaze ! 

'Tis all lhat is left to me now. 

Oh glory in which I am lost, ^ 

Too deep for the plummet of thought* 
On an ocean of Deity toss'd, 

I am swallow'd, I sink into nought. 
Yet. lost and absorb'd as I seem, 

I chant to the praise of my King ; 
And, though overwhelm'd by the theme, 

Am happy whenever I sing. 



GRATITUDE AND LOVE TO GOD. 

All are indebted much to thee, 

But I far more than all, 
From many a deadly snare set free, 

And raised from many a fall. 
Overwhelm me, from above, 
Daily, with thy boundless love. 

What bonds of gratitude I feel 

No language can declare ; 
Beneath the oppressive weight I reel, 

'Tis more than I can bear : 
When shall I that blessing prove, 
To return thee love for love 1 

Spirit of charity, dispense 

Thy grace to every heart ; 
Expel all other spirits thence, 

Drive self from every part ; 
Charity divine, draw nigh, 
Break the chains in which we lie ! 

All selfish souls, whate'er they feign, 

Have still a slavish lot ; 
They boast of liberty in vain, 

Of love : and feel it not. 
He whose bosom glows with thee, 
He, and he alone, is free. 

Oh blessedness, all bliss above, 
When thy pure fires prevail ! 

Love only teaches what is love 
All other lessons fail : 

We learn its name, but not its powers. 

Experience only makes it ours. 



HAPPY SOLITUDE— UNHAPPY MEN. 

My heart is easy, and my burden light ; 

I smile, though sad, when thou ait in my sight 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 



691 



The more my woes in secret I deplore, 

[ taste thy goodness, and I love thee more. 

There, while a solemn stillness reigns around, 
Faith, love, and hope within my soul abound ; 
And. while the world suppose me lost in care, 
The joys of angels, unperceived, I share. 

Thy creatures wrong thee. O thou sovereign good ! 
Thou art not loved, because not understood ; 
This grieves me most, that vain pursuits beguile 
Ungrateful men. regardless of thy smile. 

Frail beauty and false honor are adored ; 
While thee they scorn, and trifle with thy word ; 
Pass, unconcern'd, a Saviour's sorrow by ; 
And hunt their ruin with a zeal to die. 



LIVING WATER. 

The fountain in its source, 
No drought of summer fears ; 

The farther it pursues its course, 
The nobler it appears. 

But shallow cisterns yield 

A scanty short supply ; 
The morning sees them amply fill'd, 

At evening they are dry. 



TRUTH AND DIVINE LOVE REJECTED 
BY THE WORLD. 

O love of pure and heavenly birth ! . 
O simple truth, scarce known on earth ! 
Whom men resist with stubborn will ; 
And, more perverse and daring stilf, 
Smother, and quench with reasonings vain, 
While error and deception reign. 

Whence comes it, that, your power the same 
As his on high, from whence you came, 
Ye rarely find a listening ear, 
Or heart that makes you welcome here ?— 
Because ye bring reproach and pain, 
Where'er ye visit, in your train. 

The world is proud, and cannot bear 
The scorn and calumny ye share ; 
The praise of men the mark they mean, 
They fly the place where ye are seen ; 
Pure love, with scandal in the rear, 
Suits not the vain ; it costs too dear. 

Then, let the price be what it may, 
Though poor, I am prepared to pay ; 
Come shame, come sorrow ; spite of tears, 
Weakness, and heart-oppressing fears ; 
One soul, at least, shall not repine, 
To give you room ; come, reign in mine ! 



DIVL^E JUSTICE AMIABLE. 

Thou hast no lightning, O thou Just 1 
Or I their force sho\»id know ; 

And, if thou strike mo into dust, 
My soul approves .ne blow. 

The h^'t t\at vp?ves less its ease 
Than it pdores *\y ways, 



In thine avenging anger sees 
A subject of his praise. 

Pleased I could lie, conceal'd and lost, 
In shades of central night ; 

Not to avoid thy wrath thou know'st, 
But lest I grieve thy sight. 

Smite me, O thou, whom I provoke ! 

And I will love thee still: 
The well-deserved and righteous stroke 

Shall please me, though it kill. 

Am I not worthy to sustain 
The worst thou.canst devise ; 

And dare I seek thy throne again, 
And meet thy sacred eyes ? • 

Far from alflicting, thou art kind ; 

And, in my saddest hours, 
An unction of thy grace I find, 

Pervading all my powers. 

Alas ! thou sparest me yet again ; 

And, when thy wrath should mov«, 
Too gentle to endure my pain, 

Thou soothest me with thy love. 

I have no punishment to fear; 

But, ah ! that smile from thee 
Imparts a pang far more severe 

Than woe itself would be. 



THE SOUL THAT LOVES GOD FINDS 
HIM EVERYWHERE. 

Oh thou, by long experience tried, 
Near whom no grief can long abide ; 
My love ! how full of sweet content 
I pass my years of banishment ! 

All scenes alike engaging prove 
To souls impress'd with sacred love ! 
Where'er they dwell, they dwell in thee ; 
In heaven, in earth, or on the sea. 

To me remains nor place nor time ; 
My country is in every clime ; 
I can be calm and free from care 
On any shore, since God is there. 

While place we seek, or place we shun, 
The soul finds happiness in none ; 
But, with a God to guide our way, 
'Tis equal joy to go or stay. 

Could I be cast where thou art not, 
That were indeed a dreadful lot ; 
But regions none remote I call, 
Secure of finding God in all. 

My country, Lord, art thou alone ; 
Nor other can I claim or own ; 
The point where all my wishes meet ; 
My law, my love, life's only sweet ! 

I hold by nothing here below ; 

Appoint my journey and I go ; 

Though pierced by scorn, oppress'd by prida 

I feel thee good — feel nought beside. 

No frowns of men can hurtful prove 
To souls on fire with heavenly love ; 
Though men and devils both condemn, 
No gloomy days arise from them. 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Ah then ! to his embrace repair ; 
My soul, thou art no stranger there ; 
There love divine shall be thy guard, 
And peace and safety thy reward. 



THE TESTIMONY OP DIVINE ADOP- 
TION. 

How happy -are the new-born race, 
Partakers of adopting grace ; 

How pure the bliss they share ! 
Hid from the world and all its eyes, 
Within their heart the blessing lies, 

And conscience feels it there. 

The moment we believe, 'tis ours ; 
And if we love with all our powers 

The God from whom it came ; 
And if we serve with hearts sincere, 
'Tis still discernible and clear, 

An undisputed claim. 

But, ah ! if foul and wilful sin 
Stain and dishonor us within, 

Farewell the joy we knew ; 
Again the slaves of nature's sway, 
In labyrinths of our own we stray, 

Without a guide or clue. 

The chaste and pure, Who fear to grieve 
The gracious Spirit they receive, 

His work distinctly trace : 
And, strong in undissembling love, 
Boldly assert and clearly prove 

Their hearts his dwelling place. 

On messenger of dear delight, 
Whose voice dispels the deepest night, 

Sweet peace-proclaiming Dove ! 
With thee at hand, to soothe our pains, 
No wish unsatisfied remains, 

No task but that of love. r 

'Tis love unites what sin divides ; 
The centre, where all bliss resides ; 

To which the soul once brought, 
Reclining on the first great cause, 
From his abounding sweetness draws 

Peace passing human thought. 

Sorrow foregoes its nature there, 
And life assumes a tranquil air, 

Divested of its woes ; 
There sovereign goodness soothes the breast, 
Till then incapable of rest, 

In sacred sure repose. 



DIVINE LOVE ENDURES NO RIVAL. 

Love is the Lord whom I obey, 
Whose will transported I perform ; 
The centre of my rest, my stay, 
Love's all in all to me, myself a worm. 

For uncreated charms I burn, 

Oppress'd by slavish fear no more, 

For one in whom I may discern, 

E'en when he frowns, a sweetness I adore. 

He little loves him who complains, 
And finds him rigorous and severe ; 



His heart is sordid, and he feigns, 
Though loud in boasting of a soul sincere. 

Love causes grief, but 'tis to move 
And stimulate the slumbering mind ; . 
And he has never tasted love, 
Who shuns a pang so graciously design'd. 

Sweet is the cross, above all sweets, 
To souls enamor'd with thy smiles ; 
The keenest woe life ever meets, 
Love strips of all its terrors, and beguiles 

'Tis just that God should not be, dear 
Where self engrosses all the thought, 
And groans and murmurs make it clear, 
Whatever else is loved, the Lord is not 

The love of thee flows just as much 
As that of ebbing self subsides; 
Our hearts, their scantiness is such, 
Bear not the conflict of two rival tides. 

Both cannot govern in one soul ; 

Then let self-love be dispossess'd ; 

The love of God deserves the whole, 

And will not dwell with so despised a guest 



SELF-DIFFIDENCE. 

Source of love, and light of day, 
Tear me from myself away ; 
Every view and thought of mine 
Cast into the mould of thine ; 
Teach. O teach this faithless heart 
A consistent constant part ; 
Or, if it must live to grow 
More rebellious, break it now ! 

Is it thus that I requite 
Grace and goodness infinite 1 
Every trace of every boon 
Cancell'd and erased so soon ! 
Can I grieve thee whom I love ; 
Thee in whom I live and move 1 
If my sorrow touch thee still, 
Save me from so great an ill ! 

Oh ! the oppressive, irksome weight, 
Felt in an uncertain state ; 
Comfort, peace, and rest, adieu, 
Should I prove at last untrue ! 
Still I choose thee, follow still 
Every notice of thy will ; 
But unstable, strangely weak, 
Still let slip the good I seek. 

Self-confiding wretch, I thought 
I could serve thee as I ought, 
Win thee, and deserve to feel 
All the leve thou canst reveal ; 
Trusting self, a bruised reed, 
Is to be deceived indeed : 
Save me from this harm and loss, 
Lest my gold turn all to dross 1 

Self is earthly — faith alone 
Makes an unseen world our own ; 
Faith relinquish'd, how we roam, 
Feel our way, and leave our hom» 
Spurious gems our hopes entice, 
While we scorn the pearl of price ; 
And, preferring servants' pay, 
Cast the children's bread awav. 




THE ACQUIESCENCE OF PURE LOVE. 

Love ! if thy destined sacrifice am I, 
Come, slay thy victim, and prepare thy fires ; 
Plunged in thy depths of mercy, let me die 
The death which every soul that lives desires ! 

I watch my hours and see them fleet away; 
The time is long that I have languish'd here ; 
Yet all my thoughts thy purposes obey, 
With no reluctance, cheerful and sincere. 

To me 'tis equal, whether love ordain 
My life or death, appoint me pain or ease ; 
My soul perceives no real ill in pain ; 
In ease or health no real good she sees. 

One good she covets, and that good alone, 
To choose thy will, from selfish bias free ; 
And to prefer a cottage to a throne, 
And grief to comfort, if it pleases thee. 

That we should bear the cross is thy command, 
Die to the world, and live to self no more ; 
Suffer, unmoved, beneath the rudest hand, 
As pleased when shipwreck'd as when safe on 
shore. 



REPOSE IN GOD. 

Blest ! who, far from all mankind, 
This world's shadows left behind, 
Hears from heaven a gentle strain 
Whispering love, and loves again. 

Blest ! who, free from self-esteem, 
Dives into the great Supreme, 
All desire beside discards, 
Joys inferior none regards. 

Blest ! who in thy bosom seeks 
Rest that nothing earthly freaks, 
Dead to self and worldly things, 
Lost in thee thou King of kings ! 

Ye that know my secret fire, 
Softly speak and soon retire ; 
Favor my divine repose, 
Spare the sleep a God bestows. 



GLORY TO GOD ALONE. 

Oh loved ! but not enough— though dearer far 
Than self and its most loved enjoyments are ; 
None duly loves thee, but who, nobly free 
From sensual objects, finds his all in thee. 

Giory of God ! thou stranger here below, 
Whom man nor knows, nor feels a wish to know ; 
Our faith and reason are both shock'd to find 
Man in the post of honor — Thee behind. 

Reason exclaims — " Let every creature fall, 
Ashamed, abased, before the Lord of all ;" 
And faith,' o'erwhelm'd with such a dazzling 

blaze, 
Feebly describes the beauty she surveys. 

Yet man, dim-sighted man, and rash as blind, 
Deaf to the dictates of his better mind, 
In frantic competition dares the skies, 
4nd claims precedence of the Only- wise. 



Oh lost in vanity, till once self-known ! 
Nothing is great, or good, but God alone ; 
When thou shalt stand before his awful face, 
Then, at the last, thy pride shall know his place. 

Glorious, Almighty, First, and without end ! 
When wilt thou melt the mountains and descend 1 
When wilt thou shoot abroad thy conquering 
rays, [praise 1 

And teach these atoms, thou hast made, thy 

Thy glory is the sweetest heaven I feel ; 
And if I seek it with too fierce a zeal, 
Thy love, triumphant o'er a selfish will, 
Taught me the passion, and inspires it still. 

My reason, all my faculties, unite, 
To make thy glory their supreme delight ; 
Forbid it, fountain of my brightest days, 
That I should rob thee, and usurp thy praise ! 

My soul ! rest happy in thy low estate, 
Nor hope, nor wish, to be esteem'd or great ; 
To take the impression of a will divine, 
Be that thy glory, and those riches thine. 

Confess him righteous in his just decrees, 
Love what he loves, and let his pleasure please ; 
Die daily ; from the touch of sin recede ; [deed. 
Then thou hast crown'd him, and he reigns in- 



SELF-LOVE AND TRUTH INCOM- 
PATIBLE. 

From thorny wilds a monster came, 
That fill'd my soul with fear and shame 
The birds, forgetful of their mirth ; 
Droop'd at the sight, and fell to earth ; 
When thus a sage address'd mine ear, 
Himself unconscious of a fear : 

" Whence all this terror and surprise, 
Distracted looks and streaming eyes 1 
Far from the world and its affairs, 
The joy it boasts, the pain it shares, 
Surrender, without guile or art, 
To God an undivided heart ; 
The savage form, so fear'd before, 
Shall scare your trembling soul no more ; 
For, loathsome as the sight may be, 
'Tis but the love of self you see. 
Fix all your love on God alone, 
Choose but his will, and hate your own : 
No fear shall in your path be found, 
The dreary waste shall bloom around. 
And you, through all your happy days, 
Shall bless his name, and sing his praise." 

Oh lovely solitude, how sweet 
The silence of this calm retreat ! 
Here Truth, the fair whom I pursue, 
Gives all her beauty to my view ; 
The simple, unadorn'd display 
Charms every pain and fear away. 
O Truth, whom millions proudly slight ; 
Truth, my treasure and delight ; 
Accept this tribute to thy name, 
And this poor heart from which it came ! 



THE LOVE OF GOD, THE END OF LIFE 

Since life in sorrow must be spent, 
So be it — I am well content. 



And meekly wait my la»st remove, 
Seeking only growth in love. 

No bliss I seek, but to fulfil 
In life, in death, thy lovely will ; 
No succors in my woes I want, 
Save what thou art pleased to grant. 

Our days are number'd, let us spare 
Our anxious hearts a needless care : 
'Tis thine to number out our days ; 
Ours to give them to thy praise. 

Love is our .only business here, 
Love, simple, constant, and sincere ; 
O blessed days thy servants see, 
Spent, O Lord ! in pleasing thee ! 



LOVE FAITHFUL IN THE ABSENCE OF 
THE BELOVED. 

In vain ye woo me to your harmless joys, 
Ye pleasant bowers, remote from strife and noise ; 
Your shades, the witnesses of many a vow, 
Breathed forth in happier days, are irksome now ; 
Denied that smile 'twas once my heaven to see, 
Such scenes, such pleasures, are all past with me. 

In vain he leaves me, I shall love him still ; 
And though I mourn, not murmur at his will ; 
I have no cause — an object all divine, 
Might well grow weary of a soul like mine ; 
Yet pity me great God ! forlorn, alone, 
Heartless and hopeless, life and love all gone. 



Renounce all strength but strength divine 
And peace shall be forever thine : 
Behold the path which I have trod, 
My path, till I go home to God. 



LOVE PURE AND FERVENT. 

Jealous, and with love o'erflowing, 
God demands a fervent heart ; 

Giace and bounty still bestowing, 
Calls us to a grateful part. 

Oh, then, with supreme affection 

His paternal will regard ! 
If it cost us some dejection, 

Every sigh has its reward. 

Perfect love has power to soften 
Cares that might our peace destroy, 

Nay, does more — transforms them often, 
Changing sorrow into joy. 

Sovereign love appoints the measure, 
And the number of our pains ; 

And is pleased when we find pleasure 
In the trials he ordains. 



THE ENTIRE SURRENDER. 

Peace has unveil'd her smiling face, 
And wooes thy soul to her embrace, 
Enjoy'd with ease, if thou refrain 
From earthly love, else sought in vain ; 
She dwells with all who truth prefer, 
But seeks not them who seek not her. 

Yield to the Lord with simple heart, 
All that thou hast, and all thou art ; 



THE PERFECT SACRIFICE. 

I place an offering at thy shrine, 
From taint and blemish clear, 

Simple and pure in its design, 
Of all that I hold dear. 

I yield thee back thy gifts again, 
Thy gifts which most 1 prize ; 

Desirous only to retain 
The notice of thine eyes. 

But if by thine adored decree, 

That blessing be denied ; 
Resign'd, and unreluctant, see 

My every wish subside. 

Thy will in all things I approve, 

Exalted or cast down ; 
Thy will in every state I love, 

And even in thy frown. 



GOD HIDES HIS PEOPLE. 

To lay the soul that loves him low, 

Becomes the Only- wise; 
To hide beneath a veil of woe, 

The children of the skies. 

Man, though a worm, would yet be great j 
Though feeble, would seem strong; 

Assumes an independent state, 
By sacrilege and wrong. 

Strange the reverse, which, once abaseu, 
The haughty creature proves ! 

He feels his soul a barren waste, 
Nor dares affirm he loves. 

Scorn'd by the thoughtless and the vain, 

To God he presses near ; 
Superior to the world's disdain, 

And happy in its sneer. 

Oh welcome, in his heart he says, 

Humility and shame ! 
Farewell the wish for human praise, 

The music of a name ! 

But will not scandal mar the good 

That I might else perform 1 
And can God work it, if he would, 

By so despised a worm? 

Ah, vainly anxious !— leave the Lord 

To rule thee, and dispose ; 
Sweet is the mandate of his word, 

And gracious all he does. 

He draws from human littleness 

His grandeur and renown ; 
And generous hearts with joy confess 

The triumph all his own. 

Down then with self-exalting thoughts; 
Thy faith and hope employ, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION 



69» 



To welcome all that he allots, 
And suffer shame with joy. 

No longer, then, thou wilt encroach 

On his eternal right ; 
And he shall smile at thy approach, 

And make thee his delight. 



TOE SECRETS OF DIVINE LOVE ARE 
TO BE KEPT. 

Sun! stay thy course, this moment stay — 

Suspend the o'erflowing tide of day, 

Divulge not such a love as mine, 

Ah ! hide the mystery divine ; 

Lest man, who deems my glory shame, 

Should learn the secret of my flame. 

night ! propitious to my views, 
Thy sable awning wide diffuse ; 
Conceal alike my joy and pain. 
Nor draw thy curtain back again. 
Though morning, by the tears she shows, 
Seems to participate my woes. 

Ye stars ! whose faint and feeble fires 

Express my languishing desires. 

Whose slender beams pervade the skies, 

As silent as my secret sighs, 

Those emanations of a soul, 

That darts her fires beyond the Pole ; 

Your rays, that scarce assist the sight, 
That pierce, but not displace the night, 
That shine indeed, but nothing show 
Of all those various scenes below, 
Bring no disturbance, rather prove 
Incentives to a sacred love. 

Thou moon . whose never- failing course 

Bespeaks a providential force, 

Go, tell the tidings of my flame 

To Him who calls the stars by name ; 

Whose absence kills, whose presence cheers; 

Who blots, or brightens, all my years. 

While, in the blue abyss of space, 
Thine orb performs its rapid race ; 
Still whisper in his listening ears 
The language of my sighs and tears ; 
Tell him, I seek him, far below, 
Lost in a wilderness of woe. 

Ye thought-composing, silent hours, 
Diffusing peace o'er all my powers ; 
Friends of the pensive, who conceal, 
In darkest shades, the flames I feel; 
To you I trust, and safely may, 
The love that wastes my strength away. 

In sylvan scenes and caverns rude, 

1 taste the sweets of solitude ; 
Retired indeed, but not alone. 

I share them with a spouse unknown, 
Who hides me here from envious eyes, 
From all intrusion and surprise. 

Imbowering shades and dens profound ! 
Where echo rolls the voice around ; 
Mountains ! whose elevated heads 
A moist and misty veil o'erspreads ; 
Disclose a solitary bride 
To him I love — to none beside. 



Ye rills, that, murmuring all the way, 
Among the polish'd pebbles stray ; 
Creep silently along the ground, 
Lest, drawn by'that harmonious sound, 
Some wanderer, whom I would not meet, 
Should stumble on my loved retreat. 

Enamell'd meads, and hillocks green, 
And streams that water all the scene, 
Ye torrents, loud in distant ettrs, 
Ye fountains, that receive my tears, 
Ah ! still conceal, with caution due, 
A charge I trust to none but you ! 

If, when my pain and grief increase 
I seem to enjoy the sweetest peace, 
It is because I find so fair 
The charming object of my care, 
That I can sport and pleasure make 
Of torment suffer'd for his sake. 

Ye meads and groves, unconscious things ) 
Ye know not whence my pleasure spring* 
Ye know not, and ye cannot know, 
The source from which my sorrows flow ■ 
The dear sole cause of all I feel, — 
He knows, and understands them well. 

Ye deserts, where the wild beasts rove, 
Scenes sacred to my hours of love ; 
Ye forests, in whose shades I stray, 
Benighted under burning day ; 
Ah ! whisper not how blest am I, 
Nor while I live, nor when I die. 

Ye lambs, who sport beneath these shades, 

And bound along the mossy glades ; 

Be taught a salutary fear, 

And cease to bleat when I am near ; 

The wolf may hear your harmless cry, 

Whom ye should dread as much as I. 

How calm, amid these scenes, my mind ! 

How perfect is the peace I find ! ^ 

Oh hush, be still, my every part, 

My tongue, my pulse, my beating heart ! 

That love, aspiring to its cause, 

May suffer not a moment's pause. 

Ye swift-finn'd nations, that abide 
In seas, as fathomless as wide ; 
And, unsuspicious of a snare, 
Pursue at large your pleasures there ; 
Poor sportive fools ! how soon does man 
Your heedless ignorance trepan. 

Away! dive deep into the brine, 
Where never yet sunk plummet line ; 
Trust me, the vast leviathan 
Is merciful compared with man ; 
Avoid his arts, forsake the beach, 
And never play within his reach. 

My soul her bondage ill endures 

I pant for liberty like yours ; 

I long for that immense profound, 

That knows no bottom and no bound ; 

Lost in infinity, to prove 

The incomprehensible of love. 

Ye birds, that lessen as ye fly, 
And vanish in the distant sky ; 
To whom yon airy waste belongs, 
Resounding with your cheerful songs ; 
Haste to escape from human sight ; 
Fear less the vulture and the kite. 



700 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



How blest and how secure am I, 
When quitting earth, I soar on high ; 
When lost, like you I disappear, 
And float in a sublimer sphere ; 
Whence falling, within human view, 
I am ensnared, and caught like you ! 

Omniscient God, whose notice deigns 
To try the heart and se.arch the reins, 
Compassionate the numerous woes, 
I dare not, e'en to thee, disclose ; 
Oh save me from the cruel hands 
Of men, who fear not thy commands ! 

Love, all-subduing and divine, 
Care for a creature truely thine ; 
Reign in a heart, disposed to own 
No sovereign but thyself alone ; 
Cherish a bride who cannot rove, 
Nor quit thee for a meaner love ! 



THE VICISSITUDES EXPERIENCED IN 
THE CHRISTIAN LIFE. 

I suffer fruitless anguish day by day, 
Each moment, as it passes, marks my pain ; 
Scarce knowing whither, doubtfully I stray, 
And see no end of all that I sustain. 

The more I strive the more I am withstood ; 
Anxiety increasing every hour, 
My spirit finds no rest, performs no good, 
And nought remains of all my former power. 

My peace of heart is fled, I know not where ; 
My happy hours, like shadows, pass'd away ; 
Their sweet remembrance doubles all my care, 
Night darker seems, succeeding such a day. 

Dear faded joys and impotent regret, 
What profit is there in incessant tears 1 
Oh thou, whom, once beheld, we ne'er forget 
Reveal thy love, and banish all my fears ! 

Alas he flies me — treats me as his foe, 
Views not my sorrows, hears not when I plead ; 
Woe such as mine, despised, neglected woe, 
Unless it shortens life, is vain indeed. 

Pierced with a thousand wounds, I yet survive ; 
My pangs are keen, but no complaint transpires ; 
And while in terrors of thy wrath I live, 
Hell seems to loose its less tremendous fires. 

Has hell a pain I would not gladly bear, 
So thy severe displeasure might subside 1 
Hopeless of ease, I seem already there, 
My life extinguish'd. and yet death denied. 

Is this the joy so promised — this the love, 
The unchanging love, so sworn in better days 1 
Ah ! dangerous glories ! shown me, but to prove 
How lovely thou, and I how rash to gaze. 

Why did I see them 1 had I still remain'd 
Untaught, still ignorant how fair thou art, 
My humbler wishes I had still obtain'd, 
Nor known the torments of a doubting heart. 

Deprived of all, yet feeling no desires, 
Whence then, I cry, the pangs that I sustain *? 
Dubious and uninform'd, my soul inquires, 
Ought she to Jierish or shake off her pain 1 



Suffering, I suffer not — sincerely love, 
Yet feel no touch of that enlivening flame ; 
As chance inclines me, unconoern'd I move, 
All times, and all events, to me the same. 

"I search my heart, and not a wish is there 
But burns with zeal that hated self may fall ; 
Such is the sad disquietude I share, 
A sea of doubts, and self the source of all. 

I ask not life, nor do I wish to die ; 
And, if thine hand accomplish not my cure, 
I would not purchase with a single sigh 
A free discharge from all that I endure. 

I groan in chains, yet want not a release; 
Am sick, and know not the distemper'd part ; 
Am just as void of purpose as of peace ; 
Have neither plan, nor fear, nor hope, nor heart 

My claim to life, though sought with earnest care 
No light within me, or without me, shows ; 
Once I had faith, but now in self-despair 
Find my chief cordial and my best repose. 

My soul is a forgotten thing ; she sinks, 
Sinks and is lost, without a wish to rise ; 
Feels an indifference she abhors, and thinks 
Her name erased forever from the skies. 

Language affords not my distress a name, — 
Yet it is real and no sickly dream ; 
'Tis love inflicts it ; though to feel that flame 
Is all I know of happiness supreme. 

When love departs, a chaos wide and vast, 
And dark as hell, is open'd in the soul ; 
When love returns, the gloomy scene is past, 
No tempests shake her, and no fears control. 

Then tell me why these ages of delay ? 
Oh love, all excellent, once more appear : 
Disperse the shades, and snatch me into day, 
From this abyss of night, these floods of fear ! 

No — love is angry, will not now endure 
A sigh of mine, or suffer a complaint ; [cure ; 
He smites me, wounds me, and withholds the 
Exhausts my powers, and leaves me sick and 
faint. 

He wounds, and hides the hand that gave the 

blow; 
He flies, he re-appears, and wounds again — 
Was ever heart that loved thee treated so 1 
Yet I adore thee, though it seem in vain. 

And wilt thou leave me, whom, when lost and 

blind, 
Thou didst distinguish and vouchsafe to choose, 
Before thy laws were written in my mind, 
While yet the world had all my thoughts and 

views 1 

Now leave me, when, enamor'd of thy laws, 
I make thy glory my supreme delight 1 
Now blot me from thy register, and cause 
A faithful soul to perish from thy sight 1 

What can have caused the change which I de- 
Is it to prove me, if my heart be true 1 [plorel 
Permit me then, while prostrate I adore, 
To draw, and place its picture in tr y view. 

'Tis thine without rese/ve, most simply thine; 
So given to thee, thr.« it is not my own ; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION, 



701 



A willing captive of thy grace divine ; 

And loves, and seeks thee, for thyself alone. 

Pain cannot move it. danger cannot scare ; 
Pleasure and wealth, in its esteem, are dust ; 
It loves thee, e'en when least inclined to spare 
Its tenderest feelings, and avows thee just. 

Tis all thine own ; my spirit is so too, 
An undivided offering at thy shrine ; 
It seeks thy glory with no double view, 
Thy glory with no secret bent to mine. 

Love, holy love ! and art thou not severe. 
To slight me, thus devoted, and thus fix'd 1 
Mine is an everlasting ardor, clear 
From all self-bias, generous and unniix'd. 

But I am silent, seeing what I see — 
And fear with cause, that I am self-deceived; 
Not e'en my faith is from suspicion free, 
And that I love seems not to be believed. 

Live thou, and reign forever, glorious Lord ! 
My last, least offering I present thee now — 
Renounce me. leave me. and be still adored ! 
Slay me, my God, and I applaud the blow. 



WATCHING UNTO GOD IN THE NIGHT 
SEASON. 

Sleep at last has fled these eyes, 
Nor do I regret his flight, 
More alert my spirits rise, 
And my heart is free and light. 

Nature silent all around, 
Not a single witness near ; 
God as soon as sought is found , 
And the flame of love burns clear. 

Interruption, all day long, 
Checks the current of my joys ; 
Creatures press me with a throng, 
' And perplex me with their noise. 

Undisturb'd I muse all night, 
On the first Eternal Fair ; 
Nothing there obstructs delight, 
Love is renovated there. 

Life, with its perpetual stir, 
Proves a foe to love and me ; 
Fresh entanglements occur — 
Comes the night and sets me free. 

Never more, sweet sleep, suspend 
My enjoyments, always new : 
Leave me to possess my friend ; 
Other eyes and hearts subdue. 

Hush the world that I may wake 
To the taste of pure delights ; 
Oh the pleasures I partake — 
God, the partner of my nights ! 

David, for the selfsame cause, 
Night preferr'd to busy day ; 
Hearts whom heavenly beauty draws, 
Wish the glaring sun away. 

Sleep, self-lovers is for you — 
Souls that love celestial know 
Fairer scenes by night can view 
Than the sun could ever show. 



ON THE SAME. 

Season of my purest pleasure, 

Sealer of observing eyes ! 
When, in larger, freer measure, 

I can commune with the skies ; 
While, beneath thy shade extended, 

Weary man forgets his woes, 
I, my daily trouble ended, 

Find, in watching, my repose. 

Silence all around prevailing, 

Nature hush'd in slumber sweet, 
No rude noise mine ears assailing, 

Now my God and I can meet : 
Universal nature slumbers, 

And my soul partakes the calm, 
Breathes her ardor out in numbers, 

Plaintive song or lofty psalm. 

Now my passion, pure and holy, 

Shines and burns without restraint: 
Which the day's fatigue and folly 

Cause to languish, dim and faint 
Charming hours of relaxation ! 

How I dread the ascending sun ! 
Surely, idle conversation 

Is an evil match'd by none. 

Worldly prate and babble hurt me ; 

Unintelligible prove ; 
Neither teach me nor divert me ; 

I have ears for none but love. 
Me they rude esteem, and foolish, 

Hearing my absurd replies ; 
I have neither art's fine polish, 

Nor the knowledge of the wise. 

Simple souls and unpolluted 

By conversing with the great, 
HaVe a mind and taste ill suited 

To their dignity and state ; 
All their talking, reading, writing, 

Are but talents misapplied ; 
Infants' prattle I delight in, 

Nothing human choose beside. 

'Tis the secret fear of sinning 

Checks my tongue, or I should say, 
When I see the night beginning, 

I am glad of parting day : 
Love this gentle admonition 

Whispers soft within my breast : 
" Choice befits not thy condition, 

Acquiescence suits thee best." 

Henceforth, the repose and pleasure 

Night affords me I resign ; 
And thy will shall be the measure, 

Wisdom infinite ! of mine : 
Wishing is but inclination 

Quarrelling with thy decrees; 
Wayward nature finds the occasion— 

'Tis her folly and disease. 

Night, with its sublime enjoyments, 

Now no longer will I choose ; 
Nor the day. with its employments, 

Irksome as they seem, refuse ; 
Lessons of a God's inspiring 

Neither time nor place impedes ; 
From our wishing and desiring 

Our unhappiness proceeds. 



702 



COWPER'S WORKS. ' 



ON THE SAME. 

Night ! how I love thy silent shades, 

My spirits they compose ; 
The bliss of heaven my soul pervades, 

In spite of all my woes. 

While sleep instils her poppy dews 

In every slumbering eye, 
I watch to meditate and muse, 

In blest tranquillity. 

And when I feel a God immense 

Familiarly impart, 
With every proof he can dispense 

His favor to my heart. . 

My native meanness I lament, 

Though most divinely fill'd 
With all the ineffable content 

That Deity can yield. 

His purpose and his course he keeps ; 

Treads all my reasonings down ; 
Commands me out of nature's deeps, 

And hides me in his own. 

When in the dust, its proper place, 

Our pride of heart we lay : 
'Tis then a deluge of his grace 

Bears all our sins away. 

Thou whom I serve, and whose I am, 

Whose influence from on high 
Refines, and still refines my flame, 

And makes my fetters fly. 

How wretched is the creature's state 
Who thwarts thy gracious power ; 

Crush'd under sin's en rmous weight, 
Increasing every hour ! 

The night, when pass'd entire with thee, 

How luminous and clear ! 
Then sleep has no delights for me, * 

Lest thou shouldst disappear. 

My Saviour ! occupy me still 

In this secure recess ; 
Let reason slumber if she will, 

My joy shall not be less. 

Let reason slumber out the night ; 

But if thou deign to make 
My soul the abode of truth and light, 

Ah, keep my heart awake ! 



THE JOY OF THE CROSS. 

Long plunged in sorrow. I resign 
My soul to that dear hand of thine, 

Without reserve or fear ; 
That hand shall wipe my streaming eyes ; 
Or into smiles of glad surprise 

Transform the falling tear. 

My sole possession is thy love ; 

In earth beneath, or heaven above, 

I have no other store ; 
And, though with fervent suit I pray, 
And importune thee night and day, 

I ask thee nothing more. 



My rapid hours pursue the course 
Prescribed them by love's sweetest force, 

And I thy sovereign will, 
Without a wish to escape my doom ; 
Though still a sufferer from the womb, 

And doom'd to suffer still. 

By thy command, where'er I stray, 
Sorrow attends me all my way, 

A never-failing friend ; 
And, if my sufferings may augment 
Thy praise, behold me well content — 

Let sorrow still attend ! 

It cost me no regret, that she, 

Who follow'd Christ, should follow me, 

And though, where'er she goes, 
Thorns spi-ing spontaneous at her feet, 
I love her. and extract a sweet 

From all my bitter woes. 

Adieu ! ye vain delights of earth, 
Insipid sports, and childish mirth, 

I taste no sweets in you ; 
Unknown delights are in the cross, 
All joy beside to me is dross ; 

And Jesus thought so too. 

The cross ! Oh ravishment and bliss- 
How grateful e'en its anguish is ; 

Its bitterness how sweet ! 
There every sense, and all the mind, 
Tn all her faculties refined, 

Tastes happiness complete. 

Souls once enabled to disdain 
Base sublunary joys, maintain 

Their dignity secure ; 
The fever of desire is pass'd, 
And love has all its genuine taste, 

Is delicate and pure. 

Self-love no grace in sorrow sees, 
Consults her own peculiar ease ; 

'Tis all the bliss she knows ; 
But nobler aims true Love employ ; ' 
In self-denial is her joy, 

In suffering her repose. 

Sorrow and love go side by side ; 
Nor height nor depth can e'er divide 

Their heaven-appointed bands ; 
Those dear associates still are one, 
Nor till the race of life is run 

Disjoin their wedded hands. 

Jesus, avenger of our fall, 
Thou faithful lover, above all 

The cross has ever borne ! 
Oh tell me, — life is in thy voice — 
How much afflictions were thy choice, 

And sloth and ease thy scorn ! 

Thy choice and mirie shall be the same 
Inspirer of that holy flame, 

Which must forever blaze ! 
To take the cross and follow thee, 
Where love and duty lead, shall be 

My portion and my praise. 



JOY IN MARTYRDOM. 

Swcet tenants of this grove •' 
Who sing without design, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 703 


A song of artless love, 


Thee to love, and none beside, 


In unison with mine : 


Was my darling, sole employ ■ 


These echoing shades return 


While alternately I died. 


Full many a note of ours, 


Now of grief and now of joy. 


That wise ones cannot learn, 




With all their hoasted powers. 


Through the dark and silent night 


On thy radiant smiles I dwelt ; 


thou ! whose sacred charms 


And to see the dawning light • 


These hearts so seldom love, 


Was the keenest pain I felt. 


Although thy beauty warms 
j\nd blesses all above; 


Thou my gracious teacher wert ; 


How slow are human things, 

To choose their happiest lot ! 
All-glorious King of kings, 


And thine eye. so close applied, 


While it watch'd thy pupil's heart 


Seem'd to look at none beside. 


Say why we love thee not 1 


Conscious of no evil drift, 


This heart that cannot rest, 


This, I cried, is love indeed — 


Shall thine forever prove ; 
Though bleeding and distress'd, 


'Tis the giver, not the gift, 


Whence the joys I feel proceed. 


Yet joyful in thy love: 


But, soon humbled and laid low, 


'Tis happy though it breaks 
Beneath thy chastening hand; 


Stript of all thou hadst conferr'd, 
Nothing left but sin and woe, 
I perceived how I had err'd. 


And speechless, yet it speaks, 
What thou canst understand. 




Oh, the vain conceit of man, 


* • 


Dreaming of a good his own, 


SIMPLE TRUST. 


Arrogating all he can, 

Though the Lord is good alone ! 


Still, still, without ceasing, 
I feel it increasing, 
This fervor of holy desire ; 
And often exclaim, 
Let me die in the flame 


He the graces thou hast wrought 
Makes subservient to his pride ; 
Ignorant that one such thought 
Passes all his sin beside. 


Of a love that can never expire ! 


Such his folly — proved, at last 


Had I words to explain 
What she must sustain 


By the loss of that repose, 


Self-complacence cannot taste, 


Who dies to the world and its ways ; 


Only love divine bestows. 


How joy and affright, 


'Tis by this reproof severe, 


Distress and delight, 


And by this reproof alone, 


Alternately chequer her days : 


His defects at last appear, 


Thou, sweetly severe ! 


Man is to himself made known. 


I would make thee appear, 


Learn, all earth ! that feeble man, 


In all thou art pleased to award, 


Sprung from this terrestrial clod, 
Nothing is, and nothing can ; 
Life and power are all in God. 


Not more in the sweet 


Than the bitter I meet 


My tender and merciful Lord. 
This faith, in the dark, 


. 


Pursuing its mark, 
Through many sharp trials of love, 


LOVE INCREASED BY SUFFERING 


Is the sorrowful waste 


" I love the Lord," is still the strain 


That is to be pass'd 
On the way to the Canaan above. 


This heart delights to sing : 


But I reply — your thoughts are vain, 




Perhaps 'tis no such thing. 
Before the power of love divine 




THE NECESSITY OF SELF-ABASEMENT. 


Creation fades away ; 




Till only God is seen to shine 
In all that we survey. 


Source of love, my brighter sun. 


Thou alone my comfort art ; 


See, my race is almost run : 


In gulfs of awful night we find 


Hast thou left this trembling heart 1 


The God of our desires ; 




'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind, 


In my youth thy charming eyes 


And doubles all its fires. 


Drew me from the ways of men ; 




Then I drank unmingled joys ; 


Flames of encircling love invest, 


Frown of thine saw never then. 


And pierce it sweetly through ; 


Spouse of Christ was then my name ; 


'Tis filled with sacred joy, yet press'd 
With sacred sorrow too. 


And, devoted all to thee, 




Strangely jealous I became, 


Ah love ! my heart is in the right — 


Jealous of this self in me. 


Amidst a thousand woes, 



704 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



To thee, its ever new delight, 
And all its peace it owes. 

Fresh causes of distress occur 

Where'er I look or move ; 
The comforts I to all prefer 

Are solitude and love. 

Nor exile I nor prison fear ; 

Love makes my courage great ; 
I find a Saviour everywhere, 

His grace in every state. 

Nor castle walls, nor dungeons deep, 
Exclude his quickening beams ; 

There I can sit, and sing, and weep, 
And dwell on heavenly themes. 

There sorrow, for his sake, is found 

A joy beyond compare ; 
There no presumptuous thoughts abound, 

No pride can enter there. 

A Saviour doubles all my joys, 

And sweetens all my pains, 
His strength in my defence employs, 

Consoles me and sustains. 

I fear no ill, resent no wrong ; 

Nor feel a passion move, 
When malice whets her slanderous tongue ; 

Such patience is in love. 



SCENES FAVORABLE TO MEDITATION. 

Wilds horrid and dark with o'ershadowing trees, 

Rocks that ivy and briers infold, 
Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees, 

But I with a pleasure untold ; 

Though awfully silent, and shaggy, and rude, 
I am charm'd with the peace ye afford; 

Your shades are a temple where none will intrude, 
The abode of my lover and Lord. 

I am sick of thy splendor, O fountain of day, 
And here I am hid from its beams, 

Here safely contemplate a brighter display 
Of the noblest and holiest of themes. 

Ye forests, that yield me my sweetest repose, 
Where stillness and solitude reign, 

To you I securely and boldly disclose 
The dear anguish of which I complain. 



Here, sweetly forgetting and wholly forgot 
By the world and its turbulent throng, 

The birds and the streams lend me many e, note 
That aids meditation and song. 

Here, wandering in scenes that are sacred to night, 
Love wears me and wastes me away, 

And often the sun has spent much of his light 
Ere yet I perceive it is day. 

While a mantle of darkness envelops the sphere 

My sorrows are sadly rehearsed, 
To me the dark hours are all equally dear, 

And the last is as sweet as the first. 

Here I and the beasts of the deserts agree, 
Mankind are the wolves that I fear, 

They grudge me my natural right to be free, 
But nobody questions it here. 

Though little is found in this dreary abode 

That appetite wishes to find, 
My spirit is soothed by the presence of God, 

And appetite wholly resign'd. 

Ye desolate scenes, to your solitude led, 

My life I in praises employ, [sht4 

And scarce know the source of the tears that 1 
Proceed they from sorrow or joy. 

There's nothing I seem to have skill to discern, 

I feel out my way in the dark, 
Love reigns in my bosom, I constantly burn, 

Yet hardly distinguish the spark. 

I live, yet I seem to myself to be dead, 

Such a riddle is not to be found, 
I am nourish'd without knowing how I am fed. 

I have nothing, and yet I abound. 

Oh love ! who in darkness art pleased to abide, 

Though dimly, yet surely I see 
That these contrarieties only reside 

In the soul that is chosen of thee. 

Ah ! send me not b?ck to the race of mankind, 

Perversely by folly beguiled. 
For where, in the crowds I have left, shall I finJ 

The spirit and heart of a child 7 

Here let me, though fix'd in a desert, be free ; 

A little one whom they despise, 
Though lost to the world, if in union with thee, 

**hall be holy, and happy, and wise. 



TRANSLATIONS 



LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF MILTON. 



ELEGY I. 

TO CHARLES DEODATI. 

At length; my friend, the far-sent letters come, 
Charged with thy kindness, to their destined 

home; 
They come, at length, from Deva's Western side, 
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide. 
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be, 
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me, 
And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam, 
Must seek again so soon his wonted home, 
I well content, where Thames with influent tide 
My native city laves, meantime reside, 
Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel 
To reedy Cam. and my forbidden cell. 
No~ aught of pleasure in those fields have I, 
Tnat to the musing bard all shade deny. 
Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain, 
And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain. 
If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent 
Beneath my father's roof be banishment. 
Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse 
A name expressive of the lot I choose. 
I would that,, exiled to the Pontic shore, 
Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more. 
He then had equall'd even Homer's lays. 
And, Virgil ! thou hadst won but second praise : 
For here I woo the muse, with no control. 
And here my books — my life — absorb me whole. 
Here too I visit, or to smile or weep. 
The winding theatre's majestic sweep ; 
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits 
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits ; 
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir, 
Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd be there, 
Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause, 
Thunder the Norman gibberish of the laws. 
The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire, 
And, artful speeds the enamor'd son's desire. 
There, virgins oft. unconscious what they prove, 
What love is know not yet, unknowing, love. 
Or. if impassion'd tragedy wield high 
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly, 
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye, 
I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief. 
At times, e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief, 
As, when from bliss untasted torn away, 
Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day; 
Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below, 
Pills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe ; 



When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene afford* • 
Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords. 
Nor always city-pent, or pent at home, 
I dwell ; but. when spring calls me forth to roam, 
Expatiate in our proud suburban shades 
Of branching elm that never sun pervades. 
Here many a virgin troop I may descry, 
Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by. 
Oh forms divine ' oh looks that might inspire 
E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire, 
Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes, 
Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies ; 
Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd 
By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road ! [low, 

Bright locks, love's golden snare ! these falling 
Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow ! 
Cheeks, too, more winning sweet than after 

shower 
Adonis turn'd to Flora's favorite flower ! 
Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shared the 

embrace 
Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place ! 
Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast ! 
And ye, not less renown'd. Assyria's boast ! 
Submit, ye nymphs of Greece ! ye, once the 

bloom 
Of Ilion ! and all ye, of haughty Rome, 
Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains 
Redundant, and still live in classic strains ! 
To British damsels beauty's palm is due ; 
Aliens ! to follow them is fame for you. 
Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands. 
Whose towering front the circling realm com- 
mands, 
Too blest abode ! no loveliness we see 
In all the earth but it abounds in thee. 
The virgin multitude that daily meets, 
Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets, 
Outnumbers all her train of starry fires 
With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires. 
Fame says that, wafted hither by her doves. 
With all her host of quiver-bearing loves, 
Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more 
Has fix d her empire on thy nobler shore. 
But, lest the sightless boy enforce my stay, 
I leave these happy walls while yet I may. 
Immortal Moly shall secure my heart 
From all the sorcery of Circaean art. 
And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools, 
To face once more the warfare of the schools. 
Meantime accept this trifle ! rhymes though few 
Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true 
45 



706 



COWPER'S WORKo. 



ELEGY II. 

jft THE DEATH OP THE UNIVERSITY 
BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE. 

Thee, whose refulgent staff and summons clear 
Minerva's flock long time was wont to obey, 

Although thyself a herald, famous here, 

The last of heralds death, has snatch'd away. 

He calls on all alike, nor even deigns 

To spare the office that himself sustains. 

Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd 
By Leda's paramour in ancient time ; 

But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd, 
Or, iEson-like, to know a second prime, 

Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won 

New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son. 

Commission'd to convene with hasty call [stand ! 

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou 
So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall, 

Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command ! 
And so Eurybates. when he address'd 
To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest. 

Dread queen of sepulchres ! whose rigorous laws 
And watchful eyes run through the realms 

Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause ! [below, 
Too often to the muse not less a foe ! 

Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim 

Pierce useless drones, earth's burden and its 
shame ! r 

Flow, therefore, tears for him from every eye, 
All ye disciples of the muses, weep ! 

Assembling all in robes of sable dye, 

Around his bier lament his endless sleep! 

And let complaining Elegy rehearse 

In every school her sweetest, saddest verse. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF 
WINCHESTER. 

Silent I sat, dejected and alone, 

Making, in thought, the public woes my own, 

When first arose the image in my breast 

Of England's suffering by that scourge, the pest ! 

How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in 

hand, 
Entering the lordliest mansions of the land, 
Has laid the gem-illumined palace low, 
And levell'd tribes of "nobles at a blow. 
I next deplored the famed paternal pair, 
Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air ! 
The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies, 
All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs ; 
But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most, 
Winton's .chief shepherd, and her worthiest 

boast ! 
Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said : 
" Death, next in power to Him who rules the 

dead ! 
Is it not enough that all the woodlands yield 
To thy fell force, and every verdant field ; 
That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine, 
And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine ; 
That oaks themselves, although the running rill 
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will ; 
That all the winged nations, even those 
Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows, 



And all the beasts that in dark forests stray, 
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey. 
Ah envious ! arm'd with powers so unconfined ! 
Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind 
Why take delight, with darts that never roam, 
To chase a heaven-born spirit from her home V 

While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening 
stood. 
Now newly risen above the western flood, 
And Phoebus from his morning goal again 
Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main. 
I wish'd repose, and, on' my couch reclined, 
Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd : 
When — oh for words to paint what I beheld ! 
I seem'd to wander in a spacious field, 
Where all the champaign glow'd with purpli 

light, 
Like that of sunrise on the mountain height ; 
Flowers over all the field, of every hue 
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew. 
Nor Chloris. with whom amorous Zephyrs play, 
E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay. 
A silver current, like the Tagus. roll'd 
O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold ; 
With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers, 
With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers. 
Such, poet's feign, irradiated all o'er 
The sun's abode on India's utmost shore. 

While I that splendor, and the mingled shade 
Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd, survey'd, 
At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, 
The seer of Winton stood before my face. 
His snowy vesture's hem descending low, 
His golden sandals swept, and, pure as snow 
New fallen, shone the mitre on his brow. 
Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound 
Of gladness shook the flowery scene around : 
Attendant angels clap their starry wings, 
The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings; 
Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast, 
And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest : 
" Ascend, my son ! thy Father's kingdom share 
My son ! henceforth be freed from every care I ' 

So spake the voice, and at its tender close 
With psaltery's sound the angelic band arose ; 
Then night retired, and, chased by dawning 

day, 
The visionary bliss pass'd all away. 
I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern ; 
Frequent to me may dreams like this return ! 



TO HIS TUTOR, THOMAS YOUNG, 

CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT 
HAMBURGH. 

Hence, my epistle — skim the deep — fly o'er 
Yon smooth expanse to the Tuetonic shore ! 
Haste — lest a friend should grieve for thy delay — 
And the gods grant that nothing thwart thy 

way ! 
I will myself invoke the king who binds 
In his Sicanian echoing vault the winds, 
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng 
Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along. 
But rather, to ensure thy happier haste, 
Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou mayst; 
Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore 
Descended, welccme on the Scythian shore. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON 



70 



The sands that line the German coast descried, 

To opulent Hamburga turn aside ! 

So call'd if legendary fame be true. 

From Hama. whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew ! 

There lives, deep learn'd and primitively just. 

A faithful steward of his Christian trust. 

My friend, and favorite inmate of my heart, 

That now is forced to want its better part ! 

What mountains now. and sens, alas ! how wide ! 

From me this other, dearer self divide, 

Dear as the sage renown'd for moral truth 

To the prime spirit of the Attic youth ! 

Dear as the Stagyrite to Amnion's son, 

His pupil, who disdairrd the world he won ! 

Nor so did Chiron, or so Phoenix shine 

In young Achilles' eyes, as he in mine. 

First led by him through sweet Aonian shade, 

Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survey'd ; 

And, favor'd by the muse whom I implored, 

Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd. 

But thrice the sun's resplendent chariot roll'd . 

To Aries has new tinged his fleece with gold. 

And Chloris twice has dress'd the meadows 

And twice has summer parch'd their bloom away. 
Since last delighted on his looks I hung 
Or my ear drank the music of his tongue : 
Fly, therefore, and surpass the tempest's speed; 
Aware thyself that there is urgent need ! 
Him. entering thou shalt haply seated see 
Beside his spouse, his infants en his knee ; 
Or turning page by page, with studious iook, 
Some bulky father, or God's holy book; 
Or ministering (which is his weightiest care) 
To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly fare. 
Give him, whatever his employment be, 
Such gratulation as he claims from me ! 
And. with a downcast eye. and carriage meek ; 
Addressing him, forget not thus to speak : 

"If coinpass'd round with arms thou canst at- 
tend 
To verse, verse greets thee from a distant friend. 
Long due. and late, I left the English shore ; 
But make me welcome for that cause the more ! 
Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer, 
The slow epistle came, though late, sincere. 
But wherefore this 1 why palliate I the deed 
For which the culprit's self could hardly plead 1 
Seh-charged. and self-condemned, his proper part 
He feels neglected, with an aching heart ; 
But thou forgive — delinquents, who confess, 
And pray forgiveness, merit anger less ; 
From timid foes the lion turns away, 
Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey. 
E'en pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare. 
Won by soft influence of a suppliant prayer; 
And heaven's dread thunderbolt arrested stands 
By a cheap victim and uplifted hands 
Long had he wished to write, but was withheld 
And writes at last, by love alone compell'd, 
For fame, too often true, when she alarms 
Reports thy neighboring fields a scene of arms ; 
The city against fierce besiegers barr'd, • 
And all the Saxon chiefs for fight prepared. 
Enyo wastes thy country wide arouj|l, 
And saturates with blood the tainted ground; 
Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more, 
But goads his steeds to fields of German gore, 
The ever verdant olive fades and dies. 
And Peace the trumpet-hating goddess, flies 
Flies from that earth which justice long had left, 
And leaves the world of its last guard bereft." 



Thus horror girds thee round. Meantim 
alone 
Thou dwell'st, and helpless, in a soil unknown 
Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand 
The aid denied thee in thy native land. 
Oh. ruthless country, and unfeeling more 
Than thy own billow-beaten chalky shore ! 
Leavest thou to foreign care the worthies given 
By Providence to guide thy steps to heaven 1 
His ministers, commissioned to proclaim 
Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name! 
Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed. 
In Stygian night to lie forever dead ! 
So once the venerable Tishbite stray'd 
An exiled fugitive from shade to shade, 
When, flying Ahab and his fury wife, 
In lone Arabian wilds he shelter'd life ; 
So from Philippa wander'd forth forlorn, 
Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn; 
And Christ himself, so left, and trod no more 
The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore. 

But thou take courage ! strive against despair 
Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care 
Grim war indeed on every -side appears, 
And thou art menaced by a thousand spears; 
Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offenc 
E'en the defenceless bosom of my friend. 
For thee the iEgis of thy God shall hide, 
Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side. 
The same who vanquish^! under Sion's towers 
At silent midnight all Assyria's powers, 
The same who overthrew in ages past 
Damascus' sons that laid Samaria waste ! 
Their king he fill'd and them with fatal fears, 
By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears, 
Of hoofs, and wheels, and neighings from afar, 
Of clashing armor, and the din of war. 

Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may) 
Still hope, and triumph o'er thy evil day ! 
Look forth expecting happier times to come, 
And to enjoy, once more, thy native home ! 



elegy v. 



ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Time, never wandering from his annual round, 
Bids zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw tha 

ground ; 
Bleak winter flies new verdure clothes the plain, 
And earth assumes her transient youth again. 
Dream I, or also to the spring belong 
Increase of genius, and new powers of song 1 
Spring gives them, and, how strange soe'er it 

seems 
Impels me now to some harmonious themes. 
CastahVs fountain and the forked hill 
By day. by night, my raptured fancy fill; 
My bosom burns and heaves I hear within 
A sacred sound that prompts me to begin. 
Lo ! Phoebus comes, with his bright hair hi 

blends 
The radiant 1' urel wreath ; Phoebus descends ! 
I mount and undepress'd by cumbrous clay, 
Through cloudy regions win my easy way ; 
Rapt through poetic shadowy haunts I fly : 
The shrines all open to my dauntless eye, 
My spirit searches all the realms of light, 
And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight. 
But this ecstatic trance — this glorious storm 
Of inspiration — what will it perform * 



708 



COWPER'S WORKS 



Spring claims the verse that with his influence 
glows, 

And shall be paid with what himself bestows. 
Thou, veil'd with opening foliage, lead'st the 
throng 

Of feather'd minstrels. Philomel ! in song ; 

Let us. in concert: to the season sing, 

Civic and sylvan heralds of the spring ! 

With notes triumphant spring's approach de- 
clare ! 

To spring, ye muses, annual tribute bear! 

The Orient left, and Ethiopia's plains, 

The sun now northward tarns his golden reins ; 

Vight creeps not now ; yet rules with gentle 
sway. 

And drives her dusky horrors swift away ; 

Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain 

Bootes follows his celestial wain ; 

And now the radiant sentinels above, 

Less numerous, watah around the courts of Jove, 

For with the night, force, ambush, slaughter 

fly, 

And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky. 
Now, haply says some shepherd, while he views, 
Recumbent on a rock, the reddening dews. 
This night, this, surely, Phoebus miss'd the fair, 
Who stops his chariot by her amorous care. 
Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow, 
Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow; 
Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear, 
Blesses his aid, who shortens her career. 
Come — Phoebus cries — Aurora come — too late 
Thou lingerest, slumbering, with thy wither'd 

mate ; 
Leave nim, and to Hymettus' top repair ! 
Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there. 
The goddess with a blush her love betrays, 
But mounts, and. driving rapidly, obeys. 
Earth now desires thee. Phoebus ! and, to engage 
Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age ; 
Desires thee, and deserves ; for who so sweet 
When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat ] 
Her breath imparts to every breeze that blows 
Arabia's harvest and the Paphian rose. 
Her lofty front she diadems around 
With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd 
Her dewy locks with various flowers new blown 
She interweaves, various, and all her own ; 
For Proserpine, in such a wreath attired, 
Tffinarian Dis himself with love inspired. 
Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse ! 
Herself, with all her sighing zephyrs, sues ; 
Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing, 
And all her groves with warbled wishes ring. 
Nor, unendow'd and indigent aspires 
The amorous Earth to engage thy warm desires. 
But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim, 
Divine Physician ! to that glorious name. 
If splendid recompense, if gifts, can move 
Desire in thee, (gifts often purchase love,) 
She offers all the wealth her mountains hide, 
And all that rests beneath the boundless tide. 
How oft, when headlong from the heavenly 

steep 
She sees thee playing in the western deep. 
How oft she cries — '• Ah Phoebus, why repair 
Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there 1 
Can Tethys win thee 1 wherefore should st thou 

lave 
A face so fair in her unpleasant wave 1 
Uome, seek my green retreats, and rather choose 
,p o cool thy tresses in my crystal dews. 



The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest; 
Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast, 
And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose^ 
Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose ! 
No fears I feel like Semele to die. 
Nor lest thy burning wheels approach too nigh, 
For thou canst govern them here therefore rest, 
And lay thy evening glories on my breast !" 
Thus breathes the wanton Earth her amorou* 

flame, 
And all her countless offspring feel the same ; 
For Cupid now through every region strays, 
Brightening his faded fires with solar rays ; 
His new-strung bow sends forth a deadliei 

sound, 
And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound; 
Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried, 
Nor even Vesta at her altar-side ; 
His mother too repairs her beauty's wane, 
And seems sprung newly from the deep again. 
Exulting youths the hymeneal sing. 
With Hymen's name roois, rocks, and valleys 

ring ; 
He, new-attired, and by the season drest, 
Proceeds all fragrant, m his saffron vest. 
Now many a golden-cinctured virgin roves 
To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves, 
All wish, and each alike, some favorite youth 
Hers, in the bonds of hymeneal truth. 
Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again. 
Nor Phillis wants a song that suits the strain; 
With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere, 
And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear ; 
Jove feels himself the season, sports again 
With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train 
Now too the satyrs, in the dusk of eve, 
Their mazy dance through flowery meadow 

weave, 
And. neither god nor goat, but both in kind, 
Silvanus. wreathed with cypress, skips behind 
The dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells 
To roam the banks and solitary dells ; 
Pan riots now ; and from his amorous chafe 
Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe, 
And Faunus, all on fire to reach the prize, 
In chase of some enticing oread flies ; 
She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound, 
And hidden lies, but wishes to be found. 
Our shades entice the immortals from above, 
And some kind power presides o'er every grove; 
And long, ye powers, o'er every grove preside, 
For all is safe, and blest, where ye abide ! 
Return. O Jove! the age of gold restore — 
Why choose to dwell where storms and thundei 

roar 7 
At least thou. Phoebus ! moderate thy speed ! 
Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed, 
Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole 
Too soon to night's encroaching, long control ! 



ELEGY VI. 

TO CHARLES DEODATI, 

Who, while he spent his Christmas in the country, sent 
the Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested 
that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be ex- 
cused on account of the many feasts to which his ir' *nds 
invited him, and which would not allow him leisure to 
finish them as he wished. 

With no rich viands overcharged, I send [friend. 
Health, which perchance you want, my paraper'd 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



70 



But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away 
Prom what she loves, from darkness into day 1 
Art thou desirous to be told how well 
I love thee, anil in verse ? verse cannot tell. 
For verse has bounds, and must in measure 

move; 
But neither bounds nor measure knows my love. 
How pleasant, in thy lines described, appear 
December's harmless sports and rural cheer ! 
French spirits kindling with caerulean fires, 
And all such gambols as the time inspires ! 

Think not that wine against good verse offends, 
The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends ; 
Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found ■ 
With ivy, rather than with laurel, crown 'd. 
The Nine themselves ofttimes have join'd the 

song 
And revels of the Bacchanalian throng ; 
Not even Ovid could in Scythian air [there. 

Sing sweetly — whyl — no vine would flourish 
What in brief numbers sung Anacreon's muse 1 
Wine, and the rose that sparkling wine bedews. 
Pindar with Bacchus glows — his every line 
Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine, 
While, with loud crash o'erturned. the chariot lies, 
And brown with dust the fiery courser flies. - 
The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays 
So sweet in Glycera's and Chloe's praise. 
Now too the plenteous feast and mantling bowl 
Nourish the vigor of thy sprightly soul; 
The flowing goblet*makes thy numbers flow, 
And casks not wine alone but verse bestow. 
Thus Phoebus favors, and the arts attend, 
Whom Bacchus and whom Geres both befriend. 
What wonder, then, thy verses are so sweet, 
In which these triple powers so kindly meet! 
The lute now also sounds with gold inwrought, 
And. touch'd with flying fingers nicely taught, 
Ln tapestried halls, high roof 'd, the sprightly lyre 
Directs the dancers of the virgin choir. 
If dull repletion fright the muse away, 
Sights gay as these may more invite her stay ; 
And, trust me, while the ivory keys resound, 
Fair damsels sport, and perfume steam around, 
Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame, 
Shall animate, at once, thy glowing frame. 
And all the muse shall rush into thy breast, 
By love and music's blended powers possest. 
For numerous powers light Elegy befriend, 
Hear her sweet voice and at her call attend ; 
Her. Bacchus Ceres Venus, all approve. 
And, with his blushing mother, gentl Love. 
Hence to such bards we grant the copious use 
Of banquets and the vine's delicious juice. 
But they who demigods and heroes praise. 
And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days, 
Who now the counsels of high heaven explore. 
Now shades that echo the Cerberean roar, 
Simply let these, like him of Samos live. 
Let nerbs to them a bloodless banquet give ; 
In beechen goblets let their beverage shine. 
Cool from the crystal spring, their sober wine ! 
Their youth should pass in innocence secure 
From stain licentious, and in manners pure, 
Pure as the priest, when robed in white he stands. 
The fresh lustration ready in his hands. 
Thus Linus lived, and thus, as poets write, 
Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight ; 
Thus exiled Chalcas thus the Bard of Thrace, 
Melodious tamer of the savage race ; 
Thus train'd by temperance, Homer led of yore, 
His chief of Ithaca froiL «hore to shore, 



Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign, 
And shoals insidious with the syren train ; 
And through the realms where grizzly spectral 

dwell, 
Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell ; 
For these are sacred bands, and from above 
Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove. 
VVouldst thou, (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine 

ear.) 
Wouldst thou be told my occupation here % 
The promised King of Peace employs my pen, 
The eternal covenant made for guilty men, 
The new-born Deity with infant cries 
Filling the sordid hovel where he lies; 
The hymning angels, and the herald star, 
That led the wise, who sought him from afar, 
And idols on their own unhallow'd shore 
Dash'd, at his birth, to be revered no more, 

This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse : 
The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse, 
Verse that, reserved in secret, shall attend 
Thy candid voice, my critic and my friend 1 



As yet a stranger to the gentle fires 

That Amathusia's smiling queen inspires, 

Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts. 

And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts, 

" Go. child." I said. " transfix the timorous dove 

An easy conquest suits an infant love ; 

Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be 

Sufficient triumph to a chief like thee ! 

Why aim thy idle arms at human kind 1 

Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind." 

The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire, 
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire. 

It was the spring, and newly risen day 
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the first of May ; 
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light, 
Still sought the shelter of retiring night, 
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes 

array 'd, 
The insidious god his rattling darts betray'd, 
Nor less his infant features, and the sly, 
Sweet intimations of his threatening eye. 

Such the Sigeian boy is seen above, 
Filling the goblet for imperial Jove ; [charms 
Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd theil 
Hylas, who perish'd in a naiad's arms. 
Angry he seem'd. yet graceful in his ire, 
And added threats not destitute of fire. 
• My power," he said, •' by others' pain alone, 
'TAvere best to learn ; now learn it by thy own 
With those that feel my power, that power attest 
And in thy anguish be my sway contest f 
I vanquish'd Phoebus though returning vain 
From his new triumph o'er the Python slain, 
And. when he thinks on Daphne, even he 
Will yield the prize of archery to me. 
A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped, 
Behind him kill'd. and conquer'd as he fled: 
Less true the expert Cydonian, and less true 
The youth whose shaft his latent Procris slew. 
Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend, 
By me Alcides, and Alcides' friend. 
At me should Jove himself a bolt design, 
His bosom first should bleed, transfix 'd by mine 
But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain 
Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain. 



710 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Thy muse, vain youth ! shall not thy peace en- 
sure, 
Nor Phoebus' serpent yield thy wound a cure." 

He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air, 
Sought the warm 1 osom of the Cyprian fair. 

That thus a child should bluster in my ear, 
Provoked my laugbter more than moved my fear. 
I shunn'd not, therefore, public haunts, but 

stray'd 
Careless in city or suburban shade, 
And, passing and repassing nymphs, that moved 
With gracf divine, beheld where'er I roved. 
Bright shone the vernal day with double blaze 
As beauty gave new force to Phoebus' rays. 
By no grave scruples check'd, I freely eyed 
The dangerous show, rash youth my only guide, 
And many a look of many a fair unknown 
Met full, unable to control my own. 
But one I mark'd, (then peace forsook my breast,) 
One — Oh how far superior to the rest ! 
What lovely features ! Such the Cyprian queen 
Herself might wish, and Juno wish f her mien. 
The very nymph was she, whom, when I dared 
His arrows, Love had even then prepared ! 
Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied 
With torch well trimm'd and quiver at his side ; 
Now to her lips lie clung, her eyelids now. 
Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow ; 
And with a thousand wounds from every part 
Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart. 
A fever, new to me, of fierce desire 
Now seized my soul, and I was all on fire ; 
But she, the while, whom only I adore, 
Was gone, and vanish'd, to appear no more. 
In silent sadness 1 pursue my way ; 
1 pause. I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay, 
And while I follow her in thought, bemoan 
With tears my soul's delight so quickly flown. 
When Jove had hurld him to the Lemnian coast, 
So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost, 
And so GCclides sinking into night, 
Prom the deep gulf looked up to distant light. 

Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain, 
Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain 1 
could I once, once more, behold the fair, 
Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear; 
Perhaps she is not adamant; would show, 
Perhaps, some pity at my tale of woe. 
Oh inauspicious flame — 'tis mine to prove 
A matchless instance of disastrous love. 
Ah. spare me, gentle power! — If such thou be, 
Let not thy deeds and nature disagree. 
Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine 
Witli vow and sacrifice, save only thine. 
Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts : 
Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts. 
Remove ! no — grant me still this raging woe ! 
Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know : 
But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see 
One destined mine) at once both her and me. 

Such were the trophies that, in earlier days. 
By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise ; 
Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth. 
That worst of teachers, from the ways of truth ; 
Till Learning taught me«in his shady bower 
• To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his power. 
Then, on a sudden the fierce flame supprest, 
A frost continual settled on my breast, 
Whence Cupid fears'his flame extinct to see, 
4nd Venus dreads a Diomede in me. 



EPIGRAMS. 

ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS. 

Praise in old time the sage Prometheus won, 
Who stole etherial radiance from the sun; 
But greater he, whose bold invention strove 
To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove. 

[The poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Treason 
1 have not translated, both because the matter of them it 
unpleasant, and because they are written with an asper- 
ity, which, however it might be warranted in MiUon'i 
day, would be extremely unseasonable now.] 



TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME * 

Another Leonora once inspired 
Tasso with fatal love, to frenzy fired ; 
But how much happier, lived he now, were he. 
Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee ! 
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine, 
With Adriana's lute of sound divine. 
Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll, 
Or idiot 'apathy benumb his soul, 
You still, with medicinal sounds might cheer 
His senses wandering in a blind career ; 
And, sweetly breathing through his wounded 
breast, [rest. 

Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to 

TO THE SAME. 

Naples, too credulous, ah ! boast no'more 

The sweet-voiced syren buried on thy shore, 

That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave 

Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave, 

For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse 

Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course, 

Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains 

Of magic song both gods and men detains. 



THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. 



A peasant to his lord paid yearly court, 
Presenting pippins of so rich a sort, 
That he, displeased to have a part alone, 
Removed the tree, that all might be his own. 
The tree, too old to travel, though before 
So fruitful wither'd and would yield no more. 
The 'squire, perceiving all his labor void, 
Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd, 
And, •• Oh " he cried - that I had lived contem 
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant J 
My avarice has expensive proved to me. 
Has cost me both my pippins and my tree." 



TO CHRISTIN^, QJJEEN OF SWEDEN*, 
WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE. 

Christina, maiden of heroic mien! 
Star of the North ! of northern stars the queen 
Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how 
The iron casque still chafes my veteran brow. 

« I have translated only two of the three poetical com- 
pliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to m« 
far superior to what I have omitted. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



71> 



While following Fate's dark footsteps, I 'fulfil 
The dictates of a hardy people's will. 
But soften'd in thy sight my looks appear, 
Not to all queens or kings alike severe. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHAN- 
CELLOR, A PHYSICIAN. 

Learn, ye nations of the earth. 
The condition of your birth, 
Now be taught your feeble state ! 
Know, that all must yield to fate ! 

If the mournful rover, Death, 

Say but once, — " Resign your breath !" 

Vainly of escape you dream, 

Vou must pass the Stygian stream. 

Could the stoutest overcome 
Death's assault, and baffle doom, 
Hercules had both withstood, 
Undiseased by Nessus' blood. 

Ne ; er had Hector press'd the plain 
By a trick of Pallas slain, 
Nor the chief to Jove allied 
By Achilles' phantom died. 

Could enchantments life prolong, 
Circe, saved by magic song, 
Still had lived, and equal skill 
Had preserved Medea still. 

Dwelt in. h#rbs and drugs a power 
To avert man's destined hour. 
Learn'd Machaon should have known 
Doubtless to avert his own : 

Chiron had survived the smart 
Of the hydra-tainted dart, 
And Jove's bolt had been, with ease, 
Fofl'd by Asclepiades. 

Thou too, sage ! of whom forlorn 
Helicon and Cirrha mourn, 
* Still hadst fill'd thy princely place, 
Regent of the gowned race : 

Hadst advanced to higher fame 
Still thy much ennobled name, 
Nor in Charon's skiff explored 
The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd. 

But resentful Proserpine, 
Jealous of thy skill divine, 
Snapping short thy vital thread, 
Thee too number'd with the dead 

Wise and good ! untroubled be 
The green turf that covers thee ! 
Thence, in gay profusion grow 
All the sweetest flowers that blow ! 

Pluto's consort bid thee rest ! 
jEacus pronounce thee blest ! 
To her home thy shade consign ! 
Make Elysium ever thine ! 



PN THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF 
ELY. 

My lids with grief were tumid yet, 
And still my sulliecftheek was wet 
With briny dews profusely shed 
Foi venerable Winton dead : 



When fame, whose tales of saddest sound, 

Alas ! are ever truest found, 

The news through all our cities spread 

Of yet another mitred head 

By ruthless fate to death consign'd, 

Ely, the honor of his kind ! 

At once a storm of passion heaved. 
My bbfting bosom, much I grieved ; 
But more I raged, at every breath 
Devoting Death himself to death. 
With less revenge did Naso teem 
When hated Ibis was his theme ; 
With less Archilochus denied 
The lovely Greek his promised bride. 

But lo ! while thus I execrate, 
Incensed, the minister of fate, 
Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear, 
Wafted on the gale I hear. 

" Ah. much deluded ! lay aside 
Thy threats and anger misapplied . 
Art not afraid with sounds like these 
To offend, where thou canst not appease? 
Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus 1 1 
The son of Night and Erebus: 
Nor was of fell Erynnis born 
On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn ; 
But sent from God, his presence leaves 
To gather home his ripen'd sheaves, 
To call encumber'd souls away 
From fleshy bonds to boundless day, 
(As when the winged hours excite, 
And summon forth the morning light,) 
And each to convoy to her place 
Before the Eternal Father's face. 
But not the wicked — them, severe 
Yet just, from all their pleasures her« 
He hurries to the realms below, 
Terrific realms of penal woe ! 
Myself no sooner heard his call, 
Than, 'scaping through my prison wall, 
I bade adieu to bolts and bars, 
And soared, with angels, to the stars, 
Like him of old, to whom 'twas given 
To mount on fiery wheels to heaven. 
Bootes' wagon, slow with cold, 
Appall'd me not ; nor to behold 
The sword that vast Orion draws, 
Or e'en the Scorpion's horrid claws 
Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly. 
And far beneath my feet descry 
Night's dread goddess, seen with awe. 
Whom her winged dragons draw. 
Thus, ever wondering at my speed, 
Augmented still as I proceed, 
I pass the planetary sphere. 
The milky way — and now appeal 
Heaven's crystal battlements, her dm 
Of massy pearl, and emerald floor. 

"But here I cease. For never can 
The tongue of once a mortal man 
In suitable description trace 
The pleasures of that happy place ; 
Suffice it, that those joys divine 
Are all, and all forever, mine !" 



NATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME. 

Ah, how the human mind wearies herself 
With her own wanderings, and, involved i* 

gloom 
Impenetrable, speculates amiss ! 



712 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Measuring in her folly things divine 
By human ; laws inscribed on adamant 
By laws of man's device ; and counsels fix'd 
Forever, by the hours that pass and die. 

How 1 — shall the face of nature then be 
plough'd 
Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last 
On the great parent fix a sterile curse 1 
Shall even she confess old age, and halt, 
And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows'? 
Shall foul antiquity with rust, and drought, 
And famine, vex the radiant worlds above 1 
Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulf 
The very heavens, that regulate his flight % 
And was the sire of all able to fence 
His works, and to uphold the circling worlds, 
But, through improvident and heedless haste 
Let slip the occasion 1 — so then — all is lost — 
And in some future evil hour, yon arch [poles 
Shall crumble, and come thundering down, the 
Jar in collision , the Olympian king, 
Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth 
The terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain. 
Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd 
Down into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven. 
Thou also, with precipitated wheels, 
Phoebus ! thy own son's fall shalt imitate, 
With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep 
Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss, 
At the extinction' of the lamp of day. 
Then too shall Raemus, cloven to his base, 
Be shatter'd, an i the huge Ceraunian hills, 
Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersed 
In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear. 

No. The Almighty Father surer laid 
His deep foundations, and providing well 
For the event of all, the scales of fate 
Suspended in just equipoise, and bade 
His universal works, from age to age, 
One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturb'd. 

Hence the prime mover wheels itself about 
Continual, day by day, and with it bears 
In social measure swift, the heavens around. 
Not tardier nOw is Saturn than of old, 
Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars. 
Phoebus, his vigor unimpair'd, still shows 
The effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god 
A downward course, that he may warm the vales ; 
But, ever rich in influence runs his road, 
Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. 
Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star 
From odoriferous Ind, whose office is 
To gather home betimes the ethereal flock, 
To pour them o'er the skies again at eve. 
And to discriminate the night -and day. 
Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanes 
Alternate, and with arms extended still 
She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. 
Nor have the elements deserted yet 
Their functions ; thunder with as loud a stroke 
As erst smites through the rocks and scatters 

them. 
The east still howls ; still the relentless north 
Invades the shuddering Scythian, still he breathes 
• The winter, and still rolls the storms along. 
The king of ocean, with his wonted force, 
Beats on Pelorus ; o'er the deep is heard 
The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell; 
Nor swim the monsters of the Mgeaxi sea 
In shallows, or beneath diminished waves. 
Thou too, Ihy ancient vegetative power 
Enjoy'st. Earth ! Narcissus still is sweet ; 



And Phoebus ! still thy favorite, and still 
Thy favorite Cytherea.! both retain 
Their beauty ; nor their mountains, ore-enrich'< 
For punishment of man, with purer gold 
Teem'd ever, or with brighter gems the deep. 

Thus in unbroken series all proceeds; 
And shall, till wide involving either pole, 
And the immensity of yonder heaven, 
The final flames of destiny absorb 
The world, consumed in one enormous pyre \ 



ON THE PLATONIC IDEA AS IT WAS 
UNDERSTOOD BY ARISTQTLE. 

Ye sister powers, who o'er the sacred groves 
Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all, 
Mnemosyne ! and thou who, in thy grot 
Immense, reclined at leisure, hast in charge 
The archives and the ordinances of Jove, 
And dost record the festivals of heaven, 
Eternity ! — inform us who is He, 
That great original, by nature chosen 
To be the archetype of human kind, 
Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles 
Themselves coeval, one. yet everywhere, 
An image of the God who gave him being 1 
Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove, 
He dwells not in his father's mind, but, though 
Of common nature with ourselves, exists 
Apart and occupies a local home — 
Whether companion of the stars, he spend 
Eternal ages, roaming at his will I [dwel 

From sphere to sphere, the tenfold heavens, of 
On the moon's side that nearest neighbors earth, 
Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit 
Among the multitude of souls ordain'd 
To flesh and blood ; or whether (as may chance) 
That vast and giant model of our kind 
In some far distant region of this globe 
Sequester'd stalk with lifted head on high 
O'ertowering Atlas, on whose shoulders rest 
The stars, terrific even to the gods. 
Never the Theban seer, whose blindness proved 
His best illumination, him beheld 
In secret vision ; never him the son 
Of Pleione, amid the- noiseless night 
Descending to the prophet choir reveal'd ; 
Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yet 
The ancestry of Ninus' chronicles, 
And Belus. and Osiris, far rer>own'd ; 
Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'd 
So deep in mystery, to the worshippers 
Of Isis show'd a prodigy like him. 

And thou, who hast immortalized the shades 
Of Academus, if the schools received 
This monster of the fancy first from thee, 
Either recall at once thy banish'd bards 
To thy republic, or thyself, evinced 
A wilder fabulist, go also forth. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

Oh that Pieria's spring would through my breast 
Pour its inspiring influence, and rush 
No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood ; 
That, for my venerable father's sake [wing« 

All meaner theaies renounced, my muse, on 
Of luty borne, might reach a loftier strain I 
For thee, my father ! howsoe'er it phase, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



713 



She frames this slender work ; nor know I aught 
That may thy gifts more suitably requite : 
Though to requite them suitably would ask 
Returns much nobler, and surpassing far 
The meagre stores of verbal gratitude : 
But, such as I possess, I send thee all. 
This page presents thee in their full amount 
With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought; 
Nought save the riches that from airy dream 
In secret grottoes and in laurel bowers, 
I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired. 

Verse is a work divine ; despise not thou 
Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)- 
Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still 
Some scintillations of Promethean fire, 
Bespeaks him animated from above. 
The gods love Terse ; the infernal powers them- 
selves 
Confess the influence of verse, which stirs 
The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains 
Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. 
In verse the Delphic priestess and the pale 
Tremulous sybil make the future known ; 
And he who sacrifices, on the shrine 
Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening 

bull 
And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide 
To scrutinize the fates enveloped there. 
We too. ourselves, what time we seek again 
Our native skies, and one eternal now 
Shall be the only measure of our being, 
Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre 
Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, 
And make the starry firmament resound. 
And, even now, the fiery spirit pure 
That wheels yon circling orbs, directs himself 
Their mazy dance with melody of verse 
Unutterable, immortal, hearing which 
Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd ; 
Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade, 
And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. 
Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet 
Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf 
Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere 
Lyaeus deluged yet the temperate board. 
Then sat the bard a customary guest 
To share the banquet, and, his length of locks 
With beechen honors bound, proposed in verse 
The characters of heroes and their deeds, 
To imitation ; sang of chaos old, 
Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search 
Of acorns fallen, and of the thunderbolt 
Not yet produced from ^Etna's fiery cave. 
And what avails, at last, tune without voice, 
Devoid of matter ! Such may suit perhaps 
The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song 
Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear, 
And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords alone 
Weil touch'd, but by resistless accents more, 
To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselves 
He moved ; these praises to his verse he owes. 

Nor thou persist, I pray thee,, still to slight 
The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain 
And useless powers, by whom inspired, thyself 
Art skilful to associate verse with airs 
Harmonious, and to give the human voice 
A thousand modulations, heir by right 
Indisputable of Irion's fame. m 
Now say, what wonder is it, if a son 
Of thine delight in verse, if. so conjoin'd 
In close affinity, we sympathize 
In social arts ind kindred studies sweet! 



Such distribution of himself to us 
Was Phoebus' choice ; thou hast thy gift, and I 
Mine also, and between us we receive. 
Father and son. the whole inspiring God. 

No ! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume 
Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse, 
My father ! for thou never badest me tread 
The beaten path, and broad, that leads right 01 
To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son 
To the insipid clamors of the bar, 
To laws voluminous, and ill observed ; 
But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill 
My mind with treasure, ledd'st me far away 
From city din to deep retreats, to banks 
And streams Aonian, and. with free consent, 
Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. 
I speak not now, on more important themes 
Intent, of common benefits, and such 
As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, 
My father ! who, when I had open'd once 
The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd 
The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks, 
Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove, 
Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers 
That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the 

smooth 
Italian his degenerate speech adorns, 
That witnesses his mixture with the Goth; 
And Palestine's prophetic songs divine. 
To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains, 
The earth beneath it, and the air between, 
The rivers and the restless deep may all 
Prove intellectual '{jin^to me, my wish 
Concurring with thy will; science herself, 
All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head, 
And offers me the lip. if. dull of heart, 
I shrink not. and decline her gracious boon. 

Go now. and gather dross, ye sordid minds 
That covet it; what could my father more ? 
What more could Jove himself unless he gave 
His own abode, the heaven in which he reigns 1 
More eligible gifts than these were not 
Apollo's to his son, had they been safe 
As they were insecure, who made the boy 
The world's vice luminary, bade him rule 
The radiant chariot of the day, and bind 
To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath 
I therefore, although last and least, my place 
Among the learned in the laurel grove 
Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines 
Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throng 
Profane, nor even to be seen by such. 
Away then, sleepless care, complaint, away, 
And envy, with thy ,; jealous leer malign !** 
Nor Jet the monster calumny shoot forth 
Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes ' 
Ye all are impotent against my peace, 
For I am privileged, and bear my breast 
Safe, and too high for your viperean wound. 

But thou, my father, since to render thanks 
Equivalent, and to requite by deeds 
Thy liberality, exceeds my power, 
Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts, 
And bear them treasured in a grateful mind! 
Ye, too, the favorite pastime of my youth, 
My voluntary numbers, if ye dare 
To hope longevity, and to survive 
Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd 
In the oblivious Lethaean gulf, 
Shall to futurity perhaps convey 
This theme, and by these praises of my sire 
Improve the fathers of a distant age ! 



714 



CUWPER'S WORKS. 



TO SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET, MUCH 
INDISPOSED. 

The original is written in a measure called Scazon, 
ffhich signifies limping, and the measure is so denomi- 
aated, because, though in other respects Iambic, it ter- 
minates with a Spondee, and has, consequently, a more 
tardy movement. 

The reader will immediately see that this property of 
the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English. 

My halting muse, that dragg'st by choice along 
Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, 
And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares, 
Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs. [tread 
When in the dance she beats with measured 
Heaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed ; 
Salute Salsillus. who to verse divine 
Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. 
Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'er 
From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore, 
Where Eurus. fiercest of the JEolian band, 
Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land, 
Of late to more serene Axisonia came 
To view her cities of illustrious name, 
To prove himself a witness of the truth. 
How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth. 
Much good, Salsillus ! and a body free 
From all disease, that Milton asks for thee, 
Who now endurest the languor and the pains 
That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins ; 
Relentless malady ! not moved to spare 
By thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air ! 

Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, 
And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies, 
Pythius, or Psan, or what name divine 
So'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine ! 
Ye groves of Faunus. and ye hills that melt 
With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt! 
If aught salubrious in your confines grow. 
Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, 
That, render'd to the .muse, he loves, again 
He may enchant the meadow with his strain. 
Numa, reclined in everlasting ease 
Amid the shade of dark embowering trees, 
Viewing with eyes of unabated fire 
His loved iEgeria, shall that strain admire : 
So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revere 
The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year, 
Shall curb his waters with a friendly reign, 
And guide them harmless, till they meet the main. 



TO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO, 

MARQUIS OF VILLA. 
MILTON'S ACCOUNT OF MANSO. 

Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian 
nobleman of the highest estimation among his country- 
men, for genius, literature, and military acomplishments. 
To him Torquato Tasso addressed his Dialogues on 
Friendship, for he was much the friend of Tasso, who 
tas also celebrated him among the other princes of his 
country, in his poem entitled, Gerusalemme Conquis- 
tata, book xx. 

Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi, 

Risplende il Manso. 
During the author's stay at Naples, hv received at the 
bands of the marquis a thousand kind offices and civil- 
it'es, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him 
whis poem a short time before his departure from that 
city. 

These verses also to thy praise, the Nine. 
Manso ! happy in that theme, design, 



For, Gallus and Maecenas gone, they see 
None such besides, or whom they love as thee } 
And if my verse may give the meed of fame, 
Thine too shall prove an everlasting name. 
Already such, it shines in Tasso's page 
(For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age. 
And, next, the muse consign'd (not unaware 
How high the charge) Marino to thy care, 
Who singing to the nymphs Adonis' praise, 
Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays. 
To thee alone the poet would entrust 
His latest vows, to thee alone his dust; 
And thou with punctual piety hast paid, 
In labor'd brass, thy tribute to his shade. 
Nor this contented thee — but lest the grave 
Should aught absorb of theirs which thou coulds* 

save, 
All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach 
The life. lot. genius, character of each, 
Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, true 
To his great theme, the life of Homer drew. 
1. therefore, though a stranger youth, whe 

come [home, 

Chill'd by rude blasts that freeze my northern 
Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim. 
And thine, for Phoebus' sake, a deathless name. 
Nor thou', so kind, wilt view with scornful eye 
A muse scarce rear'd beneath our sullen sky, 
Who fears not. indiscreet as she is young, 
To seek in Latin hearers of her song. 
We too, where Thames with its unsullied waves 
The tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves, 
Hear oft by night, or, slumbering, seem to hear 
O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling 

clear ; 
And we could boast a Tityrus of yore 
Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore. 
Yes — dreary as we own our northern clime, 
E'en we to Phoebus raise the polish'd rhyme, 
We too serve Phoebus ; Phoebus has received 
(If legends old may claim to be believed) 
No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear, 
The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year, 
The fragrant crocus, and, to grace his fane, 
Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train ; 
Druids, our native bards in ancient time, 
Who gods and heroes praised inhallow'd rhyme 1 
Hence, often as the maids of Greece surround 
Apollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound, 
They named the virgins who arrived of yore 
With British offerings on the Delian shore, 
Loxo, from giant Corineus sprung. 
Upis. on whose blest lips the future hung. 
And Hacaerge, with the golden hair, 
All deck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bo« 

soms bare. 
Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever clime 
Shall ring with Tasso's praise in after time, 
Or with Marino's, shalt be known their friend, 
And with an equal flight to fame ascend. 
The world shall hear how Phoebus and the Nina 
Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine. 
Yet Phoebus, when of old constrain'd to roam 
The earth, an exile from his heavenly home, 
Enter'd. no willing guest, Admetus' door, 
Though Hercules had ventured there before. 
But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a scene 
Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green, 
And thither, oft as respite he required. 
From rustic clamors loud, the god retired. 
There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclined 
At some oak's root, with ivy thick entwined, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



716 



Won by his hospitable friend's desire, 

Ele soothed his pains of exile with the lyre. 

Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' 

shore, 
Nor (Eta felt his load of forest more ; 
The upland elms descended to the plain, 
And sotten'd lynxes wonder'd at that strain. 
Well may we think, Oh. dear to all above ! 
Thy birth distinguish'd by the smile of Jove, 
And that Apollo shed his kindliest power, 
And Maia'sson. on that propitious hour. 
Since only minds so born can comprehend 
A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend. 
Hence on thy yet unfaded cheek appears 
The lingering freshness of thy greener years ; 
Hence in thy front and features we admire 
Nature unwither'd and a mind entire. 

might so true a friend to me belong. 
So skilld to grace the votaries of song, 
Should I recall hereafter into rhyme 
The kings and heroes of my native clime, 
Arthur the chief, who even now prepares, 
In subterraneous being future wars. 
With all his martial knights to be restored 
Each to his seat around the federal board ; 
And oh, if spirit fail me not. disperse 

Our Saxon plunderers in triumph verse! 
Then, after all, when, with *.he past content, 
A life I finish, not in silence spent ; 
Should he, kind mourner, o'er my deathbed bend, 

1 shall but need to say " Be yet my friend !" 
He too, perhaps shall bid the marble breathe 
To honor me, and with the graceful wreath 
Or of Parnassus or the Paphian isle 

Shall bind my brows — but I shall rest the while. 
Then also, if the fruits of faith endure. 
And virtue's promised recompense be sure, 
Born to those seats to which the blest aspire 
By purity of soul and virtuous fire, 
These rites, as fate permits, I shall survey 
With eyes illumined by celestial day, 
And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven, 
Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven ! 



ON THE DEATH OF DAMON. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Thyrsis and Damon, shepherds and neighbors, had al- 
ways pursued the same studies, and had, from their 
earliest days, been united in the closest friendship. 
Thyrsis, while travelling for improvement, received 
intelligence of the death of Damon, and, after a time, 
returning and finding it true, deplores himself and his 
solitary condition, in this poem. 

Bj Damon is to be understood Charles Deodati, con- 
nected with the Italian city of Lucca by his father's 
side, in other respects an Englishman ; a youth of un- 
common genius, erudition, and virtue. 

Y"e Nymphs of Himera, (for ye have shed 

Erewhile for Daphnis. and for Hylas dead, 

And over Bion's long-lamented bier, 

The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear,) 

Now through the villas laved by Thames rehearse 

The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse. 

What sighs he heaved, and how with groans 

profound 
He made the woods and hollow rocks resound 
Y"oung Damon dead ; nor even ceased to pour 
His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour. 

The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear, 
fcnd golden harvest twice enrich'd the year, 



Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital air, 
The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there : 
For he, enamoured of the muse, remain'd 
In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd, 
But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn, 
For his flock's sake, now hasted to return ; 
And when the shepherd had resumed his seat 
At the elm's root, within his old retreat, 
Then 'twas his lot then all his loss to know, 
And from his burden'd heart he vented thus his 

woe : 
<c Go seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due • 

To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Alas ! what deities shall I suppose 
In heaven, or earth, concerned for human woes, 
Since, oh my Damon ! their severe decree 
So soon condemns me to regret of thee ! 
Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid 
With' fame and honor, like a vulgar shade ! 
Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls, 
And separates sordid from illustrious souls, 
Drive far the rabble, and to-thee assign 
A happier lot with spirits worthy thine ! 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thought* 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance 
The wolf first give me a forbidding glance, 
Thou shalt not moulder undeplored. but long 
Thy praise shall dwell on every shepherd's tongue 
To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay, 
And. after him, to thee the votive lay, 
While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love. 
Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove; 
At least, if ancient piety and truth, 
With all the learned labors of thy youth, 
May serve thee aught, or to have left behind 
A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind. 
" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my though! 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Who now my pains and perils shall divide, 
As thou wast wont, for ever at my side, 
Both when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet, 
And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat } 
Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent, 
Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went ; 
Whose converse now shall calm my stormy day, 
With charming song who now beguile my way 1 
'• Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
In whom shall I confide 1 Whose counsel find 
A balmy medicine for my troubled mind ? 
Or whose discourse with innocent delight 
Shall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night, 
While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear, 
And blackening chestnuts start and crackle there, 
While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm, 
And the wind thunders through the neighboring 

elm 1 
" Go seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Or who, when summer suns their summit reach, 
And Pan sleeps hidden by the sheltering beech, 
When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek tha 

sedge, 
And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge, 
Who then shall ren/ler me thy pleasant vein 
Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again ? 



716 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Where glens and vales are thickest overgrown 
With tangled boughs, I wander now alone, 
Till night descend, while blustering wind and 

shower 
Beat on my temples through the shatter'd bower. 
" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Alas ! what rampant weeds now shame my fields, 
And what a mildew'd^rop the furrow yields ; 
My rambling vines unwedded to the trees, 
Bear shrivell'd grapes ; my myrtles fail to please ; 
Nor please me more my flocks ; they, slighted 

turn 
Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn. 
" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
jEgon invites me to the hazel grove, 
Amyntas. on the river's bank to rove, 
And young Alphesiboeus to a seat 
Where branching elms exclude the mid-day heat. 
'Here fountains spring — here mossy hillocks 

rise; 
Here zephyr whispers, and the stream replies/ — 
Thus each persuades, but, deaf to every call, 
I gain the thickets, and escape them all. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so well 
The voice of birds and what the stars foretell, 
For he by chance had noticed my return.) 
'What means thy sullen mood, this deep con- 
cern 1 
Ah. Thyrsis. thou art either crazed with love, 
Or some sinister influence from above ; 
Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rue ; 
His leaden shaft oblique has pierc'd thee through.' 

" Go. go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are, 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
The nymphs, amazed, my melancholy see. 
And, ' Thyrsis !' cry — ' what will become of thee 1 
What wouldst thou, Thyrsis ^ such should not 

appear 
The brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe : 
Brisk youth should laugh and love — ah, shun the 

fate [late !' 

Of those, twice wretched mopes ! who love too 

"Go go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. < 
^Egle with Hyas came, to soothe my pain, 
And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain. 
Pair Dryope, for voice and finger neat 
Known far and near, and for her self-conceit; 
Chloris too came, whose cottage on the lands 
That skirt the Idumanian current stands ; 
But all in vain they came, and but to see 
Kind words, and comfortable, lost on me. 

" Go, go. my lambs, unpastured as ye are; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Ah blest indifference of-the playful herd, 
None by his fellow chosen, or preferr'd ! 
No bonds of amity the flocks inthral, 
But each associates, and is p 1 eased with all ; 
So graze the dappled deer in numerous droves, 
And all his kind alike the zebra loves ; 
That same law governs, where the billows roar, 
And Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore ; 



The sparrow, meanest of the feather d race, 

His fit companion finds in every place, 

With whom he picks the grain that suits hiu| 

best, 
Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest, 
And whom, if chance the falcon makes his prey 
Or hedger with his well aim'd arrow slay, 
For no such loss the gay survivor grieves, 
New love he seeks and new delight receives. 
We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice, 
Scorning all others, in a single choice. 
We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind 
And if the long-sought good at last we find, 
When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals 
And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals 

' : Go, go. my lambs, unpastured as ye are; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks, 
To traverse Alpine snows and rugged rocks ! 
What need so great had I to visit Rome, 
Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb % 
Or had she flourish'd still, as whew of old, 
For, her sake Tityrus forsook his fold. 
What need so great had I to incur a pause 
Of thy sweet intercourse for such a cause, 
For such a cause to place the roaring sea, 
Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend 

and me 1 
Else had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, composed 
Thy decent limbs thy drooping eyelids closed, 
And, at the last, had said — Farewell — ascend— 
Nor even in the skies forget thy friend !' 

" Go. go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Although well pleased, ye tuneful Tuscan swains 
My mind the memory of your worth retains. 
Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn 
My Damon lost. — He too was Tuscan born, 
Born in your Lucca, city of renown! 
And wit possess'd. and genius, like your own. 
Oh how elate was I, when, stretch'd beside 
The murmuring course of Arno's breezy tide, 
Beneath the poplar grove I pass'd my hours, 
Now cropping myrtles and now vernal flowers, 
And hearing, as I lay at ease along. 
Your swains contending for the prize of song ! 
I also dared attempt (and. as it seems. 
Not much displeased attempting) various themes 
For even I can presents boast from you. 
The shepherd's pipe and ozier basket too, 
And Dati and Francini both have made 
My name familiar to the beechen shade, 
And they are learn'd. and each in every place 
Renown'd for song, and both of Lydian.race. 

" Go. go. my lambs, untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
While bright the dewy grass with moonbeams 

shone, • 

And I stood hurdling in my kids alone, 
How often have I said (but thou hadst found 
Ere then thy dark cold lodgment underground) 
Now Damon sings or springes sets for hares, 
Or wickerwork for various use prepares ! 
How oft, indulging fancy, have I plann'd 
New scenes of pleasure that I hoped at hand, 
Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried — 
' What, boa ! my friend — come lay thy task 

aside ; 
Haste, let us forth together, and beguile 
The heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile 
Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood,, 
Or where Cassibelan's grey turrets stood ! 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



71> 



There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teach 

Thy friend the name and healing powers of each, 

Prom the tall bluebell to the dwarfish weed, 

What the dry land, and what the marshes breed. 

For all their kinds alike to thee are known, 

And the whole art of Galen is thy own.' 

Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd be 

The useless herbs that gave not health to thee ! 

Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream, 

I meditating sat some statelier theme. 

The reeds no sooner toucK'd my lip though new. 

And unessay'd before, than wide they flew. 

Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain 

The deep-toned music of the solemn strain ; 

And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell 

How proud a theme I chose — ye groves, farewell. 

" Go. go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Of Brutus. Dardan chief, my song small be, 
How with his barks he plough'd the British sea, 
First from Rutupia's towering headland seen, 
And of his consort s reign, fair Imogen ; 
Of Brennus and Beiinus brothers bold. 
And of Arviragus. and how of old 
Our hardy sires the Armorican controll'd. 
And of the wife of Gorlois, who, surprised 
By Uther, in her husband's fDrm disguised, 
(Such was the force of Merlin's art,) became 
Pregnant with Arthur o^ heroic fame. 
These themes I now revolve — and Oh — if Fate 
Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date. 
Adieu my shepherd's reed — yon pine tree bough 
Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou 
Forgotten and disused, unless ere long 
Thou change thy Latin for a British song : 
A British 1 — even so — the powers of man 
Are bounded ; little is the most he can ; 
And it shall well suffice me. and shall be 
Fame and proud recompense enough for me, 
If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn, 
If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn, 
Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd 

stream, 
Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem, 
Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and. after these, 
The wave- worn shores of utmost Orcades. 

" Go. go. my lambs untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
All this I kept in leaves of laurel rind 
Enfolded safe, and for thy view design'd. 
This — and a gift from Manso's hand beside, 
(Manso, not least his native city's pride ) 
Two cups that radiant as their giver shown. 
Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. 
The spring was graven there ; here slowly wind 
The Red sea shores with groves of spices lined ; 
Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs 
The sacred, solitary phoenix shows, 
And, watchful of the dawn reverts her head 
To see Aurora leave her watery bed. 
—In other part, the expansive vault above, 
\nd there too. even there, the god of love ; 
With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays 
A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze. 
Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, 
Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, 
Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high. 
Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; 
Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn 
The power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn. 

u Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fear 
that hope delusive,) thou art also there; 



For whither should simplicity like thine 
Retire, where else should spotless virtue shine ? 
Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shade* 

below, 
Nor tears suit thee — cease then, my tears, ta 

flow. 
Away with grief; on Damon ill bestow'd ! 
Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode, 
Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth resides 
With saints and heroes, and from flowing- ides 
Quaffs copious immortality and joy 
With hallow'd lips ! — Oh ! blest without alloy, 
And now cnrich'd with all that faith can claim, 
Look down, entreated by whatever name, 
If Damon please thee most (that rural sound 
Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around) 
Or if Deodatus. by which alone 
In those ethereal mansions thou art known. 
Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste 
Of wedcred bliss knew never, pure and chaste, 
The honors therefore, by divine decree 
The lot of virgin worth are given to thee : 
Thy brows encircled with a radiant band, 
And the green palm branch waving in thy hand. 
Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice, 
And join with seraphs thy according voice, 
Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre 
Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire." 



AN ODE ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN 
ROUSE, 

LIBRARIAN OP THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 

On a lost Volume of my Poems, which he desired me to 
replace, that he might add them to my other Works 
deposited in the Library. 

This ode is rendered without rhyme, that it might 
more adequately represent the original, which, as Milton 
himself informs us, is of no certain Measure. It may 
possibly for this reason disappoint the reader, though it 
cost the writer more labor than the translation of any 
other piece in the whole collection. 

' STROPHE. 

My twofold book ! single in show 

But double in contents. 
Neat but not curiously adorn'd, 

Which, in his early youth, 
A poet gave, no lofty one in truth, 
Although an earnest wooer of the muse- 
Say, while in cool Ausonian shades 

Or British wilds he roam'd, 
Striking by turns his native lyre, 

By turns the Daunian lute, 

And stepp'd almost in air — 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Say. little book what furtive hand 
Thee from thy fellow books convey'd, 
What time, at the repeated suit 
Of my most learned friend, 
I sent thee forth an honor'd traveller. 
From our great city to the source of Thames, 

Caerulean sire ! 
Where rise the fountains and the raptures ring 
Of the Aonian choir, 
Durable as yonder spheres. 
And through the endless lapse of year* 
Secure to be admired 1 



7J8 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



STROPHE II. 

Now what god, or demi-grd, 
For Britain's ancient genius moved, 

(If our afflicted land 
Have expiated at length the guilty sloth 
Of her degenerate sons) 
Shall terminate our impious feuds, 
And discipline with hallow'd voice recall? 
Recall the muses too. 
Driven from their ancient seats 
In Albion and well nigh from Albion's shore, 
And with keen Phoebean shafts 
Piercing the unseemly birds 
Whose talons menace us 
Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar 1 

ANTISTROPHE. 

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, 
Whether by treachery lost, 
Or indolent neglect thy bearer's fault, 
From all thy kindred books. 
To some dark cell or cave forlorn, 

Where thou endurest, perhaps, 
The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, 
Be comforted — 
For lo ! again the splendid hope appears 

That thou mayst yet escape 
The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings 
Mount *o the everlasting courts of Jove ! 

STROPHE III. 

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains 
That, though by promise his, 
Thou yet appear'st not in thy.place 
Among the literary noble stores 

Given to his care, 
But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete. 
He, therefore, guardian vigilant 
Of that unperishing wealth, 
Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge, 
Where he intends a richer treasure far 
That Ion kept (Ion, Erectheus' son 
Illustrious of the fair Creusa born) 
In the resplendent temple of his god, 
Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, 
The muses' favorite haunt ; 
Resume thy station in Apollo's dome, 

Dearer to him 
Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill ! 

Exulting go. 
Since now a splendid lot is also thine. 
And thou art sought by my propitious friend ; 
For there thou shaft be read 
With authors of exalted note, 
The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. 



Y"e, then, my works, no longer vain. 

And worthless deem'd by me ! 
Whate'er this sterile genius has produced, 
. Expect, at last the rage of envy spent, 
An unmolested happy home 
fiift o^ kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, 
Where never flippant tongue profane 
Shall entrance find, 



And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude 

Shall babble far remote. 
Perhaps some future distant age, 
Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught, 

Shall furnish minds of power 

To judge more equally. 
Then, malice silenced in the tomb, 

Cooler heads and sounder hearts, 

Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise 
I merit, shall with candor weigh the claim. 



TRANSLATIONS OF THE ITALIAN POEMS 



SONNET. 

Fair Lady ! whose harmonious name the Rhine 
Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, 
Base were indeed the wretch who could forbeat 

To love a spirit elegant as thine, 

That manifests a sweetness all divine, 

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare. 
And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are. 

Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. 

When gracefully thou»speak'st or singest gay 
Such strains as might the senseless forest move. 

Ah then — turn each his eyes and ears away, 
Who feels himself unworthy of thy love ! 

Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart 

Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart. 



SONNET. 



As on a hill-top rude, when closing day 

Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fail 
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, 
Borne from its native genial airs away, 
That scarcely can its tender bud display, 

So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare, 
Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. 
While thus, O sweetly scornful ! I essay 

Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, 
And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain ; 
So love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has 

shown. 
That what he wills, he never wills in vain — 
Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be 
To Him. who plants from heaven, a soil as free ) 



CANZONE. 

They mock my toil — the nymphs and amorous 

swains — 
And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry, 
Love-songs in language that thou little know'st 1 
How darest thou risk to sing these foreign 

strains 1 
Say truly. Find'st not oft.thy purpose cross'd, 
And that thy fairest flowers here fade and diel 
Then with pretence of admiration high — 
Thee' other shores expect, and other tid((s, 
Rivers, on whose grassy sides 
Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind 
Thy flowing locks already Fame provides; 
Why then this burden, better far declin'd 1 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 



Speak, muse ! for me — the fair one said, who 
guides 
My wilmig heart, and all my fancy's flights. 
" This is the language in which Love delights." 



SONNET, TO CHARLES DEODATI. 

Charles — and I say it wondering — thou must 
know 
That I. who once assumed a scornful air 
And scoff 'd at Love am fallen in his sna»re, 
(Full many an upright man has fallen so:) 
Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow 
Of golden locks or damask cheek ; more rare 
The heartfelt beauties of my foreign fair ; 
A mien majestic, with dark brows that show 
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind ; 
Words exquisite, of idioms more than one, 
And song whose fascinating power might bind, 
And from her sphere draw down the laboring 

moon ; 
With such fire-darting eyes that, should I fill 
My ears with wax, she would enchant me still. 



SONNET. 



Lady ! It cannot be but that thine eyes 

Must be my sun, such radiance they display, 
And strike me e'en as Phoebus him whose way 

Through horrid Libya's sandy desert lies. 

Meantime, on that side steamy vapors rise 
Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they, 
Next as to me they are, I cannot say, 

But deem them, in the lover's language — sighs. 

Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals, 

Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend 

To soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals. 

While others to my tearful eyes ascend, 

WIence my sad nights in showers are ever 
drown'd, 

Vi my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound, 



SONNET. 

Enamor'd, artless, young, or* foreign ground, 
Uncertain whither from myself to fly ; 
To thee, dear Lady with an humble sigh 
Let me devote my heart, which 1 have found 
By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound, 
Good, and addicted to conceptions high : [sky, 
When tempests shake the world, and fire tha 
It rests in adamant self-wrapt around. 
As safe from envy as from outrage rude, 
Prom hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse, 
As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude, 
Of the resounding lyre and every muse. 
Weak you will find it in one only part, 
Now pierced by love's immedicable dart. 



SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST. 

' So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds 
Ascending,' &c. 

Q.uales aerii montis de vertice nubes 

Cum surgunt, et jam Borese tumid a ora quierunt, 

Coelum hilares abdit, spissa caligine, vultus ■ 

Turn, si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore, 

Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat, 

Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agroa 

Balatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant. 



TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM 
ON MILTON. 

Tres tria, sed longe distantia, sscula vates 
Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximios. 

Graecia sublimem, cum majestate disertum 
Roma tulit. felix Anglia utrique parem. 

Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, qoacta est. 
Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos. 

July, 1780. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 



I. THE GLOWWORM. 

Beneath the hedge, or near the stream, 

A worm is known to stray, 
That shows by night a lucid beam 

Which disappears by day. 

Disputes have been, and still prevail. 

Prom whence his rays proceed ; 
Some give that honor to his tail, 

A^d others to his head. 

But this is sure — the hand of night 

That kindles up the skies. 
Gives him a modicum of light 

Proportion'd to his size. 

Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, 
By such a lamp bestow'd, 



To bid the traveller, as he went, 
Be careful where he trod : 

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light 
Might serve, however small, 

To show a stumbling stone by night, 
And save him from a fall. 

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine 

Is legible and plain, 
'Tis power almighty bids him shine, 

Nor bids him shine in vain. 

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme 
Teach humbler thoughts to you. 

Since such a reptile has its gem, 
And boasts its splendor too. 





rao cowper' 


S WORKS. 


t 


II. THE JACKDAW. 


Neither night nor dawn of day 






Puts a period to thy play : 






There is a bird who, by his coat 


Sing, then — and extend thy spaw 






And by the hoarseness of his note, 


Far beyond the date of man. 






Might be supposed a crow ; 


Wretched man, whose years are spent 






A great frequenter of the church, 
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch, 


In repining discontent. 






Lives not, aged though he be, 






And dormitory too. 


Half a span, compared with thee. 






Above the steeple shines a plate, 
That turns and turns, to indicate 














From what point blows the weather. 


IV. THE PARROT. 






Look up — your brains begin to swim, 








'Tis in the clouds — that pleases him, 


In painted plumes superbly dress'd, 






He chooses it the rather. 


A native of the gorgeous east. 
By many a billow toss'd ; 






Fond of the speculative height, 


Poll gains at length the British shore, 






Thither he wings his airy flight, 


Part of the captain's precious store, 






And thence securely sees 


A present to his toast. 






The bustle and the rareeshow, 








That occupy mankind below, 
Secure and at his ease. 


Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd, 






To teach him now then a word, 








As Poll can master it ; 






You think, no doubt, he sits and muses 


But 'tis her own important charge, 






On future broken bones and bruises, 


To qualify him more at large, 






If he should chance to fall. 


And make him quite a wit. 






No ; not a single thought like that 
Employs his philosophic pate, 
.Or troubles it at all. 








Sweet Poll ! his doting mistress cries, 
Sweet Poll ! the mimic bird replies, 








And calls aloud for sack. 






He sees that this great roundabout, 


She next instructs him in the kiss ; 






The world, with ail its motley rout, 


'Tis now a little one, like 'Miss, 






Church, army, physic, law, 


And now a hearty smack. 






Its customs and its businesses, 








Is no concern at all of his, 


At first he aims at what he hears ; 






And says — what says he 1 — Caw. 


And. listening close with both his eartj 






Just catches at the sound ; 






Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen 


But soon articulates aloud, 






Much of the vanities of men ; 


Much to the amusement of the crowd. 






And, sick of having seen 'em, 


And stuns the neighbors round. 






Would cheerfully these limbs resign 








For such a pair of wings as thine 
And such a head between 'em. 


A querulous old woman's voice 






His humorous talent next employs, 








He scolds, and gives the fie. 






— — 


And now he sings, and now is sick, 
Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick, 






III. THE CRICKET. 


Poor Poll is like to die ! 




. 


Little inmate, full of mirth, 
Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
Wheresoe'er be thine abode, 


Belinda and her bird ! 'tis rare 
To meet with such a well match'd pair. 
The language and the tone. 

T-. 1 1 ^ • 






Always harbinger of good, 
Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With a song more soft and sweet ; 


Each character in every part 
Sustain'd with so much grace and art, 
And both in unison. 






In return thou shalt receive 


When children first begin to spell, 






Such a strain as I can give. 


And stammer out a syllable, 

We think them tedious creatures ; 






Thus thy praise shall be express'd, 


But difficulties soon abate, 






Inoffensive, welcome guest ! 
While the rat is on the scout, 


When birds are to be taught to prate, 
And women are the teachers. 






And the mouse with curious snout, 








With what vermin else infest 
Every dish, and spoil the best; 










Frisking thus before the fire, 


THE THRACIAN. 






Thou hast all thine heart's desire. 


Thractan parents, at his birth, 






Though in voice and shape they be 


Mourn their babe with many a te£T, 






Form : d as if akin to thee, 


But, with undissembled mirth, 






Thou surpassest, happier far, 


Place him breathless on his bier, 






Happiest grasshoppers that are; 








Theirs is but a summer's song. 


Greece and Rome, with equal scora, 






Thine endures the winter long, 
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, 


" the savages !" exclaim. 






" Whether they rejoice or mourn, 






Melody throughout the year. » 


Well entitled to the name*" 













TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 



721 



But the cause of this concern 

And this pleasure would they trace, 

Even they might somewhat learn 
From the savages of Thrace. 



RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY 
LAW OF NATURE. 

Androcles. from his 'injured lord, in dread 
Of instant death, to Lybia's desert fled, [heat, 
Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with 
He spied M length a cavern's cool retreat ; 
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame. 
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came : 
He roar'd approaching : but the savage din 
To plaintive murmurs changed — arrived within, 
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw 
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw. 
The fugitive, through terror at a stand, 
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand ; 
But bolder grown, at length inherent found 
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. 
The cure was wrought ; he wiped the sanious 

blood, 
And firm and free from pain the lion stood. 
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day 
Regales his inmate with the parted prey. 
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared, 
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared. 
But thus to live — still lost — sequester'd still — 
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill. 
Home ! native home ! O might he but repair ! 
He must — he will, though death attends him 

there. 
He goes, and, doom'd to perish, on the sands 
Of the full theatre unpitied stands : 
When lo ! the selfsame lion from his cage 
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage. 
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey 
The man, his healer, pauses on his way, 
And, soften'd by remembrance into sweet 
And kind composure, crouches at his feet. 

Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze : 
But why. ye Romans'? Whence your mute 

amaze 1 
All this is natural : nature bade him rend 
An enemy : she bids him spare a friend. 



A MANUAL, 

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND 
NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE. 

There is a book, which we may call 

(Its excellence is such) 
Alone a library, though small ; 

The ladies thumb it much. 

Words none, things numerous it contains : 
And things with words compared, 

Who needs be told, that has his brains, 
Which merits most regard 1 

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue 

A golden edging boast ; 
And open'd, it displays to view 

Twelve pages at the most. 

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind, 
Adorns its outer part ; 



But all within, 'tis richly lined, 
A magazine of art. 

The whitest hands that secret hoard 

Oft visit : and the fair 
Preserve it in their bosoms stored 

As with a miser's care. 

Thence implements of every s-ic, 

And form'd for various use, 
(They need but to consult their eyes), 

They readily produce. 

The largest and the longest kind 

Possess the foremost page ; 
A sort most needed by the blind, 

Or nearly such, from age. 

The full charg'd leaf which next ensues, 

Presents in bright array 
The smaller sort, which matrons use, 

Not quite so blind as they. 

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply 

What their occasions ask, 
Who with a more discerning eye 

Perform a nicer task. 

But still with regular decrease, 

From size to size they fall, 
In every leaf grow less and less ; 

The last are least of all. 

O ! what a fund of genius, pent 

In narrow space is here ! 
This volume's method and intent 

How luminous and clear ! 

It leaves no reader at a loss 

Or posed, whoever reads : 
No commentator's tedious gloss, 

Nor even index needs. 

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er! 

No book is treasured there, 
Nor yet in Granta's numerous store, 

That may with this compare. 

No ! — rival none in either host 

Of this was ever seen. 
Or, that contents could justly boa'st, 

So brilliant and so keen. 



AN ENIGMA. 

A needle, small as small can be, 
In bulk and use surpasses me, 

Nor is my purchase dear; 
For little, and almost for nought, 
As many of my kind are bought 

As days are in the year. 

Yet though but little use we boast, 
And are procured at little cost 

The labor is not light ; 
Nor few artificers it asks, 
All skilful in their several tasks, 

To fashion us aright. 

One fuses metal o'er the fire, 
A second draws it into wire, 

The shears another plies ; 
Who clips in length the brazen thread 
From him who, chafing every shred, 

Gives all an equal size. 
46 



722 



COWPER S WORKS 



A fifth prepares, exact and round, 

The knob with whicn it must be crown'd ; 

His follower makes it fast : 
And with his mallet and his file 
To shape the point, employs awhile 

The seventh and the last. 

Now. therefore, OEdipus ! declare 
What creature, wonderful, and rare, 

A process that obtains 
Its purpose with so much ado 
At last produces ! — tell me true, 

And take me for your pains ! 



SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED IN 
TRIInITY COLLEGE. CAMBRIDGE. 

None ever shared the social feast, 
Or as an inmate or a guest, 
Beneath the celebrated dome 
Where once Sir Isaac had his home, 
Who saw not (and with some delight 
Perhaps he view'd the novel sight) 
How numerous at the tables there, 
The sparrows beg their daily fare. 
For there in every nook and cell 
Where such a family may dwell. 
Sure as the vernal season comes 
Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs, 
Which kindly given, may serve with food 
Convenient their unfe&ther'd brood ; 
And oft as with its summons clear 
The warning bell salutes their ear, 
Sagacious listeners to the sound, 
They flock from all the fields uroviad, 
To reach the hos itable hal 
None more attentive to th» eaii. 
Arrived, th^ pensionary band, 
Hopping and chirping, close at hand. 
Solicit what they soon receive, 
The sprinkled, plenteous donative. 
Thus is a multitude, though large, 
Supported at a trivial charge ;, 
A single doit would overpay 
The expenditure of every day, 
And who can grudge so small a grace 
To suppliants, natives of the place 1 



FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS. 

As in her ancient mistress' lap 

The youthful tabby lay, 
They gave each other many a tap, 

Alike disposed to play. 

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm, 
And with protruded claws 

Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm, 
Mere wantonness-the cause. 

At once, resentful of the deed, 
She shakes her to the ground 

With many a threat that she shall bleed 
With still a deeper wound. 

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest : 

It was a venial stroke : 
Fir she that will with kittens jest 

Should bear a kitten's joke. 



INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST. 

Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains — 

And seldom another it can — 
To seek a retreat while he reigns 

In the well-shelter'd dwellings of man, 
Who never can seem to intrude, 

Though in all places equally free, 
Come oft as the season is rude, 

Thou art sure to be welcome to me. 

At sight of the first feeble ray 

That pierces the clouds of the east, 
To inveigle thee every day - 

My windows shall show thee a fimst, 
For, taught by experience. I know, 

Thee mindful of benefit long ; 
And that, thankful for all I bestow, 

Thou wilt pay me with many a song. 

Then, soon as the swell of the buds 

Bespeaks the renewal of spring, 
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods, 

Or where it shall please thee to sing : 
And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost, 

Come again to my window or door, 
Doubt not an affectionate host. 

Only pay as thou paid'st me before. 

This music must needs be confess'd 

To flow from a fountain above ; 
Else how should it work in the breast 

Unchangeable friendship and love 7 
And who on the globe can be found, 

Save your generation and ours, 
That can be delighted by sound, 

Or boasts any musical powers 1 



STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE. 

The shepherd touch'd his reed ; sweet Philome 
Essay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain, 

And treasuring, as. on her ear they fell, 
The numbers, echo'd note for note again. 

The peevish youth, who r.sver had found before 
A rival of his ski!!, irfdijrnanl heard, 

And soon (for various \v»# his tuneful store) 
In loftier tones defied in? simple bird. 

She dared the task, and rising as he rose, 

With all the force that passion gives inspired, 

Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close 
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired. 

Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife 
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun ; 

And. sad victory, which cost thy life, 
And he may wish that he had never won ! 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, 

WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DifiD OS 
HER BIRTHDAY, 1728. 

Ancient dame, how wide and vast 

To a race like ours appears, 
Rounded to an orb at last. 

All thy multitude of years ! 

We, the herd of human kind, 
Frailer and of feebler powers ; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 723 


We, to narrow bounds confined, 


Though till his growing time be past 


Soon exhaust the sum cf ours. 


Scarce ever is he seen to fast. 




That hour arrived, his work begins. 

He spins and weaves, and weaves anr; spina 

Till circle upon circle, wound 

Careless around him and around, 


Death's delicious banquet — we 


Perish < ven from the womb, 


Swifter than a shadow flee, 


Nourish'd but to feed the tomb. 


Conceals him with a veil, though slight, 


Seeds of merciless disease 


Impervious to the keenest sight. 


Lurk in all that we enjoy ; 
Some that waste us by degrees, 
Some that suddenly destroy. 


Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask, 
At length he finishes his task : 


And, though a worm when he was lost, 
Or caterpillar at the most, 


And, if life o'erleap the bourn 


When next we see him, wings he wears, 


Common to the sons of men, 


An! in papilio pomp appears; 


What remains, but that we mourn, 


Becomes oviparous ; supplies 


Dream, and dote, and drivel then ? 


With future worms and future flies 




The next ensuing year — and dies ! 


Fast as moons can wax and wane 


Well were it for the world, if all 


Sorrow comes ; and. while we groan, 


Who creep about this earthly ball, 


Pant with anguish, and complain, 


Though shorter-lived than most he be, 


Half our years are fled and gone. 


Were useful in their kind as he. 


If a few (to few 'tis given), 

Lingering on this earthly stage, 
Creep and halt with steps uneven 






THE INNOCENT THIEF. 


To the period of an age, 


Not a flower can be found in .the fields, 


Wherefore live they, but to see 


Or the spot that we till for our pleasure, 


Cunning, arrogance and force, 


From the largest to the least, but it yield* 


Sights lamented much by thee, 


The bee, never wearied, a treasure 


Holding their accustom 'd course ? 






Scarce any she quits unexplored 


Oft was seen, in ages past, 


With a dilligence truly exact ; 


All that we with wonder view ; 


Yet, steal what she may for her hoard 


Often shall be to the last; 


Leaves evidence none of the feet. 


Earth produces nothing new. 


Her.lucrative task she pursues, 


Thee we gratulate. content 


And pilfers with so much address, 


Should propitious Heaven design 


That none of their odor they lose, 


Life for us as calmly spent. 


Nor charm by their beauty the less 


Though but half the length of thine 


Not thus inoffensively preys 


- 


The cankerworm, in-dweiling foe! 
His voracity not thus allays 




THE C\USE WON. 


The sparrow, the finch, or the crow. 


i"wo neighbors furiously dispute ; 


The worm, more expensively fed, 


A field — the subject of the suit. 


The pride of the garden devours; 


Trivial the spot, yet such the rage 


And birds peck the seed from the bed, 


With wnich the combatants engage, 


Still less to be spared than the flower* 


'Twere hard to tell who covets most 




The prize — at whatsoever cost. 

The pleadings swell. Words still suffice : 

No single word but has its price. 

No term but yields some fair pretence 


But she with such delicate skill 


Her pillage so fits for her use, 


That the chemist in vain with his still 


Would labor the like to produce. 


For novel and increased expense. 
Defendant thus becomes a name, 


Then grudge not her temperate meals, 
Nor a benefit blame as a theft; 


Which he that bore it may disclaim, 


Since, stole she not all that she steals. 


Since both in one description blended, 
Are plaintiffs — when the suit is ended. 


Neither honey nor wax would be left. 


DENNERS OLD WOMAN. 




THE SILKWORM. 






In this mimic form of a matron in years, 


The beams of April ere it goes, 


How plainly the pencil of Denner appears ! 


A worm, scarce visible, disclose ; 


The matron herself, in whose old age we see 


All winter long content to dwell 


Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she ! 


The tenant of his native shell. 


No dimness of eye. and no cheek hanging low, 


The same prolific season gives 


No wrinkle, or deep-furrow'd frown on the brow 


The sustenance by which he lives, 


Her forehead indeed is here circled around 


The mulberry leaf, a simple store, 


With locks like the ribbon *rith which they ar< 


That serves him — till he needs no more ! 


bound ; « 


For, his dimensions once complete, 


While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skii 


Thenceforth none ever sees him eat ; 


0' a delicat: peach, is the down of her chin; 



But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe, 
Or that indicates life in its winter-'-is here. 
Yet all is express'd with fidelity due, 
Nor a pimple or freckle conceal' d from the view. 

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a 
taste 
For the labors of art. to the spectacle haste. 
The youths all agree, that could old age inspire 
The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, 
And the matrons with, pleasure confess that 

they see 
Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee, [decline, 
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a 
O wonderful woman ! as placid as thine, [engage 

Strange magic of art ! which the youth can 
To pursue, half enamour'd. the features of age ; 
And force from the virgin a sigh of despair, 
That she when a.s old shall be equally fair ! 
How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd, 
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd. 



THE TEARS OF A PAINTER. 

Apelles, hearing that his boy 
Had just expired — his only joy ! 
Although the sight with anguish tore him, 
Bade place his dear remains before him. 
He seized his brush, his colors spread ; 
And — <; Oh ! my child, accept," — he said, 
" ('Tis all that I can now bestow,) 
This tribute of a father's woe !" 
Then, faithful to the twofold part, 
Both of his feelings and his art, 
He closed his eyes with tender care, 
And form'd at once a fellow pair. 
His brow with amber locks beset, 
And lips he drew not livid yet, 
And shaded all that he had done 
To a just image of his son. 

Thus far is well. But view again 
The cause of thy paternal pain! 
Thy melancholy task fulfil ! 
It needs the last, last touches still. 
Again his pencil's powers he tries, 
For on his lips a smile he spies : 
And still his cheek unfaded shows 
The deepest damask of the rose. 
Then, heedful to the finish'd whole, 
With fondest eagerness he stole, 
Till scarce himself distinctly knew 
The cherub copied from the true. 
Now, painter cease ! Thy task is done 
Long lives this image of thy son ; 
Nor short-lived shall thy glory prove 
Or of thy labor or thy love. 



THE MAZE. 

From right to left, and to and fro, 

Caught in a labyrinth you go, 

And turn : and turn, and turn again, 

To solve the mystery, but in vain ; 

Stand still, and breathe, and take from me 

A clue, that soon shall set you free ! 

Not Ariadne, if you met her, 

Herself could serve you with a better. 

You enter'd easily — find where — 

And make with ease your exit there ! 



NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE StU 
FERER. 

The lover, in melodious verses, 
His singular distress rehearses ; 
Still closing with a rueful cry, 
" Was ever such a wretch as I !" 
Yes! thousands have endured befoi 
All thy distress ; some, haply, more. 
Unnumber'd Corydons complain, 
And Strephons, of the like disdain 
And if thy Chloe be of steel, 
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel ; 
Not her alone that censure fits. 
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits. 



THE SNAIL. 

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, 
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fatt 
As if he grew there, house and all 
Together. 

Within that house secure he hides, 
When danger imminent betides 
Of storm, or other harm besides 

Of weather. 

Give but his horns the slightest touch, • 
His self-collecting power is such, 
He shrinks into his house with much 
Displeasure. 

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, 
Except himself has chatties none, 
Well satisfied to be his own 

Whole treasure 

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, 
Nor partner of his banquet needs, 
And if he meets one, only feeds 

The faster. 

Who seeks him must be worse than blind 
(He and his house are so combined,) 
If, finding it, he fails to find 

Its master. 



THE CANTAB. 

With two spurs or one, and no great matter 
which, [switch, 

Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a 
Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast, 
Paid part into hand ;— you must wait for the rest. 
Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse, 
And out they both sally for better or worse ; 
His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather j 
And in violent haste to go not knowing whither. 
Through the fields and the towns ; (see !) ha 
scampers along: [young ; 

And is look'd at and laugh'd at by old and by 
Till, at length overspent, and his sides smear'd 

with blood, 
Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud 
In a wagon or chaise, shall he finish his route % 
Oh ! scandalous fate ! he must do it on foot. 

Young gentlemen, hear ! — I am older than you 
The advice that I give I have proved to be true, 
Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it, 
The faster you ride, you're the longer about it. 



TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 



FROM THE GREEK OF JULIANUS. 

A. Spartan, his companion slain, 

Alone from battle fled ; 
His mother, kindling with disdain 

That she had borne him. struck him dead ; 
For courage, and not birth alone, 
In Sparta, testifies a son ! # 

ON THE SAME BY PALLADAS. 

A Spartan 'scaping from the fight, 

His mother met him in his flight, 

Upheld a falchion to his breast. 

And thus the fugitive address'd : 

" Thou canst but live to blot with shame 

Indelible thy mother's name, 

While every breath that thou shalt draw 

Offends against thy country's law ; 

But if thou perish by this hand, 

Myself indeed, throughout the land, 

To my dishonor, shall be known 

The mother still of such a son ; 

But Sparta will be safe and free 

And that shall serve to comfort me." 

AN EPITAPH. 

My name — my country — what are they to thee ! 
What, whether base or proud my pedigree 1 
Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men — 
Perhaps I fell below them all — what then 1 
Suffice it, stranger ! that thou seest a tomb — 
Thou know ; st its use — it hides — no matter whom. 

ANOTHER. 

Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain 
With much hard labor in thy service worn ! 
He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain. 
And he these olives that the vale adorn. 
He fill'd with grain the glebe ; the rills he led 
Through this green herbage, and those fruitful 

bowers ; 
Thou, therefore, earth ! lie lightly on his head, 
His hoary head, and deck his grave with flowers. 

ANOTHER. 

Painter, this likeness is too strong, 
And we shall mourn the dead too long. 

ANOTHER. 

At threescore winters' end I died 
A cheerless being sole and sad ; 
The nuptial knot I never tied, 
And wish my father never had. 

BY CALLIMACHUS. 

At morn we placed on his funeral bier 
Voung Melanippus ; and, at eventide, 



Unable to sustain a loss so dear, 
By her own hand his blooming sister died. 
Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race, 
Annihilated by a double blow. [bracft 

Nor son could hope nor daughter more to en> 
And all Cyrene sadden'd at his woe. 

ON MILTIADES. 

Miltiades ! thy valor best 
(Although in eveiy region known) 
The men of Persia can attest, 
Taught by thyself at Marathon. 

ON AN INFANT. 

Bewail not much, my parents ! me. the pic 
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here. 
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year, 
He found all sportive, innocent, and gay, 
Your young Callimachus ; and if I knew 
Not many joys, my griefs were also few 

BY HERACLIDES. 

In Cnidus born, the consort I became 
Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name. 
His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride, 
But bore two children at a birth, and died. 
One child I leave to solace and uphold 
Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old 
And one. for his remembrance' sake, I bear 
To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there 

ON THE REED. 

I was of late a barren plant, 
Useless, insignificant, 
Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple boio, 
A native of the marshy shore ; 
But. gather'd for poetic use, 
And plunged into a sable juice, 
Of which my modicum I sip 
With narrow mouth and slender lip, 
At once, although by nature dumb, 
All eloquent I have become. 
And speak with fluency untired, 
As if by Phoebus self inspired. 

TO HEALTH. 

Eldest born of powers divine! 
Bless'd Hygeia ! be it mine 
To enjoy what thou canst give, 
And henceforth with thee to live : 
For in power if pleasure be, 
Wealth or numerous progeny, 
Or in amorous embrace, 
Where no spy infests the place ; 



72t COWPER'S WORKS. 


Or in aught that Heaven bestows 


ON A BATH, BY PLATO. 


To alleviate human woes, 




When the wearied heart despairs 


Did Cytherea to the skies 


Of a respite from its cares ; 


From this pellucid lymph arise 1 


These and every true delight 


Or was it Cytherea's touch, 


Flourish only in thy sight; 


When bathing here, that made it such 1 


And the sister graces three 




Owe, themselves, their youth to thee 
Without whom we may possess 


ON A FOWLER, BY ISIDORUS. 


Much, but never happiness. 


With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air, 




Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare. 


ON INVALIDS. 


No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss 




Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss. 


Far haopier are the dead, methinks, than they 


Thrice thirty years fye lived, and to his heirs 


Who look for death, and fear it every day. 


His seeds bequeath'd, his birdlime, and his snares 


ON THE ASTROLOGERS. 


ON NIOBE. 


The astrologers did all alike presage 
My uncle's dying in extreme old age ; 
One only disagreed. But he was wise, 
And spoke not till he heard the funeral cries. 


Charon ! receive a family on board, 
Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl, 
Apollo and Diana, for a word 
•By me too proudly spoken, slew us all. 


ON AN OLD WOMAN 






ON A GOOD MAN. 


Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said : 




But 'tis a foul aspersion ; 


Traveller, regret not me ; for thou shalt find 


She buys them black ; they therefore need 


Just cause of sorrow none in my decease, 


No subsequent immersion. 


Who, dying, children's children left behind, 




And with one wife lived many a year in peace ; 


ON FLATTERERS. 


Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters 
three, 


No mischief worthier of our fear 


And oft their infants in my bosom lay, 


In nature can be found 


Nor saw I one of all derived from me, 


Than friendship, in ostent sincere, 


Touch'd with disease, or torn by death away. 
Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestow'd, 


But hollow and unsound. 


For lull'd into a dangerous dream 


And me, by blameless manners fitted well 


We close infold a foe, 


To seek it, sent to the serene abode 


Who strikes, when most secure we seem, 


Where shades of pious men forever dwell. 


The inevitable blow. 






ON A MISER. 


ON A TRITE FRIEND. 






They call thee rich — I deem thee poor, 


Hast thou a friend'? thou bast indeed 


Since, if thou darest not use thy store, 


A rich an-] lf.rge supply. 


But savest it only for thine heirs, 


Treasure to serve your every need, 


The treasure is not thine, but theirs. 


Well managed, till you die. 






ANOTHER. 


ON THE SWALLOW. 






A miser traversing his house, 


Attic maid ! with honey fed, 


Espied, unusual there, a mouse, 


Bear'st thou to thy callow brood 


And thus his uninvited guest 


Yonder locust from the mead, 


Briskly inquisitive address'd : 


Destined their delicious food 1 


" Tell me, my dear, to what cause is 't 


Ye have kindred voices clear, 
Ye alike unfold the wing, 
Migrate hither, sojourn here, 


I owe this unexpected visit 1" 

The mouse her host obliquely eyed, 

And, smiling, pleasantly replied: 

" Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard! 

I come to lodge, and not to board." 


Both attendant on the spring ! 


Ah, for pity drop the prize ; 




Let it not with truth be said 


ANOTHER. 


That a songster gasps and dies, 




That a songster may bo fed. 


Art thou some individual of a kind 




Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind 1 ^ 


ON LATE ACQUIRED WEALTH. 


Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such, 
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap to« 


Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes 


much. [breasl 


Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour, 


But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy 


Who nought enjoy'd while young, denied the 


This lust of treasure— folly at the best ! 


means ; ' [power. 


For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb, 


And nought when old enjoy'd, denied the 


To fatten with thy spoils thou know'st not whom 1 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GREEK. 



721 



ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY. 

^ich, thou hadst many lovers — poor, hast none, 
So surely want extinguishes the flame, 

And she who call'd thee once her pretty one, 
And her Adonis, now inquires thy name. 

Where wast thou born, Socicrates. and where, 
In what strange country can thy parents live, 

Who seem'st by thy complaints, not yet aware 
That wanl 's a crime no woman can forgive 1 

ON THE GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy songster, perch'd above, 
On the summit of the grove, 
Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing 
With the freedom of a king, 
From thy perch survey the fields 
Where prolific nature yields • 
Nought that, willingly as she, 
Man surrenders not to thee. 
For hostility or hate 
None thy pleasures can create. 
Thee it satisfies to sing 
Sweetly the return of spring, 
Herald of the genial hours, 
Harming neither herbs nor flowers. 
Therefore man thy voice attends 
Gladly — thou and he are friends; 
Nor thy never-ceasing strains, 
Phoebus or the muse disdains 
As too simple or too long, 
For themselves inspire the song. 
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying, 
Ever singing, sporting, playing 
What has nature else to show 
Godlike in its kind as thou % 



ON HERMOCRATIA. 

Hermocratia named — save only one — 
Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none ; 
For neither Phoebus pierced my thriving joys, 
Nor Dian — she my girls, or he my boys. 
But Dian rather, when my daughters lay 
In parturition, chased their pangs away. 
And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shared 
A vigorous youth, by sickness unimpair'd. 
.0 Niobe ! far less prolific ! see 
Thy boast against Latona shamed by me ! 

FROM MENANDER. 

9 

Fond youth ! who dream'st that hoarded g( Id 

Is needful not alone to pay 
For all thy various items sold, 

To serve the wants of every day ; 

Bread, vinegar, and oil. and meat, 
For savory viands season'd high ; 

But somewhat more important yet — 
I tell thee what it cannot buy. 

No treasure hadst thou more amass'd 
Than fame to Tantalus assign'd, 

Would save thee from a tomb at last, 
But thou must leave it all behind. 

I give thee, therefore, counsel wise ; 

Confide not vainly in thy store, 
However large — much less despise 

Others comparatively poor ; 



But in thy more exalted state 

A just and equal temper show 
That all who see thee rich and great, 

May deem thee worthy to be so. 

ON PALLAS BATHING, FROM A HYMN 
OF CALLIMACHUS. 

Nor oils of balmy scent produce, 
Nor mirror for Minerva's use, 
Ye nymphs who lave her ; she, array'd 
In genuine beauty, scorns their aid. 
Not even when they left the skies, 
To seek on Ida's head the prize 
From Paris' hand, did Juno deign, 
Of Pallas in the crystal plain 
Of Simois' stream her locks to trace, 
Or in the mirror's polished face, 
Though Venus oft with anxious care 
Adjusted twice a single hair. 

TO DEMOSTHENES 

It flatters and deceives thy view, 
This mirror of ill-polish'd ore ; 

For, were it just, and told thee true, 
Thou wouldst consult it never more 

ON A SIMILAR CHARACTER. 

You give your cheeks a rosy stain, 

With washes dye your hair ; 
But paint and washes both are vain 

To give a youthful air. 

Those wrinkles mock your daily toil 

No labor will efface 'em, 
You wear a mask of smoothest oil, 

Yet still with ease we trace 'em. 

An art so fruitless then forsake, 
Which though you much excel in ; 

You never can contrive to make 
Old Hecuba young Helen. 

ON AN UGLY FELLOW. 

Beware, my friend ! of crystal brook, 
Or fountain, lest that hideous hook, 

Thy nose, thou chance to see ; 
Narcissus' fate would then be thine, 
And self-detested thou wouldst pine, 

As self-enamour'd he. 

ON A BATTERED BEAUTY. 

Hair, wax. rouge, honey, teeth you buy, 

A multifarious store ! 
A mask at once would all supply 

Nor would it cost you more. 

ON A THIEF. 

When Aulus, the nocturnal thief, made prize 
Of Hermes, swift-wing'd envoy of the skies, 
Hermes. Arcadia's king, the thief divine, 
Who when an infant stole Apollo's kine, 
And whom, as arbiter and overseer 
Of our gymnastic sports, we planted here ; 
" Hermes," he cried, " you meet no new disaster 
Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond the master." 



728 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ON PEDIGREE. 



FROM EPICHARMUS. 



M Y mother ! if thou love me, name no more 
My noble birth ! Sounding at every breath 
My noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly, 
As to their only refuge, all from whom 
Nature withholds all good besides ; they boast 
Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs 
Of their forefathers, and, from age to age 
Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race : 
But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name. 
Derived from no forefathers 1 Such a man 
Lives not ; for how could such be born at all 1 
And, if it chance that, native of a land 
Far distant, or in infancy deprived 
Of all his kindred, one. who cannot trace 
His origin, exist, why deem him sprung 
From baser ancestry than theirs who can % 
My mother ! he whom nature at his birth 
Endow'd with virtuous qualities, although 
An iEthiop and a slave, is nobly born. 

ON ENVY. 

Pity, says the Theban bard, 
From my wishes I discard ; 
Envy, let me rather be, 
Rather far, a theme for thee. 
Pity to distress is shown, 
Envy to the great alone — 
So tiv Theban — But to shine 
Less conspicuous be mine ! 
I prefer the golden mean, 
Pomp and penury between ; 
For alarm and peril wait 
Ever on the loftiest state 



And the lowest to the end 
Obloquy and scorn attend. 

BY MOSCHUS. 

I slept when Venus enter'd : to my bed 
A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, 
A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said : 

" Shepherd, receive my little one ! I bring 
An untaught love, whom thou must teach to 

sing." 
She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought, 
Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught, 
How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound, 
How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound, 
Hew Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire 
Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre. [he, 
Such were .my themes ; my themes nought heeded 
But ditties sang of amorous sort to me, 
The pangs that mortals and immortals prove 
From Venus' influence and the darts of love. 
Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught ; 
His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot. 

BY PHILEMON. 

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent, 
And give them bulk beyond what nature meant 
A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry — 
' ; He's dead indeed, but he was born to die"— 
Such temperate grief is suited to the size 
And burden of the loss ; is just and wise. 
But to exclaim. ' Ah ! wherefore was 1 born, 
Thus to be left forever thus forlorn V 
Who thus laments his loss invites distress, 
And magnifies a woe that might be less, 
Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd, 
And leaving reason's remedy behind. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF GAY. 



LEPUS MULTIS AMICUS. 

•jWsus amicitia est, uni nisi dedita, ceu fit, 

Simplice ni nexus foedere. lusus amor. 
Incerto genitore puer. non ssepe paternse 

Tutamen novit, deliciasque domus : 
Q,uique sibi fidos fore multos sperat, amicus 

Mirum est huic misero si ferat ullus opem. 
Comis erat. mitisque, et nolle et velle paratus 

Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, Lepus. 
lile, quot in sylvis et quot spatiantur in agris 

Gtuadrupedes, norat conciliare sibi ; 
Et quisque innocuo,invitoque lacessere quenquam 

Labra tenus saltern fid us amicus orat. 
Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit, 

Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta. petens, 
Venatorum audit clangores pone sequentem, 

Fulmineumque sonum territus erro fugit. 
CJorda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigit aures, 

Respicit, et s'entit jam prope adesse necem. 
Utque canes fallat late circumvagus, illuc, 

Unde abiit, mira calliditate redit : 



Viribus at fractis tandem se projicit ultro 

In media miserum semianimemque via. 
Vix ibi stratus, equi sonitum pedis audit, et, oh spe 

Q,uam laeta adventu cor agitatur equi ! 
Dorsum (inquit) mihi, chare, tuum concede, 
tuoque 

Auxilio nares fallere, vimque canum. 
Me meus. ut nosti. pes prodit — fidus amicus 

Fert quodcunque, lubens, nee grave sentit 
onus. 
Belle, miselle lepuscule. (equus respondet) amara 

Omnia quae tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi. 
Verum age — sume animos — multi, me pone, 
bonique 

Adveniunt, quorum* sis citd salvus ope. 
Proximus armenti dominus bos solicitatus 

Auxilium his verbis se dare posse negat: 
Quando quadrupedum, quot vivunt, nullut 
amicum 

Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi, 
Libertate asquus. quam cedit amicus amico, 

Utar, et absque metu ne tibi dis^liceam; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM OWEN. 



72« 



Hinc me mandat amor. Juxta fstum messis 
acervum 

Me mea, prae cunctis chara. juvenca manet ; 
Et quis non ultro quaecunque negotia linquit, 

Pareat ut domin33 cum vocat ipsa sus 1 
Nee me crudelem dicas — discedo — sed hircus, 

Cujus ope effugias integer, hircus adest. 
Febrem (ait hircus) habes. Heu, sicca at lumina 
languent! 

Utque caput, collo deficiente, jacet ! 
Eirsutum mihi tergum ; et forsan lseserit aegrum, 

Vellere eris melius fultus. ovisque venit. 
Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis inquit, anhelans 

Sustineo lanae pondera tanta mea? ; 
Me nee velocem nee fortem jacto, solentque 

Nos etiam saevi dilacerare canes. 
Ultimus accedit vitulus, vitulumque precatur, 

Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat. 
Remne ergo, respondet vitulus, suscepero tantam, 

Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri 1 
re, quern maturi canibus validique relinquunt, 

Incolumem potero reddere parvus ego 1 ? 
Praeterea tollens quem illi aversantur. amicis 

Forte parum videar consuluisse meis. 
Ignoscas oro. Fidissima dissociantur 

Cord a, et tale tibi sat liquet esse meum. 
Ecce autem ad calces canis est ! te quanta 
perempto 

Tristitia est nobis ingruitura ! — Vale ! 

AVARUS ET PLUTUS. 

[cta fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarus 

Ex somno trepidus surgit. opumque memor. 
Lata silenter humi ponit vestigia, quemque 

Respicit'ad sonitum, respiciensque tremit; 
Angustissima qusque foramina lampade visit, 

Ad vectes. obices, fertque refertque manum. 
Dein reserat crebris junctam compagibus arcam 

Exultansque omnes conspicit intus opes. 
Sed tandem furiis ultricibus actus ob artes 

Queis sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum. 
Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora 
piilsans 

Aurum execratur, perniciemque vocat ; 
mihi, ait, misero mens quam tranquilla fuisset, 

Hoc celasset adhuc si modo terra malum ! 



Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis ; et aurum 

Quid contra vitii tormina saeva valet 1 
O inimicum aurum 1 O homini infestissima pestis; 

Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas 1 
Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid hon 
estum est, 

Et prater nomen nil retinere boni. 
Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit ; 

Aurum nocturnis furibus arma dedit. 
Bella docet fortes, timidosque ad pessima ducit, 

Fcedifragas artes, multiplicesque dolos, 
Nee vitii quicquam est, quod non inveneris ortum 

Ex malesuada auri sacrilegaque fame. 
Dixit, et ingemuit ; Plutusque suum sibi numen 

Ante oculos. ira fervid us, ipse stetit. 
Arcam clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugis 

Ostendens ; tremulum sic Deus increpuit. 
Questibus his raucis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis 
aures 1 

Ista tui similis tristia quisque canit. 
Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe 1 
Culpa, 

Dum rapis. et captas omnia, culpa tua est. 
Mene execrandum censes, quia tam pretiosa 

Criminibus fiunt perniciosa tuis 1 
Virtutis specie, pulchro ceu pallio amictus 

Quisque catus nebulo sordida facta tegit. 
Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durum 

Et dirum subito vergit ad imperium. 
Hinc,nimium dum latro aurum detrudit in arcam. 

Idem aurum latet in pectore pestis edax. 
Nutrit avaritiam et fastum. suspendere adunco 

Suadet naso inopes, et vitium omne docet. 
Auri et larga probo si copia contigit, instar 

Roris dilapsi ex adhere cuncta beat : 
Turn, quasi numen inesset, alit, fovet, educat 
orbos, 

Et viduas lacrymis ora rigare vetat. 
Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avarus, 

Aurum animaa pretium qui cupit atque capit % 
Lege pari gladium incuset sicarius atrox 

Caeso homine, et ferrum judicet esse reum. 

PAPILIO ET LIMAX. 

Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigia surgit, 
Nativas sordes, quicquid agatur, olet. 



EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN. 



ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT. 

Thou mayst of double ignorance boast, 
Who know'st not that thou nothing know'st. 

PRUDENT SIMPLICITY. 

That thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be, 
And serpent-like, that none may injure thee ! 

SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 
Contemplate, when the sun declines, 

Thy death with deep reflection ! 
And when again he rising shines, 

The day of resurrection ! 



TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS. 

I wish thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend ; 
For when at worst, they say, things always mend 

RETALIATION. 

The works of ancient bards divine, 

Aulus, thou scorn'st to read ; 
And should posterity read thine, 

It would be strange indeed ! 

When little more than boy in age, 
I deem'd myself almost a sage: 
But now seem worthier to be sty ed, 
For ignorance, almost a child. 



TRANSLATIONS 



VIRGIL, OVID, HORACE, AND HOMER, 



THE SALAD BY VIRGIL. 

The winter night now well nigh worn away 
The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day, 
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm 
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, 
Yawn'd, stretch 'd his limbs, and anxious to pro- 
vide 
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied, 
By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook, 
And, poking in the dark, explored the nook 
Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around, 
And with burnt ringers' ends the treasure found. 

It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose, 
Sure proof of latent fire some smoke arose; 
When, trimming with a pin the encrusted tow, 
And stooping it towards the coals below, 
He toils with cheeks distended, to excite 
The lingering flame, and gains at length a light. 
With prudent heed he spreads "his hand before 
The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door. 
Small was his stock, but taken for the day 
A measured stint of twice eight pounds away, 
With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, 
Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand : 
Then baring both his arms — a sleeveless coat 
He girds, the rough exuviae of a goat : 
And with a rubber, for that use design'd, 
Cleansing his mill within — begins to grind ; 
Each hand has its employ ; laboring amain, 
This turns the winch, while that supplies the 

grain. 
The stone, revolving lapidly, now glows, 
And the bruised corn a mealy current flows ; 
While he, to make his heavy labor light, 
Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right; 
And chants with rudest accent, to beguile 
His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. 
And now, " Dame Cybale, come forth !" he cries ; 
But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies. 

From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid 
Whose face and form alike her birth betray ; d. 
With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin, 
Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin. 
Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet, 
Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat. 
Such, summon'd oft she came; at his command 
Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd, 
And made in haste her simmering skillet steam, 
Replenish'd newly from the neighboring stream. 

The labors of the mill perform'd, a sieve 
The mingled flour and bran must next receive, 
Which shaken oft shoots Ceres through refined, 
And better dress'd. her husks all left behind. 



This done, at once his future plain repast 
Unleaven'd on a shaven board he cast, 
With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all, 
Then gather' d it with both hands to a ball, 
And spreading it again with both hands wide, 
With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied ; 
At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought, 
Takes from his palms impress'd the shape il 

ought, 
Becomes an orb — and quarter'd into shares, 
The faithful mark of just division bears. 
Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space, 
For Cybale before had swept the place, 
And there, with tiles and embers overspread, 
She leaves it — reeking in its sultry bed. 

Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus alone 
His part perform'd, proves heedless of his own, 
But sedulous, not merely to subdue 
His hunger, but to please his palate too. 
Prepares more savory food. His chimney side 
Could boast no gammon, salted well and dried 
And hook'd behind him ; but sufficient store 
Of bundled anise and a cheese it bore ; [strung 
A broad round cheese, which, through its centre 
With a tough broom twig, in the corner hung ; 
The prudent hero, therefore, with address 
And quick despatch, now seeks another mess. 

Close to his cottage lay a garden ground, 
With reeds and osiers sparely girt around ; 
Small was the spot, but liberal to produce, 
Nor wanted aught to serve a peasant's use ; 
And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow 

thence, 
Although its tillage was its sole expense. 
For oft as from his toils abroad he ceased, 
Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast, 
His debt of culture" here he duly paid, 
And only left the plough to wield the spade. 
He knew to give each plant the soil it needs, 
To drill the ground and cover close the seeds ; 
And could with ease compel the wanton rill 
To turn and wind obedient to his will. [beet, 
There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching 
The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet. 
The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind, 
The noxious poppy — quencher of the mind ! 
Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board. 
The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd ; 
But these (for none his appetite control!' d 
With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold ; 
With broom twigs neatly bound, each kind apart 
He bore them ever to the pubjic mart : 
Whence laden still, but with a lighter load, 
Of cash well earn'd, he took bis homeward road 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VIRGIL 



731 



Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, 
His gains in flesh meat for a feast at home. 
There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red, 
Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed : 
On scallions sliced, or, with a sensual gust, 
On rockets — foul provocatives of lust ! 
Nor ever shunn'd with smarting gums to press 
Nasturtium — pungent face-distorting mess ! 

Some such regale now also in his thought. 
With hasty steps his garden ground he sought; 
There, delving with his hands, he first displaced 
Four plants of garlick. large, and rooted fast ; 
The tender tops of parsley next he culls, 
Then the old rue bush shudders as he pulls ; 
And coriander last to these succeeds, [seeds. 

That hangs on slightest threads her trembling 

Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands 
The mortar at his sable servant's hands ; 
When, stripping all his garlick first, he tore 
The exterior coats, and cast them on the floor, 
Then cast away with like contempt the skin, 
Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. 
These search'd. and perfect found, he one by one 
Rinsed and disposed within the hollow stone. 
Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese, 
With his injected herbs he cover'd these, 
And, tucking with his left his tunic tight, 
And seizing fast the pestle with his right, 
The garlick bruising first he soon express'd, 
And mixed the various juices of the rest. 
He grinds and by degrees his herbs below, 
Lost in each other, their own powers forego, 
And with the cheese in compound to the sight 
Nor wholly green appear nor wholly white. 
His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent, 
He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent ; 
Or, with wry faces, wiping as he spoke 
The trickling tears, cried, " Vengeance on the 

smoke !" 
The work proceeds : not roughly turns he now 
The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow ; 
With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills, 
Some drops of olive oil he next instils. 
Then vinegar with caution scarcely less, 
And gathering to a ball the medley mess, 
Last, with two fingers frugally applied, 
Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side. 
And, thus complete in figure and in kind, 
Obtains at length the salad he design'd. 

And now black Cybale before him stands, 
The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands, 
He glads receives it, chasing far away 
All fears of famine for the passing day ; 
His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head 
In its tough casque of leather, forth he led 
And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair, 
Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed 
share. 
June, 1799. 



TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 

JENEID, BOOK VIII. LINE 18. 

Thus Italy was moved — nor did the chief 
dSneas in his mind less tumult feel. 
On every side his anxious thought he turns, 
Restless, unfix 'd, not knowing which to choose. 
And as a cistern that in brim of brass 
Confines the crystal flood, if chance the sun 
Smite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb, 



The quivering light now flashes on the walls, 
Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof: 
Such were the wavering motions of his mind. 
'Twas night — and weary nature sunk to rest. 
The birds, the bleating flocks, were heard no 

more. 
At length, on the cold ground, beneath the damp 
And dewy vault fast by the river's brink, 
The father of his country sought repose. 
When lo ! among the spreading poplar boughs, . 
Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious rose 
The god of Tiber : clear transparent gauze 
Infolds his loins, his brows with reeds are 

crown'd : 
And these his gracious words to soothe his care: 
" Heaven- born, who bring'st our kindred home 

again, • 

Rescued, and givest eternity to Troy, 
Long have Laurentum and the Latian plains 
Expected thee ; behold thy fix'd abode. 
Fear not the threats of war, the storm is past, 
The gods appeased. For proof that what thou 

hear'st 
Is no vain forgery or delusive dream, 
Beneath the grove that borders my green bank, 
A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white young, 
Shall greet thy wondering eyes. Mark well the 

place ; 
For 'tis thy place of rest, there end thy toils: 
There, twice ten years elapsed, fair Alba's walls 
Shall rise, fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand. 
Thus shall it be— now listen, while I teach 
The means to accomplish these events at hand. 
The Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung, 
Following Evander's standard and his fate, 
High on these mountains, a well chosen spot, 
Have built a city, for their grandsire's sake 
Named Pallanteum. These perpetual war 
Wage with the Latians : join'd in faithful league 
And arms confederate, add them to your camp. 
Myself between my winding banks will speed 
j Your well oar'd barks to stem the opposing tide. 
I Rise, goddess born, arise ; and with the first 
| Declining stars seek Juno m thy prayer, 
And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows. 
When conquest crowns thee, then remember me 
I am the Tiber, whose cerulean stream 
Heaven favors ; I with copious flood divide 
These grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meads. 
My mansion, this — and lofty cities crown 
My fountain head."— He spoke and sought the 

deep, 
And plunged his form beneath the closing flood. 
iEneas at the morning dawn awoke, 
And, rising, with uplifted eye beheld 
The orient sun, then dipped his palms, and 

scoop'd 
The brimming stream, and thus addre^s'd the 

skies : 
" Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the 

source 
Of many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood, 
O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford, 
At length afford, a shelter from my woes. 
Where'er in secret cavern under ground 
Thy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light, 
Since thou hast pity for a wretch like me, 
My offerings and my vows shall wait thee still : 
Great horned Father of Hesperian floods, 
Be gracious now, and ratify thy word."' 
He said, and chose two galleys from his fleet, 
Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in anna 



732 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



When lo ! astonishing and pleasing sight, 
The milk-white dara, with her unspotted brood, 
Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove. 
To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to thee 
Devotes them all, all on thine altar bleed. 
That live-long night old Tiber smooth'd his flood, 
And so restrain'd it that it seem'd to stand 
Motionless as a pool, or silent lake, 
That not a billow might resist their oars. 
With cheerful sound of exhortation soon 
Their voyage they begin ; the pitchy keel 
Slides through the gentle deep, the quiet stream 
Admires the unwonted burden that it bears, 
Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay. 
Beneath the shade of various trees, between 
The umbrageous branches of the spreading 

* groves, 
They cut their liquid way, nor day nor night 
They slack their course, unwinding as they go 
The long meanders of the peaceful tide. 

The glowing sun was in meridian height, 
When from afar they saw the humble walls, 
And the few scatter'd cottages, which now 
The Roman power has equall'd with the clouds ; 
But such was then Evander's scant domain. 
They sTeer to shore, and hasten to the town. 

It chanced the Arcadian monarch on that day, 
Before the walls, beneath a shady grove, 
Was celebrating high, in solemn feast, 
Alcides and his tutelary gods. 
Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chief 
Of all his youth ; with these, a worthy tribe, 
His poor but venerable senate, burnt [blood. 
Sweet incense, and their altars smoked with 
Soon as they saw the towering masts approach, 
Sliding between the trees, while the crew rest 
Upon their silent oars, amazed they rose, 
Not without fear, and all forsook the feast. 
But Pallas uxidismay'd. his javelin seized, 
Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising ground 
Forbade them to disturb the sacred rites. 
"Ye stranger youth! What prompts you to 

explore 
This untried way 1 and whither do ye steer 1 
Whence, and who are ye I Bring ye peace or 

war V 
jEneas from his lofty deck holds forth 
The peaceful olive branch, and thus replies: 
" Trojans and enemies to the Latian state, 
Whom they with unprovoked hostilities [der — 
Have driven away, thou seest. We seek Evan- 
Say this — and say beside, the Trojan chiefs 
Are come, and seek his friendship and his aid." 
Pallas with wonder heard that awful name, 
And " Whosoe'er thou art," he cried, ; ' come forth : 
Bear thine own tidings to my father's ear, 
And be a welcome guest beneath our roof." 
He said, and ress'd the stranger to his breast: 
Then led him from the river to the grove, 
Where, courteous, thus .<Eneas greets the king: 
" Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow 
(So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forth 
In sign of amity this peaceful branch, 
I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee well 
A Grecian leader, born in Arcady, 
And kinsman of the Atridae. Me my virtue, 
That means no wrong to thee — the Oracles, 
Our kindred families allied of old, 
And thy renown diffused through every land, 
Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee, 
A.nd send me not unwilling to thy shores. 
Dardanus, author of the Trojan state, 



(So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son ; 
Electra boasted Atlas for her sire, 
Whose shoulders high sustain the ethereal orbs. 
Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore, 
Sweet Maia, on Cylene's hoary top. 
Her, if we credit aught tradition old, 
Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'd 
His daughter. Thus united close in blood, 
Thy race and ours one common sire confess. 
With these credentials fraught, I would not send 
Ambassadors with artful phrase to sound 
And win thee Dy degrees — but came myself— 
Me, therefore, me thou seest ; my life the stake: 
'Tis I, iEneas, who implore thine aid. 
Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee 
Prevail to conquer us, nought then, they think, 
Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs, 
All theirs, from the upper to the nether sea. 
Take then our friendship, and return us thine. 
We too have courage, we have noble minds, 
And youth well tried, and exercised in arms." 

Thus spoke zEneas. — He with fl'x'd regard 
Survey'd him speaking, features, form, and mien 
Then briefly thus—" Thou noblest of thy name. 
How gladly do I take thee to my heart, 
How gladly thus confess thee for a friend ! 
In thee I trace Anchises ; his thy speech, 
Thy voice, thy countenance. For I well rememDei 
Many a day since, when Priam journeyed forth 
To Salamis, to see the land where dwelt 
Hesione, his sister, he push'd on 
E'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas then 
The bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek ; 
Much I admired the Trojan chieis, and much 
Their king, the son of great Laomedon, 
But most Anchises, towering o'er them all. 
A youthful longing seized me to accost 
The hero, and embrace him ; I drew near, 
And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus. 
Departing, he distintinguis'd me with gifts, 
A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts, 
A robe inwove with gold, with gold imboss'd 
Two bridles, those which Pallas uses now. 
The friendly league thou hast solicited 
I give thee, therefore, and to-morrow all 
My chosen youth shall wait on your return. 
Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come, 
Rejoice with us, and join to celebrate 
These annual rites, which may not be delay'd, 
And be at once familiar at our board." 

He said, and bade replace the feast removed; 
Himself upon a grassy bank disposed 
The crew ; but for iEneas order'd forth 
A couch spread with a lion's tawny shag, 
And bade him share the honors of his throne. 
The appointed youth with glad alacrity 
Assist the laboring priest to load the board 
With roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves 
Well kneaded bread and mantling bowls. We 



zEneas and the Trojan youth regale 
On the huge length of a well pastured chine. 
Hunger appeased, and tables all despatch'd 
Thus spake Evander : '• Superstition here, 
In this old solemn feasting, has no part. 
No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger saved, 
In gratitude this worship we renew. 
Behold that rock which nods above the vale, 
Those bulks of broken stone dispersed around^ 
How desolate the shatter'd cave appears, 
And what a ruin spreads the incumber'd plain. 
Within this pile, but far within, was once 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VIRGIL. 



733 



The den of Cacus; dire his hateful form 
That shunn'd the day, half monster and half man. 
Blood newly shed stream'd ever on the ground 
Smoking, and many a visage pale and wan 
Nail'd at his gate, hung hideous to the sight. 
Vulcan begot the brute : vast was his size, 
And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires. 
But the day came that brought us what we 

wish'd, 
The assistance and the presence of a God. 
Flush 'd with his victory, and the spoils he won 
From triple-form'd Geryon lately slain, 
The great avenger, Hercules, appear'd. 
Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'd 
His herds along the vale. But the sly thief 
Cacus, that nothing might escape his hand 
Of villainy or fraud, drove from the stalls 
Four of the lordliest of his bulls, and four 
The fairest of his heifers : by the tail 
He dragg'd them to his den, that, there conceal'd, 
No footsteps might betray the dark abode. 
And now, his herd with provender sufficed, 
Alcides would be gone : they as they went 
Still bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woods 
And distant hills resound : when, hark ! one ox, 
Imprison'd close within the vast recess, 
Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope. 
Then fury seized Alcides, and his breast 
With indignation heaved ; grasping his club 
Of knotted oak, swift to the mountain top 
He ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seen 
To tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears. 
Swift as an eastern blast, he sought his den, 
And dread, increasing, wing'd him as he went. 
Drawn up in iron slings above the gate, 
A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste, 
He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door, 
Then grappled it with iron work within 
Of bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contrived. 
Scarce was he fast, when, panting for revenge, 
Came Hercules ; he gnash'd his teeth with rage, 
And quick as lightning glanced his eyes around 
In quest of entrance. Fiery rod and stung 
With indignation, thrice he whecl'd his course 
About the mountain: thrice, but thrice in vain, 
He strove to force the quarry at the gate, 
And thrice sat down, o'erwearied in the vale. 
There stood a pointed rock abrupt said rude, 
That -high o'erlook'rl the rest, close at the back 
Of the fell monster's den, where birds obscene 
Of ominous note retorted, choughs and daw&. 
This, as it lean'd obliquely to the left, 
Threatening the stream below, he from the right 
Push'd with his utmos^ strength, and to and fro 
He shook the mass, loosening its lowest base ; 
Then shoved il from its seat ; down fell the pile ; 
Sky thunder'd at the fall ; the banks give way, 
The affrighted stream flows upward to his source. 
Behold the kennel of the brute exposed, 
The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chance 
Earth yawning to the centre should disclose 
The mansions, the pale mansions of the dead. 
L lathed by the gods, such would the gulf appear, 
And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day* 
The monster braying with unusual din 
Within his hollow lair, and sore amazed 
To see such sudden inroads of the light, 
Alcides press'd him close with what at hand 
Lay readiest, stumps o/treos, and fragments huge 
Of millstone size. He, (for escape was none). 
Wondrous to tell ! forth from his gorge discharged 
. smoky cloud that darken'd all the den ; 



Wreath after wreath he vomited amain, 
The smothering vapor mix'd with fiery sparks 
No sight could penetrate the veil obscure. 
The hero, more provoked, endured not this, 
But with a headlong leap he rush'd to where 
The thickest cloud enveloped his abode. 
There grasp'd he Cacus. spite of all his fires, 
Till, crush'd within his arms, the monster show 
His bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard, 
And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he team 

down 
The barricade of rock, the dark abyss 
Lies open ; and the imprison'd bulls, the theft 
He had with oaths denied, are brought tc Mght; 
By the heels the miscreant carcass is dragg d forth 
His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breast 
Beset with bristles, and his sooty jaws 
Are view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd. 
Hence the celebrity thou seest, and hence 
This festal day Potitius first enjoin'd 
Posterity : these solemn rites he first, 
With those who bear the great Pinarian name, 
To Hercules devoted ; in the grove 
This altar built, deem'd sacred in the highest 
By us, and sacred ever to be deem'd. [brows 
Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful 
In praise of such deliverance, and hold forth • 
The brimming cup ; your deities and ours 
Are now the same, then drink, and freely too." 

So saying, he twisted round his reverend locks 
A variegated poplar wreath, and fill'd 
His right hand with a consecrated bowl. 
At once all pour libations on the board, 
All offer prayer. And now. the radiant sphere 
Of day descending, eventide drew near. 
When first Potitius with the priests advanced, 
Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands. 
High piled with meats of savory taste, they 

ranged 
The chargers, and renew'd the grateful feast. 
Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too, 
Circling the blazing altars; here the youth 
Adva; eed, a choir harmonious, there were heard 
The reverend seers responsive ; praise they sung, 
Much p/aise in honor of Alcides' deeds ; 
How first with infant gripe two serpents huge 
He strangled, sent from Juno ; next they sung, 
Kow Troja and fEchalia he destroy 'd, 
Fair cities both, and many a toilsome task 
Beneath Ivarystheus (so his stepdame will'd) 
Achieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair, 
Hylseus fierce and Pholus monstrous twins, 
Thou slew'si the minotaur, the plague of Crete, 
And the vast lion of the Nemean rock, 
Thee hell, and Cerberus, hell's porter, fear'd, 
Stretch'd in his den upon his half-gnaw'd bones. 
Thee no abhorred form, not e'en the vast 
Typnceus could appal, though clad in arms. 
Had true-born son of Jove, among the gods 
At length enrolld nor least illustrious thou. 
Haste thee propitious and approve our songs 
Thus hymn d the chorus ; above all they sing 
The cave of Cacus, and the flames he breathed 
The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound. 

The rites perform'd, all hasten to the town. 
The king bending with age, held as he went 
iEneas and his Pallas by the hand, 
With much variety of pleasing talk 
Shortening the way. .<Eneas, with a smile, 
Looks round him. charm'd with the delightful 

scene, 
And many a question asks, and much he learni 



734 



COWPER S WORKS. 



Of heroes far renown'd in anuent times. 

Then spake Evander. These extensive groves, 

Were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs. 

Produced beneath their shades, and a rude race 

Of men, the progeny uncouth of elms 

And knotted oaks. They no refinement knew 

Of laws 01 manners civilized to yoke 

The steer, with forecast provident to store 

The hoarded grain, or manage what they had, 

But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs, 

Or fed voracious on their hunted prey. 

An exile from Olympus and expell'd 

His native realm by thunder-bearing Jove, 

First Saturn came. He from the mountains 

drew 
This herd of men untractable and fierce, 
And gave them laws : and call'd his hiding-place, 
This growth of forests. Latium. Such the peace 
His land possess'd. the golden age was then, 
So famed in story ; till by slow degrees 
Par other times, and of far different hue. 
Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood. 
Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts 
From Sicily, and- Latium often changed 
Her master and her name. At length arose 
Kings, of whom Tybris of gigantic form 
Was chief: and we Italians since have call'd 
The river by his name; thus Albula 
(So was the country call'd in ancient days) 
Was quite forgot. Me from my native land 
An exile, through the dangerous ocean driven, 
Resistless fortune and relentless fate 
Placed where thou seest me. Phoebus, and 
The nymph Carmentis, with maternal care 
Attendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here. 

[Ten lines omitted.] 

He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock, 
And the rude spot where now the Capitol 
Stands all magnificent and bright with gold, 
Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en then 
The swains beheld that sacred scene with awe ; 
The grove, the rock, inspired religious fea- 
This grove, he said that crowns the lofty top 
Of this fair hill, some deity, we know, 
Inhabits but what deity we doubt. 
The Arcadians speak of Jupiter himself 
That they have often seen him. shaking here 
His gloomy Mgis, while the thunder storms 
Came rolling all around him. Turn thine eyes. 
Behold that ruin : those dismantled walls, 

Where once two towns, Janiculum , 

By Janus this, and that by Saturn built, 
Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneath 
The roof of poor Evander; thence they saw, 
Where now the proud and stately forum stands, 
The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field. 
Soon as he enter'd — Hercules, he said, 
Victorious Hercules, on this threshold trod, 
These walls contain'd him humble as they are. 
Dare to despise magnificence, my friend, 
Prove thy divine descent by worth divine, 
Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode. 
So saying, he led .Eneas by the hand, 
And placed him on a cushion stuff'd . ; th leaves, 
Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear. 

[The Episode of Venus and Vuicau omitted.] 

tVhile thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd, 
Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day, 
And the shrill song f birds beneath the eaves 
Of hi% low mam ion, old Evander rose. 



His tunic, and the sandals on his feet, 
And his good sword well girded to his side, 
A panther's skin dependent from his left, 
And over his right shoulder thrown aslant, 
Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow'd him, 
His whole retinue and his nightly guard. 



OVID, TRIST. BOOK V. ELEG. XII. 

Scribis, ut oblectem. 

You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours 
And save from withering my poetic powers ; 
Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flo* 
From the free mind, not fetter'd down by woe; 
Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost, 
Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most. 
Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain, 
Or childless Niobe from tears refrain, 
Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train 1 
Does grief or study most befit the mind 
To this remote, this barbarous nook confined 1 
Could you impart to my unshaken breast 
The fortitude by Socrates possess'd, 
Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine, 
For what is human strength to wrath divine 1 
Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so 
-My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low, 
Could I forget my country, thee and all, 
And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall, 
Yet fear alone would freeze that poet's vein, 
While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain, 
Add that the fatal rust of long disuse 
Unfits me for the service of the muse. 
Thistles and weeds are all we can expect 
From the best soil impoverish'd by neglect ; 
Unexercised, and to his stall confined, 
The fleetest racer would be left behind ; 
The best built bark that cleaves the watery way 
Laid useless by, would moulder and decay — 
No hope remains that time shall me restore 
Mean as I was, to what I was before. 
Think how a series of desponding cares 
Benumbs the genius and its force impairs. 
How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet, 
My verse, constraint to move with measured feet 
Reluctant and laborious limps along, 
And proves itself a wretched exile's song. 
What is it tunes the most melodious lays 1 
'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise, 
A noble thirst, and not unknown to me, 
While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea. 
But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame ] 
No, rather let the world forget my name. 
Is it because that world approved my strain, 
You prompt me to the same pursuit again 1 
No, let the* Nine the ungrateful truth excuse, 
I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse, 
And like Pevilius, meet my just desert, 
The victim of my own pernicious art: 
Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain, 
And, shipwrecked once, to tempt the deep again, 
III fares the bard in this unletter'd land, 
None to consult, and none to understand. 
The purest verse has no admirers here, 
Their own rude language only suits their ear. 
Ru le as it is, at length familiar grown, 
I learn it, and almost unlearn my own — 
Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdains 
Confinement, and attempts her farmer strains 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE 



735 



But finds the strong desire is not the power, 
And what her taste condemns the flames devour. 
A part perhaps, like this, escapes the doom. 
And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome; 
But oh ! the cruel art that could undo 
Its votary thus ! would that could perish too ! 



HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IX. 

Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum 
Soracte; 

Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow, 
The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow, • 

The streams congeal'd, forget to flow, 
Come,' thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile 

Of fuel on the hearth ; 
Broach the best cask and make old wintei smile 

With seasonable mirth. 

This be our part — let Heaven dispose the rest ; 
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep, 
That now wage war upon the foamy deep, 

And gentle gales spring from the balmy west. 

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may, 
When to-morrow's passed away, 
We at least shall have to say, 
We have lived another day ; 
your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er, 
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no 
more. 



HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII. 

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus. 

Boy, I hate their empty shows, 

Persian garlands I detest, 
Bring not me the late-blown rose, 

Lingering after all the rest. 
Plainer myrtle pleases me, 

Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine ; 
Myrtle more becoming thee, 

Waiting with thy master's wine. 



HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII. 

Boy ! I detest all Persian fopperies, 
Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting ; 
Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee, 

Where latest roses linger. 
Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily) 
Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage 
Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking 

Beneath my vine's cool shelter. 



HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X. 

Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach, 
So shalt thou live beyond the reach 

Of adverse fortune's power; 
Not always tempt the distant deep, 
Nor always timorously creep 

Along the treacherous shore. 

He that holds fast the golden mean, 
And lives contentedly between 
The hYle and the great, 



Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, 
Imbittering all his state. 

The tallest pines feel most the power 
Of wintry blasts ; the loftiest tower 

Comes heaviest to the ground ; 
The bolts that spare the mountain's side 
His cloudcapt eminence divide, 

And spread the ruin round. 

The well-inform'd philosopher, 
Rejoices with a wholesome fear, 

And hopes in spite of pain ; 
If Winter bellow from the north, 
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth, 

And Nature laughs again. 

What if thine heaven be overcast 1 
The dark, appearance will not last ; 

Expect a brighter sky. 
The God that strings the silver bow 
Awakes sometimes the muses too, 

And lays his arrows by. 

If hindrances obstruct thy way, 
Thy magnanimity display, 

And let thy strength be seen : 
But O ! if Fortune fill thy sail 
With more than a propitious gale, 

Take half thy canvas in. 

A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING 
ODE. 

And is this all 1 Can Reason do no more 
Then bid me shun the deep and dread the shore 
Sweet moralist ! afloat on life's rough sea, 
The Christian has an art unknown to thee • 
He holds no parley with unmanly fears ; 
Where Duty bids he confidently steers. 
Faces a thousand dangers at her call, 
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all. 



HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XVI. 

Otium Divos rogat in patenti. 

Ease is the weary merchant's prayer, 
Who ploughs by night the iEgean flood. 

When neither moon nor stars appear, 
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud. 

For ease the Mede with quiver graced, 
For ease the Tracian hero sighs, 

Delightful ease all pant to taste, 
A blessing which no treasure buys. 

For neither gold can lull to rest, 
Nor all a Consul's guard beat off 

The tumults of a troubled breast, 
The cares that haunt a gilded roof. 

Happy the man whose table shows 
A few clean ounces of old plate, 

No fear intrudes on his repose, 
No sor.4/d wishes to be great. 

Poor short-lived things, what plans we lay 
Ah, why forsake our native home 1 

To distant climates speed away ; 

For self sticks close where'er we roam. 

Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakes 
The well-ngg'd ship, the warlike steed ; 



736 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes— 
Not the wind flies with half her speed. 

From anxious fears of future ill 

Guard well the cheerful, happy now ; 

Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile, 
No blessing is unmix'd below. « 

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds, 
Thy numerous flocks around thee graze, 

And the best purple Tyre affords 
Thy robe magnificent displays. 

On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd 
A rural mansion, neat and small ; 

This lyre ; — and as for yonder crowd, 
The happiness to hate them all. 



THE FIFTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST 
BOOK OF HORACE. 

A HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF THE AUTHOR^ 
JOURNEY FROM ROME TO BRUNDUS'UM. 

'Twas a long journey lay before us, 
When I and honest Heliodorus, 
Who far in point of rhetoric 
Surpasses every living Greek, 
Each leaving our respective home, 
Together sallied forth from Rome. 

First at Aricia we alight. 
And there refresh, and pass the night, 
Our entertainment rather coarse 
Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse. 
Thence o'er the causeway soft and fair 
To Appii Forum we re-pair. 
But as this road is well supplied 
(Temptation strong !) on either side 
With inns commodious, snug, and warm, 
We split the journey, and perform 
In two days' time what's often done 
By brisker travellers in one. 
Here, rather choosing not to sup 
Than with bad water mix my cup, 
After a warm debate in spite 
Of a provoking appetite, 
I sturdily resolved at last 
To balk it, and pronounce a fast, 
And in a moody humor wait, 
While my less dainty comrades bait. 

Now o'er the spangled hemisphere 
Diffused l'h" starry train appear, 
When there arose a desperate brawl; 
The slaves and bargemen, one and all. 
Rending their throats (have mercy on us !) 
As if they were resolved to stun us. 
" Steer the barge this way to the shore ; 
I tell you we'll admit no more ; 
Plague ! will you never be content?" 
Thus a whole hour at least is spent, 
While they receive the several fares, 
And kick the mule into his gears. 
Happy, these difficulties past, 
Could we have fallen asleep at last ! 
But, what with humming, croaking, biting, 
Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting, 
These tuneful natives of the lake 
Conspired to keep us broad awake. 
Besides, to make the concert full, 
Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull, 



The bargeman and a passenger, 
Each in his turn, essay'd an air 
In honor of his absent fair. 
At length the passenger, opprest 
With wine, left off, and snored the rest, 
The weary bargeman too gave o'er, 
And, hearing his companion snore, 
Seiz'd the occasion, fix'd the barge, 
Turn'd out his mule to graze at large, 
And slept forgetful of his charge. 
And now the sun o'er eastern nill 
Discover'd that our barge stood still ; 
When one, whose anger vex'd him sore, 
With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore. 
Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack 
Assails the mule and driver's back. 

Then slowly moving on with pain, 
At ten Feronia's stream we gain, 
And in her pure and glassy wave 
Our hands and faces gladly lave. 
Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height 
We reach, with stony quarries white. 
While here, as was agreed, we wait, 
Till, charged with business qf the state, 
Maecenas and Cocceius come, 
The messengers of peace from Rome, 
My eyes, by watery humors blear 
And sore, I with black balsam smear. 
At length they join us, and with them 
Our worthy friend Fontcius came ; 
A man of such complete desert, 
Antony loved him at his heart. 
At Fundi we refused to bait, 
Arid laugh'd at vain Autidius' state ; 
A praetor now, a scribe before, 
The purple-bonder'd robe he wore, 
His slave the smoking censor bore 
Tired, at Mursena's we repose. 
At Formia sup at Capito's. 

With smiles the rising morn we greet, 
At Sinuessa pleased to meet 
With Plotius, Varius, and the bard 
Whom Mantua first with wonder heard. 
The world no purer spirits knows ; 
For none my heart more warmly glows. 
O ! what embraces we bestow'd. 
And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd 1 
Sure, while my sense is sound and clear, 
Long as I live, I shall prefer 
A gay, good-natured, easy friend 
To every blessing Heaven can send. 
At a small village, the next night, 
Near the Vulturnus we alight; 
Where, as employ'd on state affairs, 
We were supplied by the purveyors, 
Frankly at once, and without hire, 
With food for man and horse, and fire. 
Capua next day betimes we reach, 
Where Virgil and myself, who each 
Labor'd with different maladies, 
His such a stomach, mine such eyes, 
As would not bear strong exercise, 
In drowsy mood to sleep resort ; 
Maecenas to the tennis-court. 
Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated, 
Above the Caudian tavern seated ; 
His kind and hospitable board 
With choice of wholesome food was stored 

Now. O ye Nine, inspire my lays ! 
To nobler themes my fancy raise ! 
Two combatants, who scorn to yield 
The noisy, tongue-disputed field, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 



737 



Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim 

A poet's tribute to their fame ; 

Cicirrus of true Oscian breed, 

Sarmentus, who was never freed, 

But ran away. We don't defame him ; 

His lady lives, and still may claim him. 

Thus dignified, in harder fray 

These champions their keen wit display 

And first Sarmentus led the way. 

" Thy locks," quoth he, " so rough and coarse, 

Look like the mane of some wild horse." 

We laugh ; Cicirrus undismay'd — 

" Have at you !" — cries, and shakes his head. 

"'Tis well," Sarmentus says, "you've lost 

That horn your forehead once could boast ; 

Since, maim'd and mangled as you are, 

You seem to butt." A hideous scar 

Improved, 'tis true, with double grace 

The native horrors of his face. 

Well, alter much jocosely said 

Of his grim front, so fiery red, 

(For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er 

As usual on Campania's shore,) 

" Give us," he cried. " since you're so big, 

A sample of the Cyclop's jig ! 

Your shanks methinks no buskins ask, 

Nor does your phiz require a mask." 

To this Cicirrus : " In return 

Of you, sir, now I fain would learn, 

When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave, 

Your chains you to the Lares gave 1 

For though a scrivener's right you claim, 

Your lady's title is the same. 

But what could make you run away, 

Since, pigmy as you are, each day 

A single pound of bread would quite 

O'erpower your puny appetite ?" 

Thus joked the champions, while we laugti'd, 

And many a cheerful bumper quaff'cL 

To Beneventum next we steer ; 
Where our good host by over care 
In roasting thrushes lean as mice 
Had almost fallen a sacrifice. 
The kitchen soon was all on fire, 
And to the roof the flames aspire ; 
There might you see each man and master 
Striving, amidst this sad disaster, 
To save the supper. Then they came 
With speed enough to quench the flame. 
From hence we first at distance see 
The Apulian hills, well known to me, 
Parch'd by the sultry western blast ; 
And which we never should have past, 
Had not Trivicius by the way 
Received us at flie close of day. 
But each was forced at entering here 
To pay the tribute of a tear, 
For more of smoke than fire was seen — 
The hearth was piled with logs so green. 
From hence in chaises we were carried 
Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarried 
At a small town, whose name my verse 
(So barbarous is it) can't rehearse. 
Know it you may by many a sign, 
Water is dearer far than wine ; 
There bread is deem'd such dainty fare, 
That every prudent traveller 
His wallet loads with many a crust; 
For at Canusium you might just 
As well attempt to gnaw a stone 
As think to get a morsel down : 
That too with scanty streams is fed ; 



Its founder was brave Diomed. 

Good Varius (ah. that friends must part I) 

Here left us all with aching heart. 

At Rubi we arrived that day, 

Well jaded by the length of way, 

And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter : 

Next day no weather could be better ; 

No roads so bad ; we scarce could crawl 

Along to fishy Barium's wall. 

The Egnatians next, who by the rules 

Of common sense are knaves or fools, 

Made all our sides with laughter heave, 

Since we with them must needs believe 

That incense in their temples burns, 

And without fire to ashes turns. 

To circumcision's bigots tell 

Such tales ! for me, I know full well 

That in high heaven, unmoved by care, 

The gods eternal quiet share : 

Nor can I deem their spleen the cause, 

While fickle Nature breaks her laws. 

Brundusium last we reach : and there 

Stop short the muse and traveller. 



THE NINTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST 
BOOK OF HORACE. 

DESCRIPTION OP AN IMPERTINENT. ADAPTED T< 
PRESENT TIMES, 1759. 

Sauntering along the street one day, 

On trifles musing by the way — 

Up steps a free familiar wight, 

(I scarcely knew the man by sight). 

" Carlos," he cried, " your hand, my dear; 

Gad, I rejoice to meet you here ! 

Pray Heaven I see you well V " So, so : 

E'en well enough as times now go : 

The same good wishes, sir, to you." 

Finding he still pursued me close — 

" Sir, you have business I suppose." 

" My business, sir, is quickly done, 

'Tis but to make my merit known. 

Sir, I have read" — " O learned sir, 

You and your learning I revere." 

Then sweating with anxiety, 

And sadly longing to get free, 

Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't, 

Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short, 

Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near, 

And whisper'd nothing in his ear. 

Teased with his loose unjointed chat— 
" What street is this ? What house is that V* 

Harlow, how I envied thee 
Thy unabash'd effrontery, 

Who darest a foe with freedom blame, 

And call a coxcomb by his name ! 

When I return'd him answer none, 

Obligingly the fool ran on, 

" I see you're dismally distress'd, 

Would give the world to be released. 

But by your leave, sir, I shall still 

Stick to your skirts, do what you will. 

Pray which way does your journey tend V* 

" O, 'tis a tedious way, my friend ; 

Across the Thames, the Lord knows wheia, 

1 would not trouble you so far." 

" Well, I'm at leisure to attend you." 
" Are you V thought I, " the Deil befriend you 
No ass with double panniers rack'd, 
Oppress'd. o'erladen, broken-back'd, 
47 



738 



COWPER'S WORKS 



E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull 
As I, nor half so like a fool. 
" Sir, I know little of myself, 
(Proceeds the pert conceited elf) 
If Gray or Mason you will deem 
Than me more worthy your esteem 
Poems I write by folios 
As fast as other men write prose ; 
Then I can sing so loud, so clear, 
That Beard cannot with me compare. 
In dancing too I all surpass, 
Not Cooke can move with such a grace." 
Here I made shift with much ado 
To interpose a word or two. — 
"Have you no parents, sir, no friends/ 
Whose welfare on your own depenSs V 
" Parents, relations, say you 1 No. 
They're all disposed of long ago." — 
" Happy to be no more perplex'd ! 
My fate too threatens, I go next. 
Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late, 
Alas ! to struggle with my fate ! 
Well, I'm convinced my time is come — 
When young, a gipsy told my doom. 
The beldame shook her palsied head, 
As she perused my palm, and said : 
Of poison, pestilence, and war, 
Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh, 
You have no reason to beware. 
Beware the coxcomb's idle prate; 
Chiefly, my son, beware of that. 
Be sure, wh-n you behold him, fly 
Out of all earshot, or you die." 

To Rufus' Hall we now draw near 
Where he was summoned to appear, 
Refute the charge the plaintiff brought, 
Or suffer judgment by default. 
" For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait 
One moment ! I'll be with you straight." 
Glad of a plausible pretence — 
" Sir, I must beg you to dispense 
With my attendance in the court. 
My legs will surely suffer for't." 
"Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile!" 
" Faith, sir, in law I have no skill. 
Besides, I have no time to spare, 

I must be going you know where." 
" Well, I protest I'm doubtful now 
Whether to leave my suit or you !" 
" Me without scruple !" I reply, 

II Me by all means, sir !"— " No, not I 
Allons, Monsieur !" 'Twas vain, you know, 
To strive with a victorious foe. 

So I reluctantly obey, 
And follow where he leads the way, 
" You and Newcastle are so close, 
Still hand and glove, sir— I suppose." 
"Newcastle, let me tell you, sir, 
Has not his equal everywhere." 
"Well. There indeed your fortune's made ; 
Faith, sir, you understand your trade. 
Would you but give me your good word : 
Just introduce me to my lord, 
I should serve charmingly by way 
Of second fiddle, as they say : 
What think you, sir 1 'twere a good jest. 
'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest." 
" Sir, you mistake the matter far, 
We have no second fiddles there — ^ 
Richer than I some folks may be ; . 

More learned, but it hurts not me. 



Friends though he has of different kind. 

Each has his proper place assign'd." 

" Strange matters these alleged by you V* 

" Strange they may be, but they are true." 

" Well then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever, 

Now I long ten times more than ever 

To be advanced extremely near 

One of his shining character. 

Have but the will — there wants no more, 

'Tis plain enough you have the power. 

His easy temper (that's the worst) 

He knows, and is so shy at first." — 

" But such a cavalier as you — 

Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to !" 

u Well ; if I fail in my design, 

Sir, it shall be no fault of mine. 

If by the saucy servile tribe 

Denied, what think you of a bribe 1 

Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow, 

But try my luck again to-morrow ; 

Never attempt to visit him 

But at the most convenient time ; 

Attend him on each levee day, 

And there my humble duty pay — 

Labor, like this, our want supplies ; 

And they must stoop who mean to rise." 

While thus he wittingly harangued, 
For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang a, 
Campley, a friend of mine, came by — 
Who knew his humor more than I ; 
We stop, salute, and — " Why so fast, 
Friend Carlos 1 Whither all this haste V 
Fired at the thought of a reprieve, 
I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve, 
Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout, 
Do everything but speak plain out : 
While he, sad dog, from the beginning 
Dltermined to mistake my meaning, 
Instead of pitying my curse, 
By jeering made it ten times worse. 
" Campley, what secret (pray !) was that 
You wanted to communicate !" 
" I recollect. But 'tis no matter. 
Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter. 
E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell 
Another time, sir, just as well." 

Was ever such a dismal day 1 
Unlucky cur, he steals away, 
And leaves me, half bereft of life, 
At mercy of the butcher's knife ; 
When sudden, shouting from afar, 
See his antagonist appear ! 
The bailiff seized him quick as thought, 
" Ho, Mr. Scoundrel ! Are you caught % 
Sir, you are witness to the arrest." 
" Ay, marry, sir, I'll do my best " 
The mob huzzas. Away they trudge, 
Culprit and all before the judge. 
Meanwhile I luckily enough 
(Thanks to Apollo) got clear off. 



TRANSLATION OF AN EPIGRAM FROM 
HOMER.* 

Pay me my price, potters ! and I will sing. 
Attend, O Pallas ! and with lifted arm 

* No title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to ba 
a translation of one qf the EniypaunaTa of Homer called 
O Kauiw, or The Furnace. Herodotus, or whoever 
was the author of the Life of Homer ascribed to himi 



HIS LATIN POEMS. 



73a 



Protect their oven ; let the cups and all 
The sacred vessels blacken well, and, baked 
With good success, yield them both fair renown 
And profit, whether in the market sold 
Or streets, and let no strife ensue between us. 
But, oh ye potters ! if with shameless front • 
Ye falsity your promise, then I leave 
No mischief uninvoked to avenge the wrong. 
Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, come, 
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread, 
Omodamus, delay ! Fire seize your house, 
May neither house nor vestibule escape, 
May ye lament to see confusion mar 

observes, "certain potters, while they were busied in 
baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and 
having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, 
and promised him a present of their commodity, and of 
such other things as they could afford, if he would sing 
to them, when he sang as follows." 



And mingle the whole labor of your hands, 
And may a sound fill all your oven, such 
As of a horse grinding his provender, 
While all your pots and flagons bounce within 
Come hither, also, daughter of the sun, 
Circe the sorceress, and with thy drugs 
Poison themselves, and all that they have made 
Come, also, Chiron, with thy numerous troop 
Of centaurs, as well those who died beneath 
The club of Hercules, as who escaped, 
And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall 
Their chimney ; let them see it with their eyes, 
And howl to see the ruin of their art, 
While I rejoice ;'and if a potter stoop 
To peep into his furnace, may the fire 
Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men 
Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith. 

October, 1790. 



COWPER'S LATIN POEMS. 



MONTES GLACIALES, IN OCEANO GER- 
MANICO NATANTES. 

En, quae prodigia, ex oris allata remotis, 
Oras adveniunt pavefacta per aequora nostras ! 
Non equidem prises saeclum rediisse videtur 
Pyrrhae, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes 
Et sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora 
Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus alti 
In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque perer- 

rant. 
Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu 7 
Splendentes video, ceu pulchro ex sere vel auro 
Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis, 
Dacca caerulea, et flammas imitante pyropo. 
Ex oriente adsunt. ubi gazas optima tellus 
Parturit omnigenas,quibus aeva per omnia sumptu 
Ingenti finxere sibi diademata reges 1 
Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutos 
Mercatorum oculos : prius et quam littora Gangis 
Liquissent, avidis gratissima praeda fuissent. 
Ortos unde putemus 7 An illos Ves'vius atrox 
Protulit. ignivomisve ejecit faucibus iEtna 7 
Luce micant propria. Phoebive, per aera purum 
Nuncstimulantisequos. argentea tela retorquentl 
Phoebi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis 
Appulsi. et rapidis subter currentibus undis, 
Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre 

est 
Multa onerata nive et canis conspersa pruinis, 
Caetera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma 

fere omnes 
Contristat menses, portenta h&6 horrida nobis 
Ilia strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo 
Clivorum fluerent in littora prona, solutae 
Sole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu, 
Ilia gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese 
Mirum coepit opus ; glacieque ab origine rerum 
In glaciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandem 
iEquavit montes, non crescere nescia moles. 



Sicimmensa diu stetit, aeternumque stetisset 
Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte 
Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset, 
Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum 
Antra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore, 
Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi, 
Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim, 
Insula, in Mg&o fluitasse erratica ponto. 
Sed non ex glacie Delos ; neque torpida Delum 
Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque. 
Sed vestita herbis erat ilia, ornataque nunquam 
Decidua lauro ; et DelUm dilexit Apollo. 
At vos, errones horrendi. et caligine digni 
Cimmeria, Deus idem odit. Natalia vsetra, 
Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri 
Sustinuit. P atrium vos ergo requirite coelum ! 
Ite ! Redite ! Timete moras ; ni leniter austro 
Spirante, et nitidas Phoebo jaculante sagittas 
Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti ! 
March 11, 1799. 

ON THE ICE ISLANDS SEEN FLOATING 
IN THE GERMAN OCEAN. 

What portents, from what distant region, ride, 
Unseen till now in ours, the astonish : d tide 7 
In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves 
Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and tha 

groves. 
But now, descending whence of late they stood, 
Themselves the mountains seem to rove tha 

flood. 
Dire times were they, full charged with human 

woes; 
And these, scarce less calamitous than those. 
What view we now 7 More wondrous still 

Behold ! 
Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold 
And all around the pearl's pure splendor show 
And all a-<uind the ruby's fiery glow. 



7 40 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Come they from India, where the burning earth, 
All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; 
And where the costly gems, that beam around 
The brows of mightiest potentates, are found 1 
No. Never such a countless dazzling store 
Had left unseen the Ganges' peopled shore. 
Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes, 
Should sooner far liave mark'd and seized the 

prize. 
Whence sprang they then 1 Ejected have they 

come 
From Vesuvius' , or from iEtna's burning womb 1 
Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display 
The borrow'd splendors of a cloudless day 1 
With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that 

breathe 
Now landward, and the current's force beneath, 
Have borne them nearer ; and the nearer sight, 
Advantaged more, contemplates them aright. 
Their lofty summits crested high they show, 
With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow. 
The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, 
Bleak winter well nigh saddens all the year, 
Their infant growth began. He bade arise 
Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. 
Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow 
Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below ; 
He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast 
The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. 
By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile, 
And long successive ages roll'd the while; 
Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand, 
Tall as its rival mountains on the land. 
Thus stood." and, unremovable by skill 
Or force of man, had stood the structure still, 
But that, though 'firmly fix'd, supplanted yet 
By pressure of its own enormous weight, 
It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound 
That shook the bellowing waves and rocks 

around, 
Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, 
As if instinct with strong desire to lave, 
Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old 
How Delos swam the iEgean deep have told. 
But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore 
Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd with 

laurel, wore, 
E'en under wintry skies, a summer smile; 
And Delos was Apollo's favorite isle. 
But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you 
He deems Cimmerian darkness only due. 
Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey, 
But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away. 
Hence, seek your home, nor longer rashly dare 
The darts of Phoebus and a softer air; 
Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, 
[n no congenial gulf forever lost ! 
March 19, 1799. 



MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION TO WIL- 
LIAM NORTHCOT. 

Hie sepultus est 
Inter suorum lacrymas 

GULIELMUS NORTHCOT, 
GULIELMI et MARIJE Alius 

Unicus, unice dilectus, 

Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis. 

Aprilis die septimo. 

J 780. JEt. 10. 



Care, vale ! Sed non aeternum, care, valeto ! 

Namque iterum tecum, sim modo dignus. ero 
Turn nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros, 

Nee tu marcesces, nee lacrymabor ego. 

TRANSLATION. 

Farewell! " But not forever," Hope replies, 
Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies ! 
There nothing shall renew our parting pain, 
Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again. 



IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM 

CORRUPTELIS GALLICIS, UT FERTUR, LONDINI 
NUPER EXORTAM. 

Perfida, crudelis. victa et lymphata furore, 

Non arrris laurum Gallia fraude petit. 
Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit 

Undique privatas patriciasque domos. 
Nequicquam conata sua, foedissima sperat 

Posse tamen nostra nos superare manu. 
Gallia, vana struis ! Precibus nunc utere! Vinces, 

Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus. 

TRANSLATION. 

Fal^e, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, 
France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part. 
To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys, 
Bids the low street and lofty palace blaze. 
Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone, 
She hires the worst and basest of our own. 
Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with 

ease, 
We always spare a coward on his knees. 



MOTTO ON A CLOCK. 

WITH A TRANSLATION BY HAYLEY. 

Qvie lenta accedit. quam velox prseterit hora ! 
Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil ! 

Slow comes the hour ; its passing speed how 

great ! 
Waiting to seize it — vigilantly wait ! 



A SIMILE LATINIZED. 

Sors ad versa gerit stimulum, sed tendit et alas 
Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit. 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGF 

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. 

To the March in Scipio. 

Toll for the brave! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight, hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried. 

Had made the vessel heel, 
And laid her on her side. 



HIS LATIN POEMS. 



74 



A land-breeze shook the shrouds. 

And she was overset ; 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought; 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak, 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound. 

And she may float again, 
Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt. is gone, 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 
Sept. H82. 

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI GEOR- 
GIUS REGALE NOMEN INDITUM. 

Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes, 
Patrium propter periere littus 
Bis quater centum ; subito sub alto 
iEquore mersi. 

Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat, 
Malus ad summas trepidabat undas, 
Cum levis, funes quatiens. ad imum 
Depulit aura. 

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam 
Fortibus vitam voluere parcae, 
Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes 
Nectere laurus, 

Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum, 
Traditum ex multis atavis tvlisti ! 
At tuos olim memorabit aevum 
Omne triumphos. 

Non hyems illos furibunda mersiw, 
Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes, 
Fissa non rimis abies, nee atrox 
Abstulit ensis. 

Navitae sed turn nimium jocosi 
Voce fallebant hilari laborem, 
Et quiescebat, calamoque dextramim- 
pleverat heros. 

Vos. quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, 
Humidum ex alto spolium levate, 
Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos 
Reddite amicis ! 

Hi quidem (sic dis placuit) fucre: 
Sed ratis, nondum putris. ire possit 
Rursus in bellum. Britonumque nomm 
Tollere ad astra. 



IN BREVITATEM VIT^E SPATII HOMI- 
NIBUS CONCESSI. 

BY DR. JORT1N. 

He i mihi ! lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit, 
Lunaque mutatse reparat dispendia formse, 
Astraque purpurei telis exfincta diei, 
Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris alumni. 
Graminis herba virens. et florum picta propago, 
Q,uos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit 
Cum Zephyri vox blanda vocat rediitque seren: 
Temperies anni. icecundo e cespite surgunt. 
Nos domini rerum. nos magna et pulchra minati 
Cum breve ver vitae robustaque transiit setas, 
Deficimus ; nee nos ordo revolubilis auras [vit 
Reddit in aethereas, tumuli neque claustia resoL 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE 

TRANSLATION OP THE FOREGOING. 

Suns that set. and moons that wane, 
Rise and are restored again ; 
Stars, that orient day subdues, 
Night at her return renews. 
Herbs and flowers the beauteous birtu 
Of the genial womb of earth, 
Suffer but a transient death 
From the winter's cruel breath. 
Zephyr speaks ; serener skies 
Warm the glebe, and they arise. 
We, alas ! earth's haughty kings, 
We, that promise mighty things, 
Losing soon life's happy prime, 
Droop and fade, in little time*. 
Spring returns but not our bloom; 
Still 'tis winter in the tomb. 
Jan., 1784. 



THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 

The nymph must lose her female friend, 
If more admired than she — 

But where will fierce contention end, 
If flowers can disagree 1 

Within the garden's peaceful scene 

Appear'd two lovely foes. 
Aspiring to the rank of queen, 

The Lily and the Rose. 

The Rose soon redden'd into rage, 

And, swelling with disdain, 
Appeal'd to many a poet's page 

To prove .her right to reign. 

The Lily's height bespoke command, 

A fair imperial flower; 
She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand, 

The sceptre of her power. 

This civil bickering and debate 

The goddess chanced to hear, 
And flew to save, ere yet too late, 
^ The pride of the parterre. 

Yours is, she said, the nobler hue, 
And yours the statelier, mien; 

And, till a third surpasses you, 
Let each be dtem'd a queen. 



742 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



Thus soothed and reconciled, each seeks 

The fairest British fair ; 
The seat of empire is her cheeks, 

They reign united there. 

IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 

Heu inimicitias quoties parit aemula forma. 

Gtuam raro pulchrse pulchra placere potest ! 
See] lines ultra solitos discordia tendit, 

Cum flores ipsos bilis et ira movent. 

Hortus ubi drlces praebet tacitosque recessus, 
Se rapit in partes gens animosa duas ; 

Hie sibi regales Amaryllis Candida cultus, 
IUic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa. 

Ira Rosam et meritis quaesita superbia tangunt, 
Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda sinu, 

Dum sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatum, 
J usque suum, multo carmine fulta, probat. 

Altior emicat ilia, et celso vertice nutat, 
Ceu flores inter non habitura parem, 

Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usus 
Imperii, sceptrum, Flora quod ipsa gerat. 

Nee Dea non sensit civilis murmura rixae, 
Cui curse est pictas pandere ruris opes. 

Deliciasque suas nunquam non prompta tueri, 
Dum licet et locus est ut tueatur. adest. 

Et tibi forma datur proccrior omnibus, inquit, 
Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color, 

Et donee vincat quaedam formosior ambas, 
Et tibi reginae nomen, et esto tibi. 

His ubi sedatus furor est, petit utraque nympham, 
Q,ualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit ; 

Hanc penes imperium est nihil optant amplius, 
Regnant in nitidis, etsine lite, genis. [hujus 



THE POPLAR FIELD. 

«PhiS poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade. 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years had elapsed since I last took a view 
Of my favorite field, and the bank where they 

grew ; 
And now in the grass behold they are laid. 
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, [heat, 
Where the hazels affo/d him a screen from the 
And the scene where his melody charm'd me 

before 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
And I mu:i ere long lie as lowly as they, 
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can. 
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, 
Have a being less durable even than he.* 

* Cowper afterwards altered this last stanza in the fol- 
.owing manner:— 
The change both my heart and my fancy employs, 
I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys ; 
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 



IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 

Popule-E cecidit gratissima copia silvae, 
Conticuere susurri, omnisque evanuit umbra. 
Nullee jam levibus se miscent frondibus aurae, 
Et nulla in fluvio ramorum ludit imago. 

Hei mihi ! bis senos dum luctu torqueor annos, 
His cogor silvis suetoque carere recessu, 
Cum sero rediens, stratasque in gramme cernens, 
Insedi arboribus, sub quels errare solebam. 

Ah ubi nunc merulae cantus 1 Felicior ilium 
Silva tegit, dura nondum permissa bipenni ; 
Scilicet exustos colles caraposque patentes 
Odit. et indignans et non rediturus abivit. 

Sed qui succisas doleo succidar et ipse, 
Et prius huic parilis, quam creverit altera silva, 
Flebor, et, exequiis parvis donatus, habebo 
Defixum lapidem tumulique cubantis acervum 

Tam subito periisse videns tam digna manere, 
Agnosco humanas sortes et tristia fata — 
Sit licet ipse brevis, volucrique simillimus umbrae I 
Est homini brevior citiusque obitura voluptas. 



VOTUM. 



O matcjtini rores, auraeque salubres, 
O nemora. et laetae rivis felicibus herbae, 
Graminei colles, et amoense in vallibus umbrae . 
Fata modo dederint quas olim in rure paterno 
Delicias. procul arte, procul formidine novi, 
Quam vellem ignotus. quod mens mea sempei 
avebat, [nectam. 

Ante larem proprium placidam expectare se- 
Turn demum, exactis non in feliciter annis, 
Sortiri taciturn lapidem, aut sub cespite condi ! 



TRANSLATION OF PRIOR'S CHLOE 
AND EUPHELIA. 

Mkrcator, vigiles oculos ut fallere possit, 
Nomine sub ficto trans mare mitit opes ; 

Lene sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis, 
Sed solam exoptant te, mea vota, Chloe. 

Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia crines, 
Cum dixit, mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram. 

Namque lyram juxta positam cum carmine vidit, 
Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram. 

Fila lyrse vocemque paro, suspiria surgunt, 
Et miscent numeris murmura mcesta meis, 

Dumque tuae memoro laudes, Euphelia, form®, 
Tota anima interea pendet ab ore Chloes. 

Subrubet ilia pudore, et contrahit altera frontem, 
Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo ; 

Atque Cupidinea dixit Dea cincta corona, 
Heu ! fallendi artem quam didicere parum. 



VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. 
LLOYD. 

SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT 
AFTER HIS DECEASE. 

Our good old friend is gone ; gone to hi» rest, 
Whose social converse was itself a feast. 



HIS LATIN POEMS 



745 



3 ye of riper years, who recollect 
How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, 
Both in the firmness of his better day, 
While yet he ruled you with a father's sway, 
And when, impair'd by time, and glad to rest, 
Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest, 
He took his annual seat, and mingled here 
His sprightly vein-with yours— now drop a tear ! 
In morals blameless, as in manners meek, 
He knew no wish that he might blush to speak, 
But, happy in whatever state below, 
And richer than the rich in being so, 
Obtain'd the hearts of all. and such a meed 
At length from one* as made him rich indeed. 
Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here ! 
Go ! garnish merit in a higher sphere, 
The brows of those, whose more exalted lot 
He could congratulate, but envied not ! 
Light lie the turf, good senior, on thy breast; 
And tranquil, as thy mind was. be thy rest. 
Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, 
And not a stone now chronicles thy name ! 

Abut senex. Periit senex amabilis, 

Q,uo non fuit jucundior. 
Lugete vos, setas quibus maturior 

Senem colendum prsestitit ; 
Seu quando, viribus valentioribus 

Firmoque fretus pectore, 
Florentiori vos juventute excolens 

Cura fovebat patria ; 
Seu quando, fractus, jamque donatus rude 

Vultu sed usque blandulo, 
Miscere gaudebat suas facetjas 

His annuis leporibus. 

* He was usher and under-master of Westminster, near 
fifty years, and retired from his occupation when he was 
Dear seventy, with a handsome pension from the king. 



Vixit probus, puraque simplex indole, 

Blandisque comis moribus, 
Et dives aequa mente, charus omnibus, 

Unius auctus munere. 
Ite, tituli ! Meritis beatioribus 

Aptate laudes debitas ! 
Nee invidebat ille, si quibus favens 

Fortuna plus arrise'rat. 
Placide senex. levi quiescas cespite, 

Etsi superbum nee vivo tibi 
Decus sit inditum, nee mortuo 

Lapis notatus nomine ! 



As Cowper's Version of Homer is not included 
in this Edition of his Works, it seems necessary 
to assign the reasons which have led to the omis- 
sion. 

Distinguished as this Version unquestionably 
is, beyond any preceding attempt, for its fidelity 
and close adherence to the Grecian Bard, as 
well as for other excellences which have already 
been specified, it has still failed in securing an 
adequate reception from the British public. In 
the religious portion of the community it is well 
known that a very general sentiment of regret 
exists that the author of the Task, whose muse 
was capable of such high moral flights, should 
have consumed so many years in this laborious 
enterprise. Under these circumstances, its re- 
publication here, appeared to be undesirable, es- 
pecially as it would have added one-third to the 
cost of the present Edition, and as editions of 
Cowper's Homer are already before the public, 
and accessible to all who attach an interest to 
this portion of the Poet's Works. 



THREE PAPERS, BY COWPER, 

INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 



"During Cowper's visit to Eartham, he 
kindly pointed out to me," Hayley observes, 
"three of his papers in the last volume of 
the 'Connoisseur.' — I inscribed them with his 
Dame at the time ; and imagine that the read- 
ers of his Life may be gratified in seeing 
them inserted here. I find other numbers of 
that work ascribed to him, but the three fol- 
lowing I print as his, on his own explicit 
authority. Number 119, Thursday, May 6, 
1756— Number 134, Thursday, August 19, — 
Number 138. Thursday, Sept. 16." 



No. CXIX. 

f lenus rimarum sura, hue et illuc perfluo. 

Ter. 

Leaky at bottom ; if those chinks you stop, 
In vain — the secret will ran o'er at top. 

There is no mark of our confidence taken 
more kindly by a friend than the entrusting 
him with a secret, nor any which he is so 
likely to abuse. Confidants in general are 
like crazy firelocks, which are no sooner 
charged and cocked than the spring gives 
way, and the report immediately follows. 
Happy to have been thought worthy the con- 
fidence of one friend, they are impatient to 
manifest their importance to another; till, 
between them and their friend and their 
friend's friend, the whole matter is presently 
known to all our friends round the Wrekin. 
The secret catches as it were by contact, and 
ike electrical matter breaks forth from every 
link in the chain, almost at the same instant. 
Thus the whole Exchange may be thrown 
into a buzz to-morrow, by what was whis- 
pered in the middle of Marlborough Downs 
this morning; and in a week's time the streets 
may ring with the intrigue of a woman of 
fashion, bellowed out from the foul mouths 
of the hawkers, though at present it is known 
to no creature living but her gallant and her 
waiting maid. 

As tne talent of secrecy is of so great im- 
portance to society, and the necessary com- 



merce between individuals cannot be securely 
carried on without it, that this deplorable 
weakness should be so general is much to be 
lamented. You may as well pour water into 
a funnel or sieve, and expect it to be retained 
there, as commit any of your concerns to so 
slippery a companion. It is remarkable that ; 
in those men who have thus lost the faculty 
of retention, the desire of being communica- 
tive is always most prevalent where it is least 
justified. If they are entrusted with a matter 
of no great moment, affairs of more conse- 
quence will perhaps in a few hours shuffle it 
entirely out of their thoughts ; but if any- 
thing be delivered to them with an earnest, 
ness, a low voice, and the gesture of a man 
in terror for the consequence of its being 
known ; if the door is bolted, and every pre- 
caution taken to prevent surprise, however 
they may promise secresy, and however thev 
may intend it, the weight upon their minds 
will be so extremely oppressive, that it will 
certainly put their tongues in motion. 

This breach of trust, so universal amongst 
us, is perhaps, in great measure owing to 
our education. The first lessons our little 
masters and misses are taught is to become 
blabs and tell-tales: they are bribed to divulge 
the petty intrigues of the family below stairs 
to papa and mamma in the parlor, and a doll 
or hobby-horse, is generally the encourage- 
ment of a propensity which could scarcely be 
atoned for by a whipping. As soon as chil- 
dren can lisp out the little intelligence they 
have picked up in the hall or the kitchen, 
they are admired for their wit; if the butlei 
has been caught kissing the housekeeper h» 
his pantry, or the footman detected in romp- 
ing with the chamber-maid, away flies little 
Tommy or Betsy with the news ; the parents 
are lost in admiration of the pretty rogue's 
understanding, and reward such uncommon 
ingenuity with a kiss or a sugar-plum. 

Nor does an inclination to secrecy meet 
with less encouragement at school. The 
gouvernantes at the boarding-school teach 
miss to be a good girl, and tell them every- 
thing she knows : thus, if any young lady is 



PAPERS INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 



745 



unfortunately discovered eating a green apple 
in a corner : if she is heard to pronounce a 
naughty word, or it caught picking the letters 
out of another miss's sampler; away runs 
the chit who is so happy as to get the start 
of the rest, screams out her information as 
she goes; and the prudent matron chucks 
her under the chin, and tells her that she is 
a good girl, and everybody will love her. 

The management of our young gentlemen 
is equally absurd ; in many of our schools, if 
a lad is discovered in a scrape, the impeach- 
ment of an accomplice, as at the Old Bailey, 
is made the condition of a pardon. I remem- 
ber a boy, engaged in robbing an orchard, 
who was unfortunately taken prisoner in an 
apple-tree, and conducted, under the strong 
guard of the firmer and his dairy-maid, to 
the master's house. Upon his absolute re- 
fusal to discover his associates, the peda- 
gogue undertook to lash him out of his 
fidelity ; but finding it impossible to scourge 
the secret out of him, he at last gave him up 
for an obstinate villain, and sent him to his 
father, who told him he was ruined, and was 
going to disinherit him for not betraying his 
school-fellows. 

I must own I am not fond of thus drubbing 
our youths into treachery ; and am much 
pleased with the request of Ulysses, when he 
went to Troy, who begged of those who were 
to have the care of young Telemachus, that 
they would above all things teach him to be 
just, sincere, faithful, and to keep a secret. 

Every man's experience must have fur- 
nished him with instances of confidants who 
are not to be relied on, and friends who are 
not to be trusted ; but few perhaps have 
thought it a character so well worth their 
attention, as to have marked out the different 
degrees into which it may be divided, and the 
different methods by which secrets are com- 
municated. 

Ned Trusty is a tell-tale of a very singular 
kind. Having some sense of his duty, he 
hesitates a little at the breach of it. If he 
engages never to utter a syllable, he most 
punctually performs his promise ; but then 
he has the knack of insinuating by a nod, 
and a shrug well-timed, or a seasonable leer, 
as much as others can convey in express 
terms. It is difficult, in short, to determine 
whether he is more to be admired for his 
resolution in not mentioning, or his ingenuity 
in disclosing, a secret. He is also excellent 
at a doubtful phrase, as Hamlet calls it, or 
ambiguous giving out, and his conversation 
consists chiefly of such broken inuendoes as 
— " well I know — or I could — and if I would 
—or, if I list to speak — or there be, and if 
there might," &c. 

^ Here he generally stops ; and leaves it to 
his hearers to draw proper inferences from 
these piecemeal premises. With due en- 



couragement however he may be prevailed 
on to slip the padlock from his lips, and im- 
mediately overwhelms you with a torrent of 
secret history, which rushes forth with more 
violence for having been so long confined. 

Poor Meanwell, though he never fails to 
transgress, is rather to be pitied than con- 
demned. To trust him with a secret is to 
spoil his appetite, to break his rest, and to 
deprive him for a time of every earthly enjoy- 
ment. Like a man who travels with his whole 
fortune in his pocket, he is terrified if you 
approach him, and immediately suspects that 
you come with a felonious intention to rob 
him of his charge. If he ventures abroad, it 
is to walk in some unfrequented place, where 
he is least in danger of an attack. At home, 
he shuts himself up from his family, paces to 
and fro in his chamber, and has no relief but 
from muttering over to himself what he longa 
to publish to the world; and would gladly 
submit to the office of town-crier, for the 
liberty of proclaiming it in the market-place. 
At length, however, weary of his burden, and 
resolved to bear it no longer, he consigns it 
to the custody of the first friend he meets, 
and returns to his wife with a cheerful as- 
pect, and wonderfully altered for the better. 

Careless is perhaps equally undesigning, 
though not equally excusable. Entrust him 
with an affair of the utmost importance, on 
the concealment of which your fortune and 
happiness depend, he hears you with a kind 
of half attention, whistles a favorite air, and 
accompanies it with the drumming of his fin- 
gers upon the table. As soon as your nar- 
ration is ended, or perhaps in the middle of 
it, he asks your opinion of his swordknot — 
condems his tailor for having dressed him in 
a snuff-colored coat instead of a pompadour, 
and leaves you in haste to attend an auction, 
where, as if he meant to dispose of his in- 
telligence to the best bidder, he divulges it 
with a voice as loud as an auctioneer's ; and, 
when you tax him with having played you 
false, he is heartily sorry for it, but never 
knew that it was to be a secret. 

To these I might add the character of the 
open and unreserved, who thinks it a breach 
of friendship to conceal anything from his 
intimates; and the impertinent, who, having 
by dint of observation made himself master 
of your secret, imagines he may lawfully 
publish the knowledge it cost mm so much 
labor to obtain, and considers that privilege 
as the reward due to his industry. But I 
shall leave these, with many other characters 
which my reader's own experience may sug- 
gest to him, and conclude with prescribing, 
as a short remedy for this ev'J, that no man 
may betray the counsel of his friend — let 
every man keep his own. 



746 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



No. CXXXIV. 

Delicta majorum immeritus lues, 
Eoraane, donee templa refeceris 
jEdesque labentes Deorum, et 
Fo3da nigro simulacra fumo. — Hor. 

The tott'ring tow'r, and mould'ring wall repair, 
And fill with decency the house of pray'r ; 
Quick to the needy curate bring relief, 
And deck the parish-church without a brief 

MR. VILLAGE TO MR. TOWN. 

Dear Cousin,— The country at present, no 
less than the metropolis, abounding with 
politicians of every kind, I begin to despair 
of picking up any intelligence that might 
possibly be entertaining to your readers. 
However, I have lately visited some of the 
most distant parts of the kingdom with a 
clergyman of my acquaintance : I shall not 
trouble you with an account of the improve- 
ments that have been made in the seats we 
saw, according to the modern taste, but pro- 
ceed to give you some reflections which oc- 
curred to us in observing several country 
churches, and the behavior of their congre- 
gations. 

The ruinous condition of some of these 
edifices gave me great offence; and I could 
not help wishing that the honest vicar, in- 
stead of indulging his genius for improve- 
ments, by enclosing his gooseberry-bushes 
with a Chinese rail, and converting half an 
acre of his glebe land into a bowling-green, 
would have applied part of his income to the 
more laudable purpose of sheltering his 
parishioners from the weather during their 
attendance on divine service. It is no un- 
common thing to see the parsonage-house 
well thatched, and in exceeding good repair, 
while the church, perhaps, has scarce any 
Dther roof than the ivy that grows over it. 
The noise of owls, bats, and magpies, makes 
Mie principal part of the church music in 
many of these ancient edifices ; and the walls, 
like a large map, seem to be portioned out 
into capes, seas and promontories, by the va- 
rious colors by which the damps have stained 
them. Sometimes, the foundation being too 
weak to support the steeple any longer, it 
has been found expedient to pull down that 
part of the building, and to hang the bells 
under a wooden shed on the ground beside 
it. This is the case in a parish in Norfolk, 
through which I lately passed, and where the 
clerk and the sexton, like the two figures of 
St. Dunstan's, serve the bells in the capacity 
of clappers, by striking them alternately with 
a hammer. 

In other churches, I have observed that 
nothing unseemly or ruinous is to be found, 
except in the clergyman, and the appendages 
of his person. The 'squire of the parish, or 
his ancestors, perhaps to testify their devo- 
tion and leave a lasting monument of their 
magnificence, have adorned the altar-piece 



with the richest crimson velvet, embroidered 
with vine-leaves and earskof wheat; and have 
dressed up the pulpit with the same splendor 
and expense ; while the gentleman who fills 
it, is exalted in the midst of all this finery, 
with a surplice as dirty as a farmer's frock, 
and a periwig that seems to have transferred 
its faculty of curling to the band which ap- 
pears in full buckle beneath it. 

But if I was concerned to see several dis- 
tressed pastors, as well as many of our 
country churches in a tottering condition, I 
was more offended with the indecency of 
worship in others. I could wish that the 
clergy would inform their congregations, 
that there is no occasion to scream them- 
selves hoarse in making their responses; 
that the town-crier is not the only person 
qualified to pray with true devotion; and 
that he who bawls the loudest, may never- 
theless be the wickedest fellow in the parish. 
The old women too in the aisle might be 
told, that their time would be better em- 
ployed in attending to the sermon, than in 
fumbling over their tattered Testaments till 
they have found the text ; by which' time the 
discourse is 'near drawing to a conclusion : 
while a word or two of instruction might not 
be thrown away upon the younger part of. 
the congregation, to teach them that making 
posies in summer-time, and cracking nuts in 
autumn, is no part of the religious ceremony. 
The good old practice of psalm-singing is in- 
deed wonderfully improved in many country 
churches, since the days of Sternhold and 
Hopkins ; and there is scarce a parish clerk 
who has so little taste as not to pick his 
staves out of the new version. This has 
occasioned great complaints in some places, 
where the clerk has been forced to bawl by 
himself, because the rest of the congregation 
cannot find the psalm a t the end of their 
prayer books; while others are highly dis- 
gusted at the innovation, and stick as obsti- 
nately to the old version as to the old style. 

The tunes themselves have also been new 
set to jiggish measures, and the sober drawl, 
which used to accompany the two first staves 
of the hundredth psalm, with the 'Gloria 
Patri,' is now split into as many quavers as 
an Italian air. For this purpose there is in 
every county an itinerant band of vocal mu- 
sicians, who make it their business to go 
round to all the churches in their turns, and, 
after a prelude with a pitch-pipe, astonish the 
audience with hymns set to the new Win- 
chester measure, and anthems of their own 
composing. 

As these new-fashioned psalmodists are 
necessarily made up of young men and maids, 
we may naturally suppose that there is a per- 
fect concord and symphony between them ; 
and, indeed, I have known it happen that 
these sweet singers have more than once 



PAPERS INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. . 741 



oeen brought into disgrace by too close a uni- 
Bon between the thorough-base and the treble. 

It is a difficult matter to decide which is 
looked upon as the greatest man in a country 
church, the parson or his clerk. The latter 
is most certainly held in the higher venera- 
tion, where the former happens to be only a 
poor curate, who rides post every sabbath 
from village to village, and mounts and dis- 
mounts at the church door. The clerk's of- 
fice is not only to tag the prayers with an 
amen, or usher in the sermon with a stave, 
but he is also the universal father to give 
away the brides, and the standing god-father 
to all the new-born bantlings. But in many 
places there is still a greater man belonging 
to the church than either the parson or the 
clerk himself. The person I mean is the 
'squire; who, like the king, may be styled 
the head of the church in his own parish. If 
the benefice be in his own gift, the vicar is his 
creature, and of consequence entirely at his 
devotion : or, if the care of the church be left 
to a curate, the Sunday fees, roast beef and 
plum-pudding, and the liberty to shoot in the 
manor, will bring him as much under the 
'squire's command 'as his dogs and horses. 

For this reason the bell is often kept toll- 
ing, and the people waiting in the church- 
yard an hour longer than the usual time ; nor 
must the service begin till the 'squire has 
strutted up the aisle and seated himself in 
the great pew in the chancel. The length of 
the sermon is also measured by the will of 
the 'squire, as formerly by the hourglass, and 
[ know one parish where the preacher has 
always the complaisance to conclude his dis- 
course, however abruptly, the minute that the 
'squire gives the signal by rising up after his 
nap. 

In a village church, the 'squire's lady, or 
the vicar's wife, are perhaps the only females 
that are stared at for their finery ; but in the 
large cities and towns, where the newest 
fashions are brought down weekly by the 
stage-coach or wagon, all the wives and 
daughters of the most topping trades-men 
vie with each other every Sunday in the ele- 
gance of their apparel. I could even trace 
their gradations in their dress according to 
the opulence, the extent, and the distance of 
the place from London. I was at a church 
in a populous city in the north, where the 
mace-bearer cleared the way for Mrs. Mayor- 
ess, who came sideling after him in an enor- 
mous fan-hoop, of a pattern which had never 
been seen before in those parts. At another 
ehurch in a corporation town, I saw several 
Negligees, with furbelovved aprons, which had 
.ong disputed the prize of superiority ; but 
these were most wofully eclipsed by a bur- 
gess's daughter just come from London, who 
appeared in a Trollope or Slammerkin with 
jreble ruffles to the cuffs, pinked and gimped, 



and the sides of the petticoat drawn up in 
festoons. In some lesser borough towns, 
the contest I found lay between three or four 
black and green bibs and aprons ; at one, a 
grocer's wife attracted our eyes by a new- 
fashioned cap called a Joan, and at another 
they were wholly taken up by a mercer's 
daughter in a nun's hood. 

I need not say anything of the behavior of 
the congregation in these more polite places 
of religious resort ; as the same genteel cer- 
emonies are practised there as at the most 
fashionable churches in town. The ladies, 
immediately on their entrance, breathe a pious 
ejaculation through their fan-sticks, and the 
beaux very gravely address themselves to the 
haberdashers' bills, glewed upon the lining of 
their hats. This pious duty is no sooner per- 
formed, than the exercise of bowing and 
courtseying succeeds: the locking and un- 
locking of the pews drowns the reader's 
voice at the beginning of the service ; and 
the rustling of silks, added to the whispering 
and tittering of so much good company, ren 
ders him totally unintelligible to the very end 
of it. 

I am, dear cousin, yours, &c. 



No. cxxxvni. 

Servata semper lege et ratione loquendi. — Juv. 

Your talk to decency and reason suit, 

Nor prate like fools, or gabble like a brute ! 

In the comedy of "The Frenchman in 
London," which, we are told, was acted at 
Paris with universal applause for several 
nights together, there is a character of a 
rough Englishman, who is represented as 
quite unskilled in the graces of conversation, 
and his dialogue consists almost entirely of 
a repetition of the common salutation of — 
" How do you do ? — How do you do ?" Our 
nation has, indeed, been generally supposed 
to be of a sullen and uncommunicative dis- 
position ; while, on the other hand, the lo- 
quacious French have been allowed to pos- 
sess the art of conversing beyond all other 
people. The Englishman requires to be 
wound up frequently, and stops very soon; 
but the Frenchman runs on in a continual 
alarum. Yet it must be acknowledged, that, 
as the English consist of very different hu- 
mors, their manner of discourse admits of 
great variety ; but the whole French nation 
converse alike, and there is no difference in 
their address between a marquis and a valet- 
de-chambre. We may frequently see a couple 
of French barbers accosting each other in 
the street, and paying their compliments with 
the same volubility of speech, the same gri- 
mace and action, as two courtiers in the 
Tuileries. 

I shall not attempt to lay down any par. 



748 . 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ticular rules for conversation, but rather 
point out such faults in discourse and be- 
havior as render the company of half man- 
kind rather tedious than amusing. It is in 
vain, indeed, to look for conversation, where 
we might expect to find it in the greatest 
perfection, am^ng persons of fashion; there 
it is almost annihilated by universal card- 
playing ; insomuch that I have heard it given 
as a reason why it is impossible for our pres- 
ent writers to succeed in the dialogue of 
genteel comedy, that our people of quality 
scarce ever meet but to game. All their dis- 
course turns upon the odd trick and the four 
honors, and it is no less a maxim with the 
votaries of whist toan with those of Bacchus, 
that talking spoils company. 

Every one endeavors to make himself as 
agreeable to society as he can ; but it often 
happens that those who most aim at shin- 
ing in conversation overshoot their mark. 
Though a man succeeds, he should not (as 
is frequently the case) engross the whole 
talk to himself; for that destroys the very 
essence of conversation, which is talking to- 
gether. We should try to keep up conver- 
sation like a ball bandied to and fro from 
one to another, rather than seize it ourselves, 
and drive it before us like a football. We 
should likewise be cautious to adapt the 
matter of our discourse to our company, and 
not talk Greek before ladies, or of the last 
new furbelow to a meeting of country 
justices. 

But nothing throws a more ridiculous air 
over our conversations than certain peculiar- 
ities, easily acquired, but very difficultly con- 
quered and discarded. In order to display 
these absurdities in a truer light, it is my 
present purpose to enumerate such of them 
as are most commonly to be met with ; and 
first to take notice of those buffoons in so- 
ciety, the attitudinarians and face-makers. 
These accompany every word with a peculiar 
grimace or gesture ; they assent with a shrug, 
and contradict with a twisting of the neck ; 
are angry with a wry mouth, and pleased in 
a caper or a minuet step. They may be con- 
sidered as speaking harlequins, and their 
rules of eloquence are taken from the pos- 
ture-master. These should be condemned 
.o converse only in dumb show with their 
Jwn person in the looking-glass; as well as 
the smirkers and smilers, who so prettily set 
off their faces, together with their words, by 
a je-ne-scai-quoi between a grin and a dim- 
ple. With these we may likewise rank the 
affected tribe of mimics, who are constantly 
taking off the peculiar tone of voice or ges- 
ture of their acquaintance; though they are 
such wretched imitators, that (like bad paint- 
v-°) they are frequently forced to write the 
name under the picture, before we can dis- 
cover any likeness. 



Next to these, whose elocution is absorbec 
in action, and who converse chiefly with thei 
arms and legs, we may consider the professed 
speakers. And first, the emphatical ; whe 
squeeze, and press, and ram down every sy] 
lable with excessive vehemence and energy. 
These orators are remarkable for their distinct 
elocution and force of expression ; they dwell 
on the important particles of and the, and the 
significant conjunctive and, which they seem 
to hawk up with much difficulty out of their 
own throats, and to cram them with no iesa 
pain into the ears of their auditors. 

These should be suffered only to syringe, 
as it were, the ears of a deaf man, through a 
hearing-trumpet; though I must confess, that 
I am equally offended with whisperers or low 
speakers, who seem to fancy all their ac- 
quaintance deaf, and come up so close to you, 
that they may be said to measure noses with 
you, and frequently overcome you with the 
exhalations of a powerful breath. I would 
have these oracular gentry obliged to talk 
at a distance through a speaking-trumpet, or 
apply their lips to the walls of a whispering- 
gallery. The wits who will not condescend 
to utter anything but a bon-mot, and the 
whistlers or tunehummers, who never arti- 
culate at all, may be joined very agreeably 
together in concert; and to these tinkling 
cymbals I would also add the sounding brass 
— the bawler, who inquires after your health 
with the bellowing of a town-crier. 

The tattlers,- whose pliable pipes are admi- 
rably adapted to the " soft parts of conversa- 
tion," and sweetly " prattling out of fashion," 
make very pretty music from a beautiful face 
and a female tongue ; but from a rough 
manly voice and coarse features, mere non- 
sense is as harsh and dissonant as a jig from 
a hurdy-gurdy. The swearers 1 have spoken 
of in a former paper; but the half-swearers, 
who split, and mince, and fritter their oaths 
into Gad's but, ad's fish, and demme, the 
Gothic humbuggers, and those who "nick- 
name God's creatures,"" and call a man a cab- 
bage, a crab, a queer cub, an odd fish, and 
an unaccountable muskin, should never come 
into company without an interpreter. But I 
will not tire my reader's patience by pointing 
out all the pests of conversation ; nor dwell 
particularly on the sensibles, who pronounce 
dogmatically on the most trivial points, and 
speak in sentences ; — the wonderers, who are 
always wondering what o'clock it is, or won- 
dering whether it will rain or no, or wonder- 
ing when the moon changes; the phraseol- 
ogists, who explain' a thing by all that, or 
enter into particulars with this, that, and 
t'other ; and lastly, the silent men, who seem 
afraid of opening their mouths lest they 
should catch cold, and literally observe the 
precept of the gospel, by letting their con- 
versation be only yea, yea, and nay, nay. 



PiWPERS INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 



•748 



The rational intercourse kept up by con- 
versation is one of our principal distinctions 
from brutes. We should, therefore, endea- 
vor to turn this peculiar talent to our ad- 
vantage, and consider the organs of speech 
as the instruments of understanding. We 
should be very careful not to use them as the 
weapons of vice, or tools of folly, and do our 
utmost to unlearn any trivial or ridiculous 
habits which tend to les?cn the value of such 
an inestimable prerogative. It is indeed ima- 
gined by some philosophers, that even birds 
and beasts (though without the power of 
articulation) perfectly understand one an- 
other by the sounds they utter; and that 
dogs and cats, &c, have each a particular 
language to themselves, like different nations. 
Thus it' may be supposed that the nightin- 
gales of Italy have as fine an ear for their 
own native wood notes, as any signor or 
signora for an Italian air ; that the boars of 
Westphalia gruntle as expressively through 
the nose as the inhabitants in High German ; 
and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland 
croak as intelligibly as the natives jabber their 
Low Dutch. However this may be, we may 
tonsider those whose tongues hardly seem 



to be under the influence of reason, and do 
not keep up the proper conversation of 
human creatures, as imitating the language 
of different animals : thus, for instance, the 
affinity between chatterers and monkeys, and 
praters and parrots, is too obvions not to oc- 
cur at once : grunters and growlers may be 
justly compared to hogs ; snarlers are curs , 
and the spitfire passionate are a sort of wild 
cats, that will not bear stroking, but will purr 
when they are pleased. Compkiners are 
screech-owls; and story-tellers, always r«*- 
peating the same dull note, are cuckoos. 
Poets that prick up their ears at their own 
hideous braying are no better than asses t 
critics in general are venomous serpents that 
delight in hissing ; and some of them, who 
have got by heart a few technical terms, with- 
out knowing their meaning, are no other than 
magpies. I myself, vyho have crowed to 
the whole town for near three years past, 
may perhaps put my readers in mind of a 
dunghill cock ; but as I riust acquaint them 
that they will hear the last, of me on this day 
fortnight, I hope they will then consider me 
as a swan, who is supposed to sing sweetly 
in his dying moments. 






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